Valgard found the healers in the town without too much trouble. One was a green-faced apprentice boy who would be useful for nothing but clearing shit; the other was an old crone who knew her work but was painfully slow at even the simplest jobs. It was clear that it had been a while since Trondheim had seen any kind of scrap. He’d asked for the town’s master healer, but apparently the man had been unable to put his own head back on his shoulders. Valgard sighed, ordered them both to work making poultices and supplying water, and then set about healing the wounded.
He worked without pause until sundown, then had someone fetch a light. The stink of the big seal-fat candle was rank at first, but it did help mask the blood. Valgard kept his mind on the work, bandaging the wounds of friend and foe alike, sending them away better than they came. He couldn’t help but note that there were significantly more foes to bandage. Some of them were mean-spirited and required special attention—if he disliked them enough, he asked Skeggi’s men to look after them for a little while. Most of the fighting men accepted their fate wearily—they’d been in scraps before, on both sides. Some were even grateful for his skill, and Valgard made a point of noting their faces.
King Olav had forbidden the taking of spoils, and for the most part the men adhered to this command. After dark, however, a few women showed up with familiar wounds, and Valgard could not help but think of Harald. He would have been worth any five of these men, but he would also be out now, delighting in causing pain and fear, sowing the seeds of hate and leaving before they sprouted. That was the old way.
The boy drifted nervously into his field of vision and Valgard squeezed out a smile. “What is it?”
“It’s . . . it’s . . .” The boy turned beetroot red.
“Bring her,” Valgard said.
The boy darted out and returned with a slim young girl hanging off his shoulder, only barely supporting her own weight. Her clothes were in tatters, and lank, dark hair hung in front of her face. Valgard didn’t need to look in her eyes to tell how much she was hurting—her legs shook, she twisted her upper body as if trying to relieve something in her shoulders, and blood dripped on the floor where she stood. Two of her fingers on each hand were pointing in the wrong directions.
“Get hot water,” Valgard snapped. The boy looked at the girl, then him, then sprinted off. The girl almost fell, and Valgard took three quick steps toward her. His back flared, but he didn’t care. Gently brushing her hair away from her face, he tilted her head up.
Both her eyes were blackened, and a tooth had been knocked out. Her hair had been pulled so hard that her scalp had torn, and thin, pinkish blood seeped out past a crusting scab.
Her eyes were open, but vacant.
Valgard frowned. He’d never understood why big, strong men needed to hit girls to get their cocks hard. He’d seen quite enough to know what had happened here: the screaming might start at some point, but not just yet, so it would be good to get the work done first. Putting his hand on the girl’s good shoulder, he guided her gently to a table, laid her down, and started tending her wounds.
As he worked, an idea came to him, and he smiled even as his hands continued working gently to ease the girl’s pains. Maybe there was some light in the darkness, even this far north.
Hakon Jarl’s hall was as big as the hovels in his town were pitiful. Rich furs covered every inch of the benches, and polished silver overlapped copper and gold on the walls. A tapestry from Ireland depicting a thin man being attacked by flying beasts held pride of place on one long wall; the other had a picture of an impossibly long raiding ship; at the bow end was a broad-chested figure wearing a white bear cape.
The dais at the end of the room was easily the height of a man. Steps were set into one side, and there was a chamber off to the back. In front of it stood three chairs, positioned to be at the chieftain’s feet. King Olav sat in the high seat and looked down on the hall with disdain. “Savages,” he muttered. “Magpies and savages, stealing and murdering. Treasures gained by wickedness are worth nothing.” He made the sign of the cross as he cast a lingering glance toward the tapestry of the ship.
Finn entered at the far end. The size of the hall and its furnishings made the warrior look almost small. He saluted from the doorway and bowed his head.
“Come, Finn,” King Olav called. “Bring a chair.” He gestured to the space beside him.
Finn approached the dais and looked up. “Are you sure, my King?”
“It is clear to me that Hakon wanted to place himself above all others and closer to his . . .” The king’s face curled in distaste. “Closer to his gods. But I shall not be found guilty of such vanity.” He rose from the high seat and looked down on Finn. “If we had the time, I’d level it all. Pass it here.” Finn lifted the chair up and the king grabbed it without any visible effort. “Good. Now come up and have a seat.” As the big man made his way around to the stairs, King Olav sat down again. “You are my right hand in war and peace, and I need you to tell me what you’ve seen and heard. How many dead?”
Finn maneuvered his large frame into the chair. “As far as I can gather, we lost six men. Hargrim’s men on Loki’s Tooth lost twelve and seventeen of Orlygr’s at Bjornevik.”
“Hm,” King Olav said. “It pains me, but they shall walk with Christ. What of Hakon’s men?”
“Somewhere around three to four hundred dead.”
The king’s eyebrow rose. “Which leaves him with—?”
“About six hundred able-bodied men.”
“And we have?”
“Two thousand eight hundred.”
“Hah!” King Olav leaned back. “That sly healer of ours, he got this one right. But there is more we can do.”
“More, my Lord?”
“Yes, there is. Christ’s will must be done.”
Valgard stared at Finn and pulled back. “He wants to do what?”
“Round them up and kill them all,” Finn replied. “By the morning. Says we need to make sure.”
“Make sure,” Valgard repeated. His shoulders slumped. “But Hakon has already bent the knee, hasn’t he? Well . . . thank you for telling me, Finn. You are right—it will be difficult. Do you think I could maybe come with you?”
“That would be good,” Finn said.
Valgard looked over his shoulder at the far end of the tent, where the crone and the boy were messing about, looking equally inept. He rolled his eyes, sighed, and approached them. “You two. I need to go off now. You’re in charge,” he said, pointing at the crone. “You—” He pointed at the boy, who just gazed at him. “Never mind. Do your best. Oh—and no one touches the girl but me,” he added, glaring at the boy. “No one. Understood?” They both nodded, wide-eyed.
As he walked away, he braced himself against the cold. “Try not to kill anyone,” he muttered.
Over in the east a milky-gray stripe of dawn could be seen. With Botolf and Skeggi’s help, they’d rounded up Hakon’s soldiers, tied them up in groups of ten or so, and set a handful of armed guards to watch over them.
Finn and Valgard found the king lying on a pile of furs in the chamber behind the dais, fast asleep. Finn cleared his throat.
“Your Majesty . . . ,” he mumbled and cleared his throat again.
Valgard stepped forward and put a hand on the king’s shoulder. “Your Maj—”
King Olav’s left hand shot out and closed around Valgard’s throat. Eyes flashing, the king twisted off the piles and rose, bent Valgard to the ground, and raised a mailed fist, ready to smash his attacker’s face.
“My Lord!” Finn shouted and grabbed King Olav’s right arm.
Through the fog of suffocation, Valgard thought he saw the king blink, blink again, and shake the confusion out of his face. Then when Olav looked down and saw his own left hand crushing his healer’s windpipe, he recoiled and stepped backward.
“Valgard! I—I—”
Racked by coughing, Valgard raised a hand to stop the king from saying any more. When he’d regained
his voice, he croaked, “Don’t worry, my King. Anyone would be happy to follow a man who is twice the warrior asleep than I am even fully awake.” He added what he hoped would be read as a smile.
The king was visibly shaken but recovered quickly. “You are most kind. What brings you here?”
“Well,” Valgard said, rubbing his neck. “I wanted to tell you something. It’s about a girl.”
King Olav’s men walked around Trondheim in the morning, banging their shields and forcing every man, woman, and child out onto the walkways, roads, and streets. Slowly the crowd gathered in the largest field outside the town in front of a hastily erected platform, surrounded by a ring of the king’s soldiers.
There were mutters of unease when Botolf and Skeggi led in the remaining six hundred of Hakon’s soldiers, bound and disarmed, and positioned them in rows below the platform, then surrounded them with a shield wall.
The mass of people didn’t notice Hakon Jarl until he was halfway up the steep steps to the platform. A smattering of cheers was heard but died quickly. King Olav followed in his footsteps. No one celebrated.
Standing some distance away in the shadow of an old barn, Finn leaned over to Valgard. “I really hope this works,” he muttered.
“It’ll work,” Valgard said. “It’ll definitely work.”
Finn drew a deep breath, turned around, and signaled to his chosen men.
On the platform, King Olav raised his arms. Below him, the crowd fell silent. There were about two and a half thousand townspeople in there, Valgard estimated. Maybe not enough to overwhelm the invaders, but if it went wrong . . . This was a good time to find out whether King Olav deserved all the admiration Finn appeared to give him. If the king didn’t sweep them along, this could turn very ugly indeed. They’d only be able to withstand a—
“People of Trondheim!” King Olav exclaimed, and Valgard could not help but be drawn to him. “Hakon Jarl”—he gestured—“has made a very difficult but important decision. He has looked into your future and done what is best for Trondheim—and for all of you.” Hakon Jarl looked even angrier than usual.
Behind the platform, six burly sailors walked toward the steps carrying carven idols of the old gods.
As the men ascended, dragging the statues behind him, King Olav continued, “These are the gods from Hakon’s own godhouse. He has given them to us to help me show you what the old gods are capable of. These are the same gods you’ve placated with sacrifices and blood offerings.” The king paced along the very edge of the platform. The burly sailors had by now raised four idols and placed them near the front, just behind King Olav, with a man taking up position behind each of them and holding on to them by the head. Even from a hundred yards away, Valgard could tell that these were exquisitely carved, their beauty tarnished only by the lids nailed over the open mouths, where normally they’d put in food during ceremonies. But he’d expected that, because he was the one who’d ordered those lids nailed in just before daybreak.
The sixth god was in place now. King Olav stood next to Freyr, Freyja, Loki, Thor, Njordur, and Odin. “Your ax, Hakon,” the king said, and the jarl obliged and handed the king his weapon.
“I am a warrior of the White Christ. He will stand in my defense as your old gods move to smite me. And they will try”—the king set his feet—“because now we’ll see what your old gods are really”—King Olav swung—“made of!”
The ax met the wood with a dull thwack, the lid flew off Freyja’s mouth, and a big crack opened in the hollow statue. Moving with the swing, King Olav sidestepped and was on to the next one even as the sailor behind the statue tipped it out over the edge of the platform. The crack of the ax mixed with screams of horror from the crowd as rotting fruits, putrid meats, rats and mice, and crawling insects of every kind tumbled out of the broken statue and fell down onto the heads of the six hundred bound men. The statues emptied one by one onto the crowd below as Hakon Jarl’s men tried to dodge the disgusting missiles, but they could do little with their hands bound and ended up pulling against each other as the vermin clawed, bit, and scurried away; some met their end under stamping heels. Several of Hakon’s warriors ran head-first into King Olav’s men, but they’d been told what to expect, and the shield wall held.
Up on the platform, the broken statues had been removed. King Olav stood at the edge, regarding the spectacle. When the turmoil finally subsided, he spread out his hands again, as if pleading for calm. Slowly the crowd fell quiet.
“Did you see that?” he shouted. “Did you?” The silence did not deter him. “Your so-called gods are old, hollow, and full of decay. Should they not have struck me down?” He turned to Hakon. “Did you see them strike me down, Hakon Jarl?”
The old man stood at the back of the platform, immobile. “No,” he said. Then he repeated, louder, “No, I did not.”
“The White Christ protects me!” King Olav shouted, “as he protected you from the wrath of the old gods! The White Christ stands by his people.” On cue, one of the sailors carried a slim girl to the stairs and helped her up onto the platform. Standing behind the crowd, Valgard nodded. Dressing her in white had been a nice touch.
Two of Finn’s men moved toward the stairs with a bound and hooded fighter who was kicking and screaming, though to no avail. They half-pushed, half-dragged him up onto the platform.
“This creature of the Lord,” King Olav intoned, gesturing at the girl, “this creature was attacked tonight. She is one of yours, people of Trondheim. She is someone’s daughter, someone’s granddaughter. And the White Christ believes that the daughters of Norsemen deserve to live safely! He does not believe in the old ways. I told my soldiers that they could not claim their spoils here because the people of Trondheim are brave; they are our kin; they are Norsemen, just like I am. But she was attacked, three times, brutally, and the rule of our Lord is very specific.”
The bound man on the platform was unmasked. It was one of Orlygr’s men. Valgard hadn’t met him before; he’d asked around. Maybe he’d done it, and maybe he hadn’t, but it didn’t matter so much. What mattered was that the people of Trondheim were hanging on King Olav’s every word.
“The rule says,” King Olav continued, “that you should do unto others as you would have others do unto you.” The other sailors moved up onto the platform. The last one held a foot-long belaying pin. “Do unto others as you would have others do unto you. And so I say to you, even though the White Christ is new and different, he is no more merciful or forgiving than Odin himself.” Behind him, the bound man was thrown onto the platform, face-first. Two large men pinned down his upper body. “Like me, the White Christ is generous to his friends.” A knife flashed. The bound man’s sliced breeches were thrown off the platform, fluttering in the morning breeze before they landed in the mud. His pale flesh almost shone in the morning light. The audience was very silent. “But to those who disobey, he gives no quarter.” The thrashing man’s legs were spread and pinned down. Grim-faced, the sailor with the belaying pin knelt behind the fighter who was now obscured by bodies.
“So I say to you, people of Trondheim!” King Olav’s voice boomed out, strong and clear. “Follow me! Follow Hakon Jarl! Or—”
The scream was human, but only at first. It changed into something else, something animal and tortured, a wailing wave of pain that faded into crying whimpers. King Olav glanced at the sailor, who clenched his jaw and twisted.
Valgard could hear the man’s vocal cords breaking. It didn’t stop him from screaming: a garbled and teary string of invective, excuses, and begging for forgiveness followed, but none of the big sailors moved an inch. The words drifted apart on the morning breeze. A faint smell of dying reached Valgard. It didn’t bother him anymore; it hadn’t done for a long time.
The sailor twisted and pushed.
The warrior choked on his own spit. He tried to smash his head into the wood on the platform, but the sailor sitting on his left arm grabbed him by the hair before he could knock himself out.
“Thrice you attacked. Thrice you’ve been attacked,” King Olav intoned. “Stand him up!” As one, the sailors rose and hauled the man to his feet. He could hardly support his own body weight. His face was ashen, and blood flowed freely between his legs.
Valgard’s eyes were cold. That looked about right. Beside him, Finn had grown ghostly pale.
“You have reaped what you have sown!” King Olav shouted. “If you do unto others, others will do unto you.” Some unspoken communication passed between the king and the sailors, who let go of the man. He dropped to his knees. “But you also betrayed me. You disobeyed me, and therefore you cannot be trusted,” King Olav said. Stepping behind the man, he moved fluently, took jaw in one hand, a fistful of hair in the other.
Twisted.
Snap.
The man’s lifeless body collapsed onto the platform.
King Olav looked up at the gathered mass of people. Calmly, he said, “Now that Hakon Jarl has bent the knee—this is what happens to the enemies of Trondheim.”
Cheers spread through the gathering and grew in volume as they bounced back across the cold, dirty bodies of the bound men. They grew louder still as King Olav gave commands, and the shield wall dissolved. Soldiers moved among the captives, cutting bonds. The people of Trondheim turned around and gazed at the entrance to their town.
Some of Hargrim’s men, sent to raid local farms, appeared with freshly slaughtered sheep and cows. Fires were up and running, lining the road; cuts of prime half-roasted, half-raw meat were offered around. From Hakon’s basement, Skeggi had conjured up several barrels of mead, and King Olav’s men led the people of Trondheim back to their houses, making sure everyone got at least a bite to eat, a mouthful to drink. King Olav stood next to Hakon Jarl, watching them leave. Their faces were colored as much with relief as with meat juices and mead.
From their vantage point, Valgard leaned over to Finn. “I’d say that worked, wouldn’t you?”
Valgard’s chance came three days later. The town had gone back to normal, more or less. In the end it didn’t matter much who waved the swords; fish still needed to be caught, and crops had to be harvested. King Olav installed himself in Hakon’s hall but kept the jarl close. Then news came to them of three families banding together up in the valleys and muscling in on their neighbors. King Olav sent Hakon Jarl to bring the farmers back in line.
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