Blood Will Follow

by Snorri Kristjansson

“Tell me.”

  Audun looked at the old man, who just looked levelly back at him with his one good eye. “There . . . um . . . there was a siege. Around Stenvik. Someone called Skargrim surrounded the city.” Fjölnir nodded at the mention of the name. “A lot of good men died.” Audun found he was grasping the handle of the sledgehammer. His knuckles were white. With great effort, he managed to relax his fingers and put it down.

  “And?”

  “And . . . we defeated him. Them. There were more.”

  “And was that it?”

  “No. King Olav came and took over.”

  Fjölnir frowned. “And how did you survive?”

  Audun’s throat was suddenly dry. His chest itched something fierce, but the words caught in his throat. It felt like Fjölnir was looking through him now. His face flushed, and he reached for the sledgehammer.

  “I just did,” he growled.

  The hammer blow split the fencepost in two.

  Fjölnir handed him another without a word and Audun drove it into the ground.

  They continued working as their shadows grew longer. Finally, Fjölnir spoke. “Time for home and food.”

  Audun threw the sledgehammer on the cart. He could feel his muscles, but in a pleasant way; it was an ache that said he’d put in a day’s work. The pain from his back was gone, and the wound in his side had all but disappeared. After he had smashed the fencepost, Fjölnir had not brought up Stenvik again. Audun frowned. Part of his mind sought to understand his current situation, but another part of him remembered all too well. He did not want to think about how the cold steel had pierced his skin, ripped through his muscles, and punctured his heart as it tore through his back when Harald had skewered him on the wall.

  The thought came like a bucket of cold water. Injured. He’d been injured, badly. But it had been all right because Ulfar had jumped and they’d escaped.

  Injured. He’d just been injured.

  “What do you want to eat?” Fjölnir asked as they headed back home, following the line of the fence they’d erected.

  “Food would do,” Audun mumbled.

  “Oh. So you can still talk,” the old man said. “Good. I was beginning to worry that I’d shut you up. So Stenvik was bad, was it?”

  “It was,” Audun said.

  “You saw things you wish you hadn’t seen,” Fjölnir said.

  “I did,” Audun muttered.

  “And did things you didn’t want to,” Fjölnir said. Audun stopped, turned and looked at the old man, who stood his ground and returned the gaze. “And now it’s eating you up, and you’re afraid that if you talk about it—if you even think about it—it’ll come back and you’ll do it again.” Audun felt his breath quicken, felt his hands clench into fists, and still the old man did not move. “And you’re always angry.”

  Fjölnir turned and walked toward home. “I know how it is. Come on, old bull,” he said over his shoulder. “You’ll tell me when we get home.”

  Nothing more passed between them until the sun had set and they were back at the farmstead. Fjölnir busied himself getting a fire going, then disappeared for a moment and returned with a basket full of food. Audun saw turnips, roots, and a handful of green things, along with meat. “You’ve been working hard; you’ll need this,” he said as he gestured for Audun to remain seated. “You’re a big lad,” he added.

  Soon something was bubbling in the pot, and a fat chunk of pork was roasting on the fire. Audun tried to speak up, but he was too tired.

  “Right. That’s everything. I’ll just go and . . .” Fjölnir’s voice trailed off, and he stepped out again. When he came back, he was carrying a travel chest, which he put down by the door.

  “Now,” he said, “we talk. First I’ll tell you of my son. He was like you, a big, strong lad. Not too sharp. He meant well, but there was always something in him. Pride, anger, I don’t know. I could talk to him, teach him, but only up to a point. The thing—the fire in him—it always took over.” The fire in the hearth crackled in agreement, and the room twisted and warped with the dancing shadows. “He left to go and find things—adventure, maybe, or honor, I guess. His place in the world. I used to be . . . I wasn’t always a gentle father.” The old man was miles away now. “So he needed to go away.”

  “Do you know where he is now?”

  Fjölnir blinked, and for a moment Audun was sure the old man didn’t recognize him. Then he smiled. “Oh yes. I do know. See, I had another son by another woman. Wish I never had. Nasty piece of work, just like his mother. He was smart, too. Had a real knack for letting other people do his dirty work. And he . . . poisoned the mind of my son, turned him against me. He told him I was weak, old, and feeble.” The shadows behind Fjölnir were moving more than Audun thought they should. “I had to . . . I had to discipline them. But they’re out there. They’re out there waiting to come for me, to claim what’s theirs.”

  The old man stopped talking, and a silence spread in the hut, only occasionally broken by the crackling of the fire.

  “Food,” Fjölnir finally said. “We should eat.” He reached down and produced two mugs of mead from somewhere. “Drink this,” he said to Audun, who did not need to be told twice.

  It was the sweetest, most delicious thing he’d ever tasted.

  “Eat,” Fjölnir commanded. He’d carved off a chunk of glistening roast pork. The smell alone was enough to make Audun’s stomach lurch with hunger.

  They ate and drank.

  After a while, Fjölnir said, “I will guess that you didn’t have a good time with your father.”

  “You’d guess right,” Audun said.

  “What happened?”

  “I killed him.”

  Fjölnir sat in silence for a little while. “And was that when it happened?”

  The tone—the understanding in the old man’s voice—sent a wave of sensation up Audun’s arms. “Yes” was all he could say.

  “Tell me,” Fjölnir said.

  “He was . . . I know now what he was. He was a coward and a bully, and he had no interest in a fair fight. I think he might have been good to my mother at the start, but as long as I could remember he’d beaten her. And me, if I made any noise.” The words that had been kept down for so long tumbled out of him. “And he beat us thoroughly. Mother didn’t go out for days on end. Fucking bastard,” Audun snarled. “He didn’t care about anyone but himself, so I started trying to find a place to work. There was a blacksmith in my village; I began doing odd jobs for him, sneaking out when the old man was drunk. For some reason I grew up quick and was soon doing hammer work. In my twelfth summer, I packed on some muscle, but my father didn’t notice. Then once, he came home from drinking and I was standing too close to the door, so he punched me, sent me flying across the room. Then he grabbed Mother. He was rough with her, so I stood up, told him to let her go. He laughed at me. I told him again. He said, ‘Or what?’ I said I’d make him.”

  Audun took a sip of mead. “That was one step too far. I got his attention. He went for me with his belt, tanned me, then grabbed me around the neck. He was going to strangle me, and I . . .”

  “You felt the fire,” Fjölnir said. “There was a fire inside you. Something that burned. Some kind of beast that needed to get out.”

  “Yes.”

  There was a long pause as the two men eyed each other up.

  “How did he die?” Fjölnir finally asked.

  “I knocked him to the floor and broke his face,” Audun said. “I smashed it. I couldn’t stop hitting him.”

  “And then . . . ?”

  “My mother—she put a hand on my shoulder. I turned around and the look on her face made . . . It made the fire go away.” Audun took another, deeper, swig of mead. The sweetness was cloying. “I couldn’t stay. His friends would have rounded us up and killed us. My mother pleaded with me, insisted I take all she owned, which turned out to be three pieces of silver. She cried so much that I took them. Then I broke into the forge and took a hammer. I left
the silver. I have been running since.”

  Fjölnir nodded. “Thank you for telling me your story.” They sat quietly for some time until the old man rose, picked up a poker, and moved to the fire. “Look,” he said and blew on the embers. Flames danced toward the ceiling, tendrils stretching like flowers to the sun. “The flame is dangerous. It burns. But you decide how bad it gets.” He looked at Audun. “It does not own us. It does not decide who we are. We do.” He walked over to the chest by the door, picked it up, and placed it in front of Audun. “I want you to have this,” he said. “It belonged to my son, but he has no claim to it now.”

  “I can’t take it,” Audun said. “Whatever it is.”

  “I would ask you to do it for me, as a favor. There will be a lot of trouble on your path before your journey is done, Audun Arngrimsson.”

  Grinning, the old man reached into the apparently bottomless food basket. “Now we eat till we’re fat and drink till we’re drunk, and I’ll tell you a story of what happens if you spend a night in the forest when the moon is full!”

  Audun accepted the refilled mug Fjölnir thrust at him and took another deep, long swig. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for my food. Thank you for—” His words failed him. “Thank you.”

  The old man smiled. “Shut up and drink. Now, there are many places you can go when the moon is round as a whore’s teat, but my forest is not one of them. Let me tell you a story . . .”

  The hammer blows from outside reverberated around the inside of Audun’s sore head. His mouth felt like an old sock, and his bladder was full to bursting point. He rolled out of bed and banged his knee on the chest. Muttering a curse, he stumbled to his feet and noticed that the hammering had stopped.

  Fjölnir’s voice rang out across the farmstead. “Well met, strangers! What brings riders to my end of Setr Valley?”

  VALLE, WEST NORWAY

  OCTOBER, AD 996

  The air in the barn stank of moldering hay and horse sweat. Ulfar’s stomach turned. His skin was clammy, intermittently cold and hot, and he could feel the sheen of dirty sweat on his forehead under the greasy strands of long, black hair.

  She was writhing under him, trying to make a good show of it, whoever she was. “Come on,” she whispered. “Come on, stranger. Come on.” There was an odd sort of desperation in her urging, he thought. She groped for him, with little luck. He tried to focus on her face. Sparkling blue eyes, blonde hair, tiny upturned nose. Freckles. She was pretty, in a country sort of way. He reached for her name but got lost in a fog of mead. Nothing was right. All he could feel were his breeches rubbing against the underside of his deflating cock.

  He rolled off her. The straw scratched at him. She didn’t even say anything, just made a sound in her throat, a mixture of disappointment and disgust. He felt her buck her hips next to him as she struggled to adjust her clothes.

  “Fucking wimp,” she spat as she rose and stormed off.

  Ulfar didn’t care, wouldn’t have cared even if he were considerably less drunk. Still, if he hadn’t been so busy drinking away his winnings, he wouldn’t have boned her—or tried to, at any rate.

  He snorted, rolled his eyes, and mumbled something that might have been a joke as he tugged up his breeches and pulled himself to a position that was almost standing. When he stumbled outside the stables, the cold air hit him like a slap in the face. All the smells of the autumn night were amplified: the manure, the sour reek of horse piss and wet hay, the rotting leaves in the forest just past the fence. His stomach lurched, and he felt the bile rising. He leaned against the wall and fought it back down with great effort.

  There was no denying it any longer.

  “I fucking stink,” he slurred. “Fucking stink. Need to find clean clothes or something. And a bath.” He grinned, straightened up, and looked sternly at the tethering post. “Where’s my bath?” he commanded. “You there! You’re short, but you’ll have to do. Fetch me my bath. And a wench to put in it and put it in! Hah!”

  “Hey! Limp-dick!” Someone rounded the corner and headed toward him: short, not too skinny. Farmer’s build, farmer’s clothes, fighter’s walk. Behind him came the blonde girl he’d just been with. Ann. Ann something.

  “And I’m Ulfar!” Ulfar shouted back. “Nice to meet you!” He giggled. “What can I do for you, King Limp-dick? And your fetching wife, Queen Limp-dick?” He bowed unsteadily.

  “That’s him, Torulf! He tried to rape me!” the girl said.

  Ulfar laughed. “More like the other way around, sweetness,” he said. “Your wife . . . sister? Both? Tried her best to get me going, only she wasn’t very good. If you wait till morning, I might be able to teach her a couple of tricks. Won’t charge you much, either.” With great effort, he pushed off from the wall and balanced on his feet.

  “He’s lying! Hit him, Torulf! Punch him in the face!” The girl’s voice was shrill with fury. Torulf was now close enough for Ulfar to get a good look at him, and the man turned out to be a boy, and the boy was younger than Ulfar had been expecting. Fourteen, maybe—but country strong. There was murder in his eyes, and somewhere in the back of Ulfar’s mind a little bit of common sense appeared.

  “Listen . . . Torulf? Torulf. This is a mistake—a misunderstanding. I didn’t mean to say those things. Nothing happened. We can talk—” The first blow landed on his shoulder. Torulf did not want to talk. “Stop. We oouf—” The second punch hit a lot harder, just below his rib cage. Ulfar lost the fight against the contents of his stomach and vomited all over his attacker, who squealed very unheroically. His lady unleashed a string of expletives at Ulfar.

  “You should watch that language,” Ulfar slurred, drool dripping from his mouth. “You could shrivel a man’s cock with that mouth. Oh, wait. You already did.” The girl shrieked, pushed Torulf out of her way and picked up a stone to throw at him. The fury in her eyes awoke Ulfar’s survival instinct, and he stumbled away. She did not let up until she’d chased him out into the woods and the last missile had whizzed past his head, thwacking into a tree.

  Ulfar collapsed in a huffing, sweaty, drunken heap. His limbs felt soft and squishy; his head was starting to pound. “Fucking bitch,” he muttered. “Fucking bitch fuck it all.” He hawked, spat, and lay down on his back. The ground was cold, wet, and solid. Above him, stars dusted the night sky. The night air was sobering him up some, and through the thumping in his head he could hear running water somewhere.

  He vaguely remembered crossing a stream earlier in the day, just before he’d walked into town. If you could call it a town—longhouse, a few huts. Farmers nearby, fifty people at a push. He’d heard a few mutterings about King Olav taking some of the best farmhands but thought it prudent not to ask questions. They didn’t care much for their new king—that was good. They had ale and they had a worn old Tafl board, and so he’d quickly found himself hustling for coin. Now he wished he hadn’t spent it all on drink in the hope that it would help.

  It hadn’t helped. However much he drank, she never went away.

  It hadn’t helped to crawl on top of that village girl, either, and somewhere inside he’d known it wouldn’t. Now he just felt dirty. No matter what he did, his mind still went to Lilia every night, and the time they’d stolen in Stenvik. Little flashes of her were burned into his eyes: her crown of red hair made of fire in sunlight, the necklace of blood that dragged her down to the ground like a stone in the ocean. And she would come back to him tonight, before he slept.

  “So I might as well enjoy life until then,” he muttered. Grabbing hold of a low-hanging willow branch, he levered himself up and went in search of more ale.

  “He was horrible. Really drunk. And he stank.” Anneli sniffed, wiped her face with her sleeve, and moved closer to where Jaki was sitting on the edge of his bed. “He held me down and . . . and . . .” She whimpered. “And he would have taken me, too, if your brother hadn’t dragged him off and punched him.” She pushed her chest against Jaki’s arm. “But then, instead of fighting like a man,
he threw up on poor Torulf!”

  Jaki’s laugh was harsh and mirthless. “Pussy Swede,” he sneered.

  “Yes,” Anneli said, “not a real man, like you.” She leaned in and her hand landed on Jaki’s thigh. “My boys. You and your brothers have always protected me from everyone, Jaki. Everyone. And now this . . . stranger comes into our village—”

  “What’d he look like?”

  “Tall. Maybe taller than you. But skinny, and long black hair. Like a girl,” Anneli spat. “Disgusting.” She sniffed again. “I don’t know what he was wearing—maybe a blue cloak over a gray tunic, with a silvery dragon brooch and a brown leather hairband? I didn’t really look. I’m so scared, Jaki. So, so scared. He might wait for me and try to do it again, and maybe you won’t be there to protect me and—”

  Jaki stood up and puffed out his chest. “That’s enough. No more talk now. I’m getting Jarli, and we’re gonna sort this out. Stay there.” He grabbed a shift and struggled into it.

  “Of course. Just . . . ,” Anneli started, then, “Jaki—be careful . . . please?”

  The young man set his broad, powerful shoulders and scowled. “I’m not the one who should be careful,” he said.

  Anneli watched him leave. The moment the door closed, she stood up and followed, a glint in her eyes.

  “Jarli!” Jaki banged on the door-frame of his brother’s hut. “Come on! Now! Hurry!”

  The planks that formed a makeshift door moved, and a large, stocky young man peered out, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His blue eyes matched Jaki’s, as did the turn of his mouth. “Whadye want?” he slurred.

  “Get your clothes on. Stranger tried to rape Anneli,” Jaki snapped.

  The sleep vanished from Jarli’s face. “Coming,” he said. The door shut; moments later he stepped out, holding two inch-thick ax handles, one for him, one for his brother. “Where is he?”

  “Torulf tried to fight—the bastard threw up on him and staggered into the bushes,” Jaki said. “Can’t have gone far.”

  Jarli looked at him. “Threw up? Really?”