Ulfar saw his food and drink money disappear, felt the cold, biting touch of hungry sleep outdoors, and within him something snapped. The edge of his mug smashed down on the man’s wrist and everything went blurry inside his head. He spat words about honor and death, grabbed a handful of silver and dodged Root-face’s clumsy swing. Pulling back, his foot went under the table and he pushed. The table lifted, Root-face disappeared behind it. Frightened faces retreated, but Ulfar didn’t care. This was too much. He was already out of his seat and on top of the frightened fur trader, swinging with the heavy fistful of silver. There was a crack, a scrape, and a sickening squelch as the man’s face opened up, and then there was blood, and more screams, some from him. He kicked out, connected once. Root-face flailed but didn’t come close. Ulfar’s throat felt thick, almost closing; his cheeks were pulsing.
He reached for the sword and saw how he felt inside reflected in the eyes of the man he was about to kill.
With his hand on the hilt, Ulfar looked around the hall.
Everyone was staring at him, their faces etched with fear and disgust.
“I will . . . I will not have my honor questioned,” he croaked and let go of the hilt, heat rising in his face. “Not by you”—he pointed at the quivering Northman—“or by anyone else.” He looked around the room. “Understood?”
Root-face nodded and inched slowly backward, as if he was retreating from a rabid dog. “Understood. I was wrong.”
“Y-you . . . I’d—” The words would not form. Ulfar scowled and stormed out.
The tears didn’t come until later. He’d veered off the road into the forest and wandered without purpose for a while; now he just sat slumped against a big pine. He was well clear of the town, and he was still hungry, still angry. His fist throbbed inside and out, knuckles aching from the punch, palm sore from squeezing down on the silver.
It took him slowly: a soft touch of the wind on his lips, the smell of cold on the air. With his back against the tree, he remembered Stenvik and the moment they’d had after Geiri’s death. A lump formed in his throat. He tried to clear it away, but it grew despite everything he did until his lips started trembling . . . he blinked rapidly, and finally the grief surfaced. With shaking shoulders he gulped mouthfuls of air at a time, then he bent over double to shield his heart from the world. He coughed through the crying, raw repeated coughs, trying to dislodge and squeeze out the hurt, the pain, everything that had happened since that day by the harbor.
Her name formed on his lips, but nothing came out; instead a fresh wave of grief swept him away, bigger, harder, faster as he wept for his father, for Geiri, and for everything he thought he’d known.
His body was no longer his own. He convulsed on the forest floor, twisting this way and that. He screamed at the world, opened his mouth, and let everything go for the first time. The heartrending noise lifted a flock of rooks out of the nearby trees, but it didn’t last; a bout of coughing shook him, smashed his insides together, knotted up his stomach, squeezed his neck and the back of his head.
When he had no more to give to grief, sleep took him.
He woke up, and the sky was wrong. He was wrong. Everything was wrong. He tried to remember what he was doing, but it was hard.
He’d fallen asleep in the night, and now it was morning. His throat was dry, and he swayed when he stood. His back ached. Something touched his ribs, and he felt for it: a silver bottle in his tunic. He unstopped it and swallowed its contents in greedy gulps.
Like falling into the freezing sea, suddenly Ulfar knew everything.
The forest rushed at him, into him, he was the forest. He was cold and warmth and the grass in the ground. He knew it; he knew everyone. His chest swelled, and he felt like he would burst. He knew the worlds. He rose from his throne and through one eye saw the warriors, his warriors. He walked through the hall under the light of burnished shields—his hall, his shields—and thrust open the doors, stepping into battle. He fought the Jotuns; he grappled with Hel, but all for naught, because wherever he went, Loki’s cape vanished into the shadows before him. He walked the bridge of colors and—
He saw Stenvik.
He saw Lilia.
What little there was left of Ulfar dug its heels in. Geiri’s face flickered into view, and a dark cape swished around a corner.
He saw Lilia in Harald’s arms, saw—felt the wooden shard rip and tear into her flesh, was the blood that pumped out of her body, was the ground that caught her when she fell.
Ulfar screamed, drew the sword, and drove it forcefully through his own heart. The vision of Stenvik shattered, exploded into shards that dissolved, revealing the stars around him, the stars in his eyes. Streaks of pain clawed at the black sky, stripping it away, revealing blue behind it, edged with treetops. The world lurched, and Ulfar coughed again, once, blood bubbling up out of his mouth, bursting with a wet plop. Now the stars were just dots of bright light in his eyes, pinholes in a picture that was fading around the edges.
He looked down at his chest.
Blood was flowing freely around the remaining inches of the blade, pumping out in ever-weaker spurts. A chill rippled through him like a winter wind; his hands felt numb. After the shuddering came a cloying warmth, a feeling of being wrapped up in woolen blankets, and Ulfar smiled a vacant, tired smile. He could drift to sleep now; just lie down and sleep for a while.
He fell to the ground, face-first.
The sword hit the ground and pushed through him. The pain was impossible; it was bigger than him, bigger than the world. It overwhelmed him, and finally he knew: this was it. This was death. Spasms wracked his body. He would be leveled by this great shield of pain, crushed flat, obliterated. He felt himself fade, felt the life leave him.
Ulfar’s eyes closed for the final time—and then they flew open again.
His very core was cold. It was hard, it was wrong, and it would not die.
He screamed.
ON THE ROAD, NORTH OF LAKE VANERN,
CENTRAL SWEDEN
LATE OCTOBER, AD 996
Goran yawned, scratched his gray stubble, and wondered, not for the first time, if he should have stayed at home in the valley all those years ago. As the middle brother, he wouldn’t have inherited the farm, but he could maybe have become a blacksmith. Or a wood-carver, perhaps. But no, he’d thought the life of a Viking would be full of riches and excitement.
No one had bothered to tell him about sea-stomach.
After three miserable attempts, each more bile-filled than the next, he gave up. He’d had a knack with the fighting, but getting there and back was too much for him. That left just caravan duty, but it was all right. He didn’t need to think, could just stand and look hard. Or walk, in this case. That was fine, though—he’d grown used to walking with a staff and took the jibes from the younger guards in stride. Let them mock his age and call it a walking stick. You never knew when a good, thick staff would come in handy.
Their little party consisted of four wagons, six merchants, and four guards. They were making good time, and the merchants paid well; considering what they were carrying and whereto, they could afford it. With any luck, they’d be there in ten days or so. The boys were talking up the wenching and drinking they’d do, but Goran had seen them give it a shot and thought their chances modest at best.
He was about to join in and shoot down Heidrek again when he felt something . . . wrong. He spun around just in time to see the blood-covered apparition crash through the bush and emerge onto the road, screaming and waving a sword not three steps away from the merchants. Even the placid draft horses reared and whinnied.
Without thinking, Goran swung his walking staff and connected with the man’s temple. He crumpled to the ground.
In a blink the situation, went from lethal back to harmless. Swords were sheathed, horses calmed; even the nervous chatter died down eventually. Ingimar, who looked more of a fool than usual in his expensive but ill-fitting robes, jabbed a stubby finger at him and squeaked
, “Who is that? What is the meaning of this? Why did he get so close? Who is he? Why didn’t you stop him?”
“He looks stopped to me,” Heidrek chipped in.
Goran suppressed a smirk.
“Yes . . . Who is he?”
“I don’t know,” Goran said. “He looks wounded, though.” He bent down to examine the prone figure.
“Careful!” Ingimar squealed, but Goran ignored him.
“Ooh. Nasty,” Heidrek said, peering over his shoulder. The wound was clean, fresh, and incredibly close to mortal. “He is one lucky bastard.”
“I’ll say,” Goran said. He turned to Ingimar. “What do you want to do?”
The merchant looked at the man on the ground. “Show me his sword,” he said, visibly calmer now that the man was proven to be out cold. “Good. And now loosen his tunic. What is that around his neck?”
“It’s a rune of some sort, on a string.”
“Is he definitely out?”
“Flat on the ground, like Regin’s mother,” Goran said.
“Nah, his legs ain’t spread enough,” Heidrek chimed in.
“Shut up,” Regin muttered behind them. “I’ll slap every one of you.”
Ingimar clambered off the wagon and bent down beside Goran. “Ah,” he said, appraising the stranger. “Tie him up.”
“Why?” Heidrek said.
“Just do it,” Ingimar snapped. “Tie him up and throw him on the fur-cart. And keep him alive.”
“What?”
“We’re taking him to Uppsala.”
NORTH ATLANTIC, BY NORDLEKSA
EARLY NOVEMBER, AD 996
“In the old days, you’d say a sailor this late in the year had Hel in his wake,” Skeggi rumbled. “On this one, I’d say the bitch is sitting comfortably in the back and inching forward.”
“Hard to argue,” Finn muttered and crossed himself.
As if in agreement, a sharp crack of wind from the north snapped at their sails. The king had taken to having men row just to keep warm; Valgard was huddled under three furs by the mast, shivering even so. They’d lost two men to cold already—their muscles had seized up, and they’d toppled overboard: the sea had taken what was owed. King Olav had said a prayer.
Botolf sidled up to them, quiet as usual. He raised an eyebrow and looked to the coast. “Interesting . . .”
Finn tried to follow his gaze. The mass of blue-gray and dark green on their right had long since blended and blurred into one big slab of country; the islets and holms on his left had given way to endless open sea. When he finally saw what the slender man was looking at, his breath caught in his throat. “Signal fires! A chain! We must—”
“All to plan, Finn. All to plan.” King Olav stood in the bow, unmovable. His voice carried on the headwind; the king did not turn. “The Lord sails with us, and we will not come to harm. Hakon does not have the strength. All we know will work in our favor. The signal fires just mean that a small number of men will have the time to wonder what it will be like when an undefeatable force arrives.”
“If Valgard is right,” Botolf muttered under his breath.
Finn crossed himself again and looked down at the white-tipped waves. Turning, he noticed that Valgard had managed to rise. The skinny healer leaned against the mast, gray-faced and shivering.
“Are you well?” Finn muttered.
Valgard glared at him. “I hate ships. How many fires have you seen?”
“Three . . . ?”
“Seven,” Botolf said, just by his ear, and Finn almost jumped. The dark-haired southerner made his skin crawl. On their right-hand side, peaked hills rolled past, dotted with fire and smoke; on their left, the sea stretched as far as the eye could see.
“Thank you,” Valgard said. “That should mean we have no more than half a day’s sailing left.”
“About right,” Botolf replied. “Are you aiming for Thorgrimsstrand?” Finn could hear the smirk in his voice and suddenly wanted to plant a fist in it. He turned so he could see the southern chieftain’s face. It was skinny, stretched, and shaded. It was not an honest Christian’s face.
Valgard smiled and shook his head. “Bjornevik. And Loki’s Tooth.”
“Very good. That’ll keep—”
“And Trondheim pier.”
Finn had never heard Botolf laugh before. It was the sound of a wolf growling before its kill. “If I ever fight you, Grass Man, I’d like to do it at sea. At sea, and man-to-man,” he said, smiling.
“Let’s try to make sure that doesn’t happen, then. Talent like yours is hard to find. And while we’re on the subject—those men you said you could spare?”
“I’ve talked to them. They’re yours.”
“Thank you. Now if you want to take a seat—we’re about to start the dance.”
“As you command,” Botolf replied, still smirking as the man appeared to float along the deck to his post at the back next to Skeggi.
A whole host of questions thundered through Finn’s head. “What—? How are we—? But—,” he stuttered.
Valgard silenced him with a hand movement and muttered, “Just watch. We should be rounding soon now.”
“When was this—?”
“You were busy making sure everything was going to plan with the two rats. I was talking to our friends at the back. The king”—Valgard crossed himself and inclined his head toward the bow—“the king went to a couple of chieftains we knew he could trust and divulged the plan. Listen—”
Valgard cocked his head. The ghost of a smile played on his lips as shouted commands began to drift across the water. Their own rowers lifted their oars, tucked them to the side, and just sat, allowing the rest of the fleet to catch up.
“That’s where we turn,” Valgard said, pointing to a large mountain jutting out into the water maybe three miles ahead of them. “After that it’s straight sailing into Hakon’s hole.” He looked both worse for wear and more alive than Finn could remember.
Around and now in front of them, ships were moving into groups. The first ships were powering ahead, foaming sea around their oars; the group behind them kept pace but stayed back. Soon both groups of ships disappeared around the horn.
King Olav raised his hand, palm flat.
Silent expectation spread like rings in a pond.
The moment seemed to stretch out forever—but then the king’s hand turned into a fist. Lowering his arm, he pointed forward.
As one, the oars hit the water, and the men pulled with renewed vigor. The Njordur’s Mercy leapt forward, the sail billowed, and behind them, another twenty ships fell in line.
When they rounded the horn, Finn watched a rare smile light up Valgard’s face. At the first available landing beach, a very handy stretch of soft sand, hastily erected fortifications had been equally hastily abandoned. About four miles farther along, a third of their ships had beached with ease and overwhelmed a token force; the bulk of the defenders were rushing back to meet the enemy. Sparse reinforcements from Trondheim were stuck battling the men from the second wave, who had cut them off just outside the city by running their ships aground and wading ashore on the rocky promontory of Loki’s Tooth. Sounds of battle were turning into sounds of murder.
Finn caught Botolf and Skeggi exchanging approving glances.
King Olav’s chosen warriors sailed on, straight into the heart of Trondheim.
TRONDHEIM, NORTH NORWAY
EARLY NOVEMBER, AD 996
Hakon had sent his strongest fighters out to meet the invaders; graybeards and fuzz-cheeks remained, and it did not take Skeggi and Botolf’s men long to clear the pier. They flowed ashore like murderous waves before King Olav, who walked into Trondheim slaying anyone and anything in his path. Drifting in his wake, Finn looked around. The smell of blood was rising in the air, and he could see it in the eyes of the fighters. Around him, boys and old men were being hacked to death—quickly by Botolf, brutally by Skeggi.
At the very moment when the spirit of Trondheim broke, King Olav bel
lowed for his men to stop in the name of the White Christ. The order spread quickly, and within a couple of breaths, swords had been stilled. The fighters took up their positions behind King Olav. The sounds of battle died down, to be replaced by the fading moans and cries of the wounded.
On instinct, Finn commanded four of his warriors to clear a space in front of the king, who turned around and shouted, “Hakon!” over the assembled mix of houses as the warriors dragged badly mangled bodies from beneath his feet.
There was no answer.
“Hakon!”
The people of Trondheim formed a shapeless, dull-eyed wall that stared at them, hostile and silent.
“Hakon Jarl—come out or I shall proclaim you a coward and put your kin to the sword!” King Olav bellowed.
Heads turned, bodies shifted, and a path opened up. A large man with thick gray hair and a graying beard walked slowly through the crowd and stepped into the square. He wore a mail shirt covered with a long, flowing white bear pelt and carried a sturdy-looking helmet under his arm; a long ax hung from his belt. The blade had not been bloodied yet, but Finn reached for his sword all the same.
There was a cruel twist to the man’s mouth as he sneered at King Olav and gestured toward the bodies of the dead and dying. “Is this what your so-called God commands you to do? Slaughter boys and old hands?” he growled.
“I will deal with them according to your conduct, and by your own standard will I judge them,” King Olav replied. His voice bounced off the mud-padded and wood-clad walls.
“I don’t care about your words,” Hakon said. “But you’ve made your point. Now what happens?”
“You bend the knee,” King Olav said.
Hakon swallowed, hawked, and spat. He reached for his ax, and metal rippled behind King Olav as four hundred seasoned warriors showed steel. With great effort, the old chieftain stayed his hand and stepped into the cleared square. King Olav did the same.
Finn thought he saw flashes of disgust in the faces of the northerners when their chieftain chose life over death and knelt before his king—their king.
Blood Will Follow Page 11