Blood Will Follow

by Snorri Kristjansson

  “Yes. Anneli says he was very drunk.”

  “Right.” Jarli’s lip curled. “Let’s go. Wanna get more?”

  “No. This is for us.”

  Jarli nodded, and the two brothers strode off into the night.

  The longhouse was almost quiet now, save for a few graybeards. Ulfar pushed his opponent’s king over. “And that’s you done,” he said.

  “Bastard,” the old man spat. Behind him, his three friends shook their heads and muttered into their beards.

  “Stay away from the corners next time. Might give your opponent a bit of a challenge,” Ulfar offered. “And pay up.” He raised his mug, drained it, and licked the last honeyed drops off the rim. “Or get me more ale. Your choice.”

  The old man slammed two copper coins down on the table. “Fucking Swedes,” he growled.

  “Yeah. Fucking Swedes. Horrible Swedes. It’s all our fault,” Ulfar said. “Always has been. And a good night to you. Who wants to go next?” None of the men standing around the table volunteered, and Ulfar cursed himself inwardly. He was too drunk; he’d forgotten a cardinal rule—work the room, make them like you, never turn them on yourself. Sven would have said something about leading a lamb to rather than away from the slaughter. With great effort, Ulfar strapped on a smile, which was much harder to do after thinking of the old rogue. “Come now, lads. Anyone fancy their luck? I’ll put two down to your one.” He grabbed his empty mug. “Or three if someone fills this up.”

  The door to the longhouse flew open, and two burly young men stepped in, scanning the room. Ulfar was up before he knew fully what he was reacting to.

  “You,” the shorter one said, pointing at him.

  “Yes?” Ulfar replied. The men around him shuffled quickly toward the walls. He could feel the warmth of the liquor draining away, replaced by the sinking feeling in his stomach. The headache started about then, too. This did not look good.

  “Out,” the short man said.

  “I’m fine here,” Ulfar replied. “Would you like a game? We were having such a nice time.”

  “Jarli,” the shorter one said. The big guy stepped toward him and leveled what looked like the haft of an ax at his chest. “Out,” he rumbled.

  “Why?” Ulfar said, retreating. He felt for the sword at his hip. “I don’t have a quarrel with you.”

  “Shut up!” the smaller one screamed. “Shut the fuck up, you fucking piece-of-shit Swede! You know what you did, and you’re not fucking walking away from my town! He tried to rape Anneli!” he exclaimed to the graybeards in the longhouse. His big companion advanced, careful brawler-style.

  Still holding the mug, Ulfar jumped up on the table and kicked a soup bowl at the larger one’s head. He swatted it away and took two more steps. He’d be within striking range in moments. “I didn’t—do—anything!” he shouted. “The girl wanted to go with me. I was drunk. I was too drunk, in fact, and then she stormed off! Just leave me alone!”

  “Liar,” the big one growled and swung for Ulfar, hard enough to break both his legs.

  Screaming with rage, Ulfar leapt over the ax handle, landed, and smashed the mug on the big man’s forehead. The big man bellowed and staggered, clutching his bleeding head and tilting it backward to get the blood out of his eyes. His smaller companion screamed and rushed toward them, but at that moment Ulfar jumped off the table, planted his foot on the big man’s chest, and pushed hard, sending the two men crashing back toward the door. He landed softly and was up in an instant with his sword drawn. He took two steps toward the young men getting up off the floor, who suddenly looked a lot less confident.

  “I said—leave me—the fuck—alone!”

  “You raped—,” the smaller one started, squirming away from the point of the sword.

  “You say that one more time and I will spit you like a pig. I didn’t rape anyone. Your little slut friend was begging for it, and she’s pulling you along by the cock to make things happen in this shithole so she can have a thrill,” Ulfar said. “Now get the fuck out of my way so I can leave you sheep-fuckers to it.” The larger one shot him a baleful look as he stood up, but he stepped out of the way. “And drop the stick,” he added. “You, too,” Ulfar snapped at the shorter one, who looked reluctant to let it go. “Get some sense, boys.” Exhaustion hovered at the edge of his fury. “Just . . . get some sense.”

  The big man grabbed his brother by the shoulder and pulled him aside, and Ulfar walked out of the longhouse with his sword drawn.

  Something moved quickly in the shadows to his side, just at the edge of his vision. Still tingling from the fight, Ulfar spun around, seized the hand holding the rock and pulled the arm down hard across his knee, dragging his surprisingly light attacker off balance. He felt the snap and heard the rock tumble to the ground. The piercing scream was loud enough to save Anneli’s life—Ulfar’s sword stopped a finger’s breadth from her neck.

  “You bastard,” she sobbed in the darkness. “You fucking bastard. You broke my arm.”

  “Oh, you poor thing,” Ulfar snarled. “Want me to kiss it better?” He sheathed his sword and kicked the prone figure once for good measure. “Fucking bitch,” he muttered as he walked away from the form sobbing in the shadows. Behind him he heard the commotion as the doors opened. Somebody shouted something after him; he didn’t care. He hawked, spat, and walked on.

  The faint moonlight quickly turned the nameless town into just another shade of darkness, and he covered the first few miles quickly, cooling his blood. It took him a good couple of miles more to realize that he was slowing down.

  He was hungry, hung over, and angry at everything.

  And he still stank.

  Veering off the road, he found a thick-leaved bush and crawled under it. Mangled visions floated before his eyes; he imagined spearing Anneli, ripping open her throat, and throwing her off a wall somewhere in front of a thousand helpless brothers. Sleep caught him and gave him dreams of Lilia.

  EAST OF VALLE, WEST NORWAY

  OCTOBER, AD 996

  Sunrise brought another headache and a woolly mouth, an aching bladder, and a back all knotted from the hard ground. I’ll never speak ill of any bed ever again, Ulfar thought as he crawled out from underneath the bush. It was the kind of thing Geiri would love to tease him about. Retracing his steps, he found the road again. It led to the east, which suited him just fine. He started walking.

  Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, Ulfar opened his mouth to speak.

  Then he blinked.

  Geiri wasn’t there.

  He would never be there again.

  Ulfar looked around and took a deep breath. Then another. He touched the rune that hung from a string around his neck, and his lips trembled for a moment. “How . . . ,” he started, but there was no one there to talk to. He hadn’t asked Audun to follow him. Nobody could tell him what to do. His chest tightened, and the pain behind his eyes settled into a dull, steady throb.

  There was nothing for it but to start walking.

  There was a world around him, but he didn’t notice, didn’t care. Right foot, then left. Simple. Right foot, then left. The rhythm of it lulled him, sang him into a daze. He didn’t need to think—he just needed to walk. Right foot, then left. Right, then left. He tried not to think about what would happen when he reached his destination, or what he was walking away from.

  “Hail, traveler!”

  The shout made Ulfar stumble and blink. Then he swore and turned around. He’d been walking half-asleep, oblivious to his surroundings.

  Luckily the man behind the voice was a good hundred yards away. He was tall, dressed in rough wool, but he carried himself like a soldier; he looked like the kind of man you’d put by something to guard it. He was leaning on a big walking staff. A huge mastiff sat next to him, long pink tongue lolling out in stark contrast to its white coat.

  “Hail,” Ulfar shouted back.

  “I thought I’d let you know of us,” the old man said. His voice carried surprisingly well. �
��You’ve not looked back for quite a while.”

  Ulfar shrugged.

  “Where are you going?” the old man ventured.

  “East,” Ulfar answered.

  “Would you care for company?” the old man said.

  What could it hurt? Numbers weren’t a bad thing on the road. “Sure,” Ulfar said, working hard to muster up some enthusiasm. The man caught up with him quickly, long legs covering the distance with ease. The big dog trotted at his side, glanced at Ulfar once and deemed him uninteresting. “Well met. My name is Gestumblindi,” the man said.

  “Well met. I am Ulfar,” Ulfar replied. “I’ve recently come from—”

  “I know,” the man said. Ulfar tensed up, but Gestumblindi didn’t appear to notice. “You just came through Valle. I gather you made quite an impression.”

  Tension flooded out of him as quickly as it had come, and Ulfar couldn’t help rolling his eyes. The man shot him a conspiratorial wink. “The . . . salt of the earth are sometimes, what can we say, overly protective of their womenfolk,” Gestumblindi added. “And quite ready to believe young, hot-blooded ladies who complain about exciting strangers in small towns. Often a little after the alleged crime.”

  Ulfar couldn’t help but smirk.

  Gestumblindi gestured toward the road, and they started walking.

  “I take it you didn’t believe them, then?” Ulfar said.

  Gestumblindi smiled. There was an easy air about the tall man; something that suggested command. “I had the measure of the two boys who were talking about you, and I’ve seen my share of small towns. So, no. Still—I thought you’d be bigger.”

  “Fuckers,” Ulfar said. “Mind you, I’ve just about been there myself. Gets your blood right up if you think the womenfolk have been wronged.”

  “Sure does,” said Gestumblindi. “If you’re a decent sort.”

  “Yeah,” Ulfar said. “And I suppose they were decent boys . . . in their own way.”

  “The boys, yes.”

  “The girl was a piece of work, though. Bet you all the coin I spent on ale last night that she’ll be making some poor man’s life miserable in a couple of years.”

  “The way those boys looked, I’d say she’s already ahead of you on that one,” Gestumblindi said, and they both grinned. Above them, thick gray clouds had melted into nothing. The sun caressed the curves of the landscape, and fields of wheat stretched away in front of them. Dark blue mountains with white caps rose from the horizon in the north. The world was but a faint line of autumn in a sea of blue.

  The two tall men fell into an easy, mile-eating stride, the dog trotting alongside them, until he suddenly caught wind of something. There was a whimper, a soft-spoken command, and he was off like a bolt into the fields.

  Ulfar watched the big animal go and whistled appreciatively. “He’s quite a beast, that one,” he said.

  “Name’s Geraz. Had him since he fitted in the palm of my hand,” Gestumblindi said. “Love him like my sons—more than my sons, in fact. I have two—the other one, Frec, doesn’t care much for company, so I let him range. He’ll be back tonight. They’re good to have on the road.”

  “I can imagine. But what brings you to this corner of nowhere?” Ulfar eventually ventured.

  “Hm,” the old man said. “What brings me here?” He looked Ulfar up and down. “I’m . . . how shall we say? I am on a mission.”

  “What kind of mission?”

  “I’m searching for something. Or someone, rather. I used to travel quite a lot, seen a lot of places—all of them, pretty much. I had some friends in Jomsborg,” he added, winking at Ulfar. “Still have, in fact.”

  Ulfar swallowed and fought hard to not feel for his sword. His breath caught in his throat. Suddenly the old man’s military bearing made sense. “That’s . . . good,” he said. “So—”

  “Hold on.” The old man turned away from Ulfar and appeared to be listening to something. “Good boy,” he muttered. “Good boy.” Moments later, Ulfar spotted a white speck in the distance. The dog was coming toward them at full speed. Gestumblindi stopped walking and focused intently on the dog, Ulfar forgotten.

  As the big animal drew closer, Ulfar noted a brown stain near its jaws. A bit nearer, and he could see the stain was moving, bouncing in time with the bounding dog.

  Closer yet, and now Ulfar could see that its jaws were wrapped around the neck of a hare.

  It was only when the dog was skidding to a halt in front of them, the joy of speed and power shining in its eyes, that Ulfar saw the captured hare blink and continue to struggle. It was still alive.

  “Oh, good boy, Geraz!” Gestumblindi said and scratched the big dog behind the ears. It thumped its tail in response, beaming with pride and gazing at its master.

  Something in the tall man changed. “Now—kill.”

  A wet crunch. The hare stopped moving.

  A heartbeat, and Ulfar remembered to breathe again.

  The hare fell from Geraz’s jaws to the old man’s feet with a thud. “That’s food for tonight, I think,” Gestumblindi said, with all the pride of a new parent. He scratched the big dog’s head, picked up the hare, and started walking again. Ulfar had to shake himself—the sharp stench of the hare’s blood, shit, and fear stung his nostrils and lingered where it had died.

  “Where was I? The Jomsvikings,” Gestumblindi continued when Ulfar caught up. “That was an age ago, though,” he added. “I’m long done with that life. I was a pup, like you.” The dog at his side barked once, and the tall man reached down to scratch its head. “Yes, yes. You were a pup, too, once. Way too long ago, you bucket of lard.” Geraz appeared to be quite happy with the attention and the tone of his master’s voice, and less worried about the insults.

  “How did you manage to leave the Jomsvikings?” Ulfar asked.

  The tall man winked. “I had more important things to do.”

  Ulfar’s mind raced. “How—?”

  Gestumblindi smiled and took his time before replying. “It does sound improbable, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Ulfar said. “I mean, the Jomsvikings never lose.”

  “We’re never on the losing side,” the old man replied, grinning. “There is a subtle difference, but as the winning side tends to tell the tale, it’s one that is rarely thought about.”

  Despite his concerns, Ulfar smirked. The old soldier had an instinct for putting people at ease. Much like Sven, Ulfar thought, and his smile faded. The graybeard from Stenvik had made him feel at home, for a while at least.

  “However, there is a need to . . . to find new blood. From what I heard about last night,” Gestumblindi continued, “in the longhouse, I’d say you can handle yourself.”

  Ulfar frowned. “Not like one of the Jomsvikings.”

  Gestumblindi turned toward him. “Don’t sell yourself short, Thormodsson. You have . . . you have something, I think.”

  The day was mild, but Ulfar still felt as though the air around him had grown colder. The compliment left a bitter taste in his mouth.

  “I don’t—”

  “So I would like to extend you an offer. Join my side, and you will get the fight of your life, with spoils unimaginable and—”

  “No.”

  Gestumblindi stopped and turned to face him. Sensing a change in his master’s stance, Geraz growled low in his throat.

  Ulfar took a measured step back.

  “No?” The old man eyed him with something . . . intrigue? Anger?

  “I cannot,” Ulfar said. He felt light headed. The ground tilted around him.

  “Why not?” Gestumblindi said. His grip on the staff tightened.

  “There is something I must do.”

  “What?” the old man said.

  A sudden flare of determination made Ulfar look the old man straight in the eyes. “I have to go to Uppsala. I have to find a man called Alfgeir Bjorne. And I have to tell him that his son is dead. I also have to tell him that it is my fault.”

  The space between t
hem appeared to stretch in all directions at once. Behind Gestumblindi the horizon warped, twisted in on itself, and became its own mirror; above them the sky stretched so far as to become the ground they stood on. Suddenly Gestumblindi looked impossibly tall, and Ulfar’s chest tightened; his breath came in ragged gulps. He staggered to keep his balance, but it was too late—his head felt ever lighter, his eyes rolled up into his head, and he crumpled to the ground.

  He dreamed of spaces, of stars and cold black, and a big hall somewhere in a forest. He didn’t go in. The world spun around him, and he had to fight against the memories of Stenvik, the woman on the boat, the curse—the shock when Audun came back.

  Later, Ulfar opened his eyes. There was nothing wrong with the sky above him. He moved his elbow to roll over—and something growled, something big and close. A base fear coursed through him, and Ulfar shuddered. He shifted his elbow again . . . another growl, this time more insistent. Curled lips over sharp teeth. A warning.

  Ulfar eased onto his back and lay absolutely still. Glancing to both sides without moving his head, he thought he saw the shadow of something, but it was too big to comprehend. His heart thumped in his chest, and for a moment he thought he felt the fangs, the hot breath, the wet jaws clamped over his throat and shoulder.

  But nothing happened, and Ulfar’s mind decided he was safer somewhere else.

  When he opened his eyes again, the sun had traveled almost all the way across the sky and the smell of roasted hare made his stomach growl. The evening chill was just beginning to bite, but the soft warmth of a distant fire was creeping slowly from his feet toward his knees.

  “Welcome back,” Gestumblindi said, somewhere out of sight. Ulfar’s reply was not much more than a mumble. “Shut up and lie still,” the old man continued, not unkindly. “Have you been feeding yourself recently, brave wanderer?”

  “Not much,” Ulfar managed.

  “You smell like you’ve watered yourself, though. Regularly,” the old man added.

  Ulfar did his best to shrug while lying down.

  “Here,” the old man said as he entered Ulfar’s field of vision. He had a knife; speared on its point was a bit of lean hare meat. It was burned crisp on one side; the other was rosy pink. Ulfar’s mouth watered and he propped himself up. “Gently,” the old man said. “You’ve been pushing hard, you’ve been drinking on a mostly empty stomach, and you’ve not been eating right. You just fainted.”