Heroes of the Valley

by Jonathan Stroud

  There was a long silence during which the rain trickled deeper down the back of Halli's neck. The old man scratched his nose, sucked in his cheeks and, with due consideration, spoke. 'You wish to come in?'

  'That's right.'

  The old man grunted. 'A meadow sprite desired entry to a wedding once,' he said slowly. 'It had been invited by the bride. She thought the honour would keep it sweet, bring them good luck. It came wearing smart boots and a moleskin coat; all fine how-d'ye-dos and please-marms. But when the time came for the feasting, it grew affronted – it wished to sit beside the bride. This pleasure was denied it – in a flash, it tore off its coat, vaulted the trestle, punched the husband, slapped the bride, pissed into the marriage cup and away with it up the chimney, lewd curses ringing through the rafters.'

  He resumed staring at Halli from under his bristling brows. Halli wiped rain from his face and cleared his throat. 'I'll take that as a "no", then.'

  To his surprise, the old man shook his head. 'Oh, no, you can come in, much against my better judgement. You seem human enough, though no doubt you'll cut my throat as soon as I look away.' He turned back into the hut with a fatalistic shrug.

  'I assure you I shall do no such thing,' Halli said, following hastily after and closing the door against the storm. 'I am only too grateful for your kindness. This is a fine place you have here,' he added, blinking around in the gloom at the dusty floor, the flickering dung fire, the miserable straw mattress, the three-legged table balanced precariously against the corner of the room.

  'It is a hovel, no more, no less. A blind man could see as much. 'The old man gestured. 'Sit wherever you will, save on the mattress, where I shall squat. If you see something as big as a mouse, moving sluggishly, crush it with your heel. The lice here are very large.'

  With due caution, Halli sat in the least unpleasant quarter of the hut, as close to the fire as he could, while the old man stirred the contents of a black pot suspended in the hearth. The atmosphere was warm and close; acrid dung-smoke tickled Halli's eyes. Small pools of water collected around his feet.

  'May I place my fleece and boots by the fire?'

  'You may, but be warned that if you seek to remove all your clothing I shall hurl you out into the night. For supper we have beet soup, with dried ham. If I can cut the cursed thing, that is – it has been hanging from its hook for months, and is as tough as Trow-hide. I suppose you have no food with you?' the old man added, eyeing Halli's bag shrewdly.

  'Bread and wine, which I'll gladly share,' Halli said, kicking off his boots.

  'Oh? Wine?' This news seemed to imbue his host with new energy. He bustled around the hut, retrieving from crevices bowls, cups and spoons, and all the while muttering under his breath, 'Wine? Wine? That is good.'

  The contents of the pot began to bubble, and spat a rich, sweet scent into the room. Halli's cloak steamed by the fire. His spirits rose once more; this was how a day's quest should end – with safety, warmth, nourishment, even merry conversation.

  'You are a Ruriksson tenant, I assume?' he said pleasantly.

  The old man stopped short; his eyebrows bristled. With a jerk of the head he spat into the fire, narrowly avoiding the cooking pot. 'Ruriksson? Do I seem a dribbling imbecile? Do I have six webbed fingers on each hand? No! Certainly not! I have nothing to do with that breed.'

  Halli was taken aback. 'I'm sorry. I only assumed it because your hov— your house is on the northern side of the road. So you are tenant to the Sveinssons, then?'

  The old man rolled his eyes and spat into the fire, so that it hissed and fizzed. 'The Sveinssons! How dare you, boy! They are worse than the Rurikssons by far! They are penny-pinching, violent and depraved. Their women, I have heard, suckle piglets for the pure enjoyment of it, and as for the men—'

  Halli tapped a foot upon the floor. 'Indeed. I am a Sveinsson.'

  The old man stared. 'Surely not. I see no tail.'

  'Tail or not, that is my House.'

  'I assumed you were a boy from the high valleys, where life is hard and children are regularly born stunted.'

  'Yes, it seems we were both in error in our assumptions,' Halli said briskly. 'Now, perhaps the soup is ready?'

  The old man grunted. 'You mentioned wine, I believe?'

  Soup was served, wine was poured, all in dour, resentful silence. Halli dunked dry bread in his soup and discovered it to be excellent; meanwhile the old man drew down from a roof beam a misshapen brown object of uncertain nature. This was the ham. He proceeded to hack at it for some minutes with a rusted hasp knife, without success.

  Halli said: 'Your knife is blunt. I have a better one.' Reaching under his jerkin, he took his father's knife from his belt and with it sliced easy strips of meat. The old man's eyes widened to see the knife. He watched the blade's deft motions, his body tense with longing.

  At last, as if emerging from a dream, he gave a cry. 'Stop, stop! That ham must last me months yet. Give it here.' He seized it and bundled it back up to its hiding place, all the time casting envious looks back at the knife balanced on Halli's knee.

  Halli considered the old man's rags and the dingy, lonely hut around them. On sudden impulse he said, 'Look, if you want the knife, you can have it. As payment for the night, I mean, and for this fine soup.'

  He handed it across carelessly; the old man took it in a trembling hand, his eyes round with disbelief, looking first to the knife, then at Halli, then to the knife again. 'Well now,' he said, 'that is good. And wine too!'

  After that, and with the warming action of the wine, it was easier between them. They shared their names. The old man, Snorri, had no family or kin. The fields that ran between the road and the river were farmed by him, their beets traded to travellers passing. 'This boundary strip was fought over long ago by the Houses of Svein and Rurik,' he added. 'Murders and massacres took place here – you will see the burial mounds a half-mile further on – and both families committed atrocities, but no advantage was gained. In the end they agreed to leave the boundary waste. When I was a lad I wandered up here from Ketil's lands, found the fields empty and took them to my use.'

  Halli frowned at him over his cup. 'Atrocities? By the Sveinssons? What nonsense is this? We are a noble, peaceful House.'

  'Like I say, it was long ago.' Snorri scraped a strip of bread crust round his bowl. 'Perhaps your habits – and other attributes – have changed since then.' He squinted at Halli's rump. 'You seem to sit quite comfortably.'

  'I assure you I have no tail. So you are quite alone here? Do you not feel lonely, without allegiance to a House?'

  The old man grunted. 'I am vulnerable, yes, but I can look after myself. Not six days ago, for instance, I was nearly killed by three horsemen going at pace along the road. I had to throw myself aside to escape the flying hooves.'

  Halli sat upright then. Firelight gleamed on his bared teeth. 'Ah, really? Tell me more.'

  'What more is there to say? I turned a cartwheel, landed in the thistles and suffered a number of intimate abrasions, which I will not show anyone on such short acquaintance.'

  Snorri drank his wine stiffly. 'Frankly I am surprised you ask.'

  'I meant about the horsemen.'

  'Oh, well, aside from the fact that they were two men and a youth and wore Hakonsson colours, I can tell you nothing.' The old man's eyes grew speculating. 'You seem unduly interested.'

  Halli said blandly, 'I notice that you do not criticize the House of Hakon, as you did my House and the Rurikssons'. Perhaps you favour them?'

  'Not at all. I took it for granted that as uplanders we both share the same opinion.'

  Halli was still cautious. 'Which is . . . ?'

  'That they are arrogant, insufferable and, on occasion, have been known to breed with fish. Now, if I may ask – what is your business with them?'

  By now the wine flowed freely in Halli's veins and his warm weariness enfolded him like a cushioned bed. He saw no need for silence or evasion. Without further qualms he told Snorri his
grievance and his purpose.

  The old man's eyes bored into his. He nodded slowly. 'You speak much of honour and the justice of your cause, but in short you seek to kill the man who killed your uncle. Am I right?'

  Halli shrugged. 'It must be done.'

  'Why? Then you will be as bad as he is.'

  'Not at all! He is a criminal and must pay for his deeds!'

  'I imagine the men in the mounds along the road thought the exact same thing. Where are they now? Tangled in each other's bones. So where will you do this? What is your plan?'

  'At Hakon's House, I suppose. As for a plan, I will improvise when I get there.'

  'Interesting . . .' Snorri nodded sagely. 'I have a further comment to make.'

  'Well?'

  'You are an idiot. Have you any more wine?'

  'No.' Halli was scowling now, struggling to his feet. 'If that's the way you feel, I shall impose upon you no longer! I will leave right now.'

  'Oh hush, do you want to drown in the storm? Sit down. Sit down!' Snorri's eyes flashed. Halli stared back as long as he could, then slumped to the ground with ill grace. The old man chuckled hoarsely. 'Have you not heard of the size of Hakon's House, boy? They say its Trow walls still stand twenty feet high, bordered by a moat, deep and black. They have perhaps two hundred men within those walls, each one sturdy, strapping and considerably bigger than you. Make one aggressive step towards your enemy and you will be seized and dangled from their gallows so fast you would see yourself below you as you swing. You are no warrior to fight them all, and no clever assassin to act by stealth – I can vouch for that, as with one swill of wine you've blabbed your secrets out to me!' He thrust his bowl away and lay back on his mattress with a sigh of contentment. 'Take my advice: go back to your mother's skirts tomorrow. Time, I think, for sleep.'

  Halli could barely speak for rage. At last he calmed himself.' Do you have spare straw?'

  'Yes, out the back, in a side shed. You are going to fetch it? Take the bludgeon in the corner – it will fend off the smaller rats. Throw a stone to distract the big ones, and scarper with what you can. That's what I do.'

  Halli slept on the bare earth floor.

  9

  AMONG THE DREADFUL beasts that Svein encountered in his youthful travels were: the Deepdale dragon, which darted from its cleft and swallowed its victims whole; the Old Trow of the Snag, sitting pot-bellied by its cauldron full of human meat; the carnivorous marsh imps of the Loops, which paddled about by night in little coracles made from children's skin. For variety's sake, Svein did not destroy them with his sword. He used a sharpened pine trunk to spear the dragon in its hole; he tricked the Old Trow into clambering into its own cauldron of boiling oil; he made a great fan of calf-hide and struck the imps' coracles with a sudden squall, so that they all capsized and drowned.

  Next morning, Halli was stiff in back and sore in head. His leggings seemed to have new holes in the toes, as if something had nibbled them in the night. His mood was not improved by discovering that Snorri had removed the remnants of his bread from his pack and eaten them for breakfast.

  The old man listened to Halli's protests equably. 'It was stale and dry and tasteless,' he said. 'If you had eaten it, you would have had a dismal meal. If you had kept it, it would only have weighed you down. Really, you should thank me. Well, the rain has passed. You will no doubt want to be on your way back to your House.'

  Wordlessly, Halli laced his boots and put on his fleece. He pushed open the hovel door and went out into the sharp, pale light. White clouds hung low over the plateau, obscuring the mountains, and the air was fresh and wet. Rain could come again at any time. Coughing slightly, he hitched his pack higher on his shoulders.

  'I do not return to Svein's House,' he said. 'I follow my quest down-valley, by way of the gorge and the cataracts. If you can tell me anything of that route, I will be grateful to hear it – any dangers a man might face, for instance?'

  'Dangers . . .' Snorri sucked in his cheeks. 'Well, it is an isolated path, for certain. For many miles a traveller is quite alone. But as for dangers . . .'

  'None, I take it?'

  'Well, there are the rock-falls, frequent this season. Even a small boulder could carry you into the torrents. Then there is the proximity of the cairns. The wind rips up the gorge, carrying a traveller's scent straight up to the moors above the cliffs, so the Trows will clamour for you during the night. And don't forget the ghosts of the dead in the battle mounds beside the way. Do not let on to them that you are a Sveinsson, by word or deed! Then they will pursue you in your dreams – the Rurikssons because you are an enemy of their House, the Sveinssons since they have been denied proper cairn burial and will hold you accountable. Best not to fall asleep in the higher reaches of the gorge, that's my advice.'

  Halli's face had grown a little slack. He looked with regret at his father's knife, now cradled securely in Snorri's belt. His foolish generosity had left him without a weapon of any kind, and there was nowhere to find one before he reached the gorge . . .

  He took a deep breath. Calm down. Would Svein have jumped at an old man's babbling? No! Besides, what good would a knife have been against ghosts?

  'I can cope with all that,' he said easily. 'How long is the descent?'

  'As the crow flies, not far, but the road zigzags above the cataracts. It will take the best part of two days to reach the pleasant fields of Eirik's House.' The old man made a gesture of farewell. 'Good luck with your insane quest. And thank you for the knife. Now I shall lop my beets with gay abandon. It is a fine gift and I won't forget it. In the unlikely event that you return up-valley, I may do you a good turn one day.'

  Halli smiled politely. Waving a cursory farewell, he splashed off down Snorri's path and onto the road. Before long the hut and its watching occupant were lost round the curve of the hill.

  The road followed the plashing sound of the river ever downwards between dark fields hung about with mist and cloud. Halli made steady stumping progress, staring at the ground a few steps ahead, lost in introspection. Of course, it would not do to criticize the old fellow too harshly: his lonely life, without the bonds of friendship or allegiance that a House might give, had clearly warped his mind over long, hard years. Even so, his comments rankled. True, Halli did not have the outward appearance of a warrior, but his inner mettle was what counted, as Olaf Hakonsson would soon find out.

  Before too long, by dour and gloomy effort, Halli had reinforced his sense of purpose and thoroughly discounted every last thing that Snorri said. He was therefore surprised to discover the truth of one of the old man's assertions as, through the mists beside the road, three long low mounds now came in sight. Two were set back in a field, one – smaller, shabbier, eroded at its margins by the wheels of carts upon the road – close by. Grass grew thickly upon it, lusher and darker than that around, as if its roots enjoyed rich soil. A crow of considerable size, with a single livid eye, perched at its top, inspecting Halli as he passed. Halli made a protective sign, cursing his gullibility even as he did so. This was a bird, no more, no less.

  There was nothing to confirm Snorri's claim that Sveinsson bones lay here, and Halli considered the story dubious. He had heard nothing of the matter from Brodir, Katla or anyone else. But to find a burial site without a single cairn unnerved him. What a melancholy fate, to lie so far from the ridges and your fellow men! He could well imagine uneasy spirits drifting here among the long wet grasses when night fell on the valley . . . Even now, the mists seemed oddly active, as if strange forms—

  Enough! Was he a fool, to be dismayed by figments? Pulling his hood close about his face, Halli hurried on along the road.

  All morning the gradient steepened and the noise of the nearby river grew ever more eager, thrilled, insistent. The fields petered out and pine trees appeared, dotted here and there among scattered boulders and piles of scree. Halli knew that the lands of Svein and Rurik were left behind; he was drawing close to the gorge. Among the mists to the south he gl
impsed steep slopes rising: this was where the upper valley narrowed almost to nothing. Above, lost in cloud somewhere, rose the Snag, its summit almost as tall as the ridges on either side. At its base, not far ahead, both river and road would fall suddenly away into the curling, precipitous gorge that led to the lower valley. When he stopped and listened, he could hear the booming of the falls.

  Another noise sounded, this time behind him. Halli stiffened, listening hard. No doubt about it: hooves were approaching along the road – not fast, but quickly enough to overtake him before long.

  Halli looked left and right: he saw boulders, brushwood, several pines. Without hesitation he sprang from the road, through the wet grasses, and secreted himself behind the nearest tree.

  He waited. The sound of hooves grew louder. Perhaps it was his father, or someone else from Svein's House hunting him. Perhaps not. Best be cautious. Halli kept his eyes fixed on the road.

  A knot of mist grew greyer, darker, then took expected form: a horse and rider.

  Halli pressed himself against the trunk.

  The horse's neck was lowered; it moved as if tired. The rider sat erect in the saddle, a bulky mass, cloak swathed tight about him, hood drawn up against the chill. His face was hidden, but Halli had already noted the horse's colouring – dark brown spots on a white coat – and knew that it did not come from Svein's House.

  His first instinct was to let the stranger pass by, but then the loneliness of the place and the proximity of the haunted mounds returned to him. It would not hurt to have a companion for a time. It would make the gorge descent go quicker. What harm could it do, if he were cautious with his confidences? Certainly he would never again be as open as he had been with Snorri.

  Halli stepped out from behind the tree and hailed the traveller, who pulled sharply on his reins. The horse halted and, without raising its head, immediately settled down to cropping the weeds growing through gaps in the flagstones. Traces of steam rose from its flank into the cool air. The rider pushed back his hood, revealing the face of a fat man, with a florid down-valley complexion and a short crop of sandy hair. He had no beard; his eyes were bright currants encased in swollen, doughy flesh. He wore an expression of mild concern.