“Our hosts look to have been away a while,” Botolf said as they approached the first covered house. The four men in front redoubled their efforts, and soon carved fenceposts rose from the snow. Farther still, and a big plank of wood emerged.
“Look!” The first of the shovel crew pointed. “’s a door!” He banged it with his shovel.
The cloud of white rose and fell, revealing four snowmen and a bare roof.
The soldiers laughed and cheered. Even Bug-eye stirred.
“Come on, you lazy bastards,” Botolf shouted at the fresh piles of snow. “Stop playing around!” The snow mound in the middle trembled, and a hand burst out. Clawing at the air and flailing about, all it managed to do was to draw more laughter from the men.
“So much for a cautious approach,” Thora muttered.
“Whoever’s around has known we were coming for a long time,” Botolf said under his breath. “It’s been a good bit of walk. They need a laugh. You need to relax.”
Thora shot Botolf a look that said a lot of things and muttered something very quickly and quietly. Botolf didn’t reply, but a smirk spread across his weathered face. Valgard observed their exchange and marveled at the spiky-haired woman. He’d watched her glide into the fellowship of the men: one moment they were an impregnable circle of scowls; the next, she was one of them. She’d won them over like he knew he never could. When the prisoners in Stenvik had told him of Skargrim’s boatswoman, it had sounded like so much nonsense; he had not been able to connect that to the screaming, knife-wielding maniac who had come crashing through Stenvik’s gates. Now it took effort to remember that she probably wanted him dead and could kill him with nothing more than a flick of her wrist.
The unfortunate diggers emerged from the drift, shaking themselves and cursing their fellow travelers, who answered back in kind.
“This is just a cabin. Find the longhouse,” Botolf snapped and started wading through the snow. Silence and focus spread in waves among the men, and they fell in line behind him.
Up close, Egill Jotun’s snowbound longhouse was a thing of beauty. They shoveled the white powder off the steps, and Botolf moved to the fore with Thora by his side.
“You’ve been here before,” he said to Thora.
“Which makes you my guest. After your good self,” she answered immediately, bowing toward the door.
Botolf grinned. With one hand on his blade, he pulled open the great carved door.
Black forms exploded out of the darkness in a flurry of flapping wings. Botolf had sidestepped with terrifying quickness and crouched, his eyes trained on the dark space within. The birds were out and gone in a flash.
“Ravens?” he asked.
Thora did not reply. The men traded glances. Behind Valgard, one of the soldiers muttered, “Two of them. Odin does not want us to—”
Someone else walloped the man and hissed, “Shut up, you idiot.”
Without a word, Botolf disappeared inside, and Thora followed him like a shadow.
The silence they left behind was suddenly impossibly vast, overwhelming, crashing through the valley like a snowslide. Valgard held his breath—and then the door flew open with a bang.
Botolf stood in the doorway, straight-backed and imposing, like a hunting dog denied its kill. “Nothing here,” he said, looking straight at Valgard. “Nothing—at—all.”
As night fell, the men settled in the longhouse, seating themselves comfortably around the edges. As it turned out, Botolf had been rather quick to dismiss the bounty of Egill Jotun’s house—they discovered a cellar full of dried meats and cheeses, barrels of mead, and a stack of well-dried firewood. The roaring flames drained some of the cold from their bones, and the soggy smell of drying clothes soon wafted out through the air vent.
Botolf had claimed Egill’s high seat on the dais. It was the biggest piece of furniture Valgard had ever seen, easily half again the size of a normal chair. The chieftain looked almost boyish sitting there. Thora had taken the seat to his right, leaving Valgard to scurry to the one on the left, but now that the men were settled, he had the sinking feeling he’d played himself into a bad position.
Where was it?
And what, exactly, was he searching for?
For the first time in many months, he allowed himself to wonder. He’d thought himself so clever; he’d reasoned that all he needed to do was find out where to go and then go there and he’d find whatever had created the monster in Stenvik. He hadn’t even stopped to think about what he might be looking for. He’d searched the house himself and found nothing of consequence. There were bear pelts here and there, some signs of worship, and a crude drawing of a claw, but nothing that made any sense.
Botolf leaned over toward his chair. “So, Healer. Grass Man. Thinker, planner, friend of kings.”
Against his will, Valgard swallowed.
“Now what?”
“I . . . don’t know,” Valgard said. “I don’t know how . . . long it’s going to take to find it. But we will,” he added quickly. “And soon, too. I can feel it.”
“Can you?” Botolf asked. “That would be most . . . impressive. Because if you don’t . . . If you don’t, then you’ve dragged me all the way out here for nothing. And then you might have an accident on the way back. I’m sure King Olav wouldn’t mind an adviser with a little more . . . steel.”
Valgard swallowed and smiled weakly. “It’s here. I’m sure of it.”
“We’ll see in the morning,” Botolf said. “We’ll see about a lot of things.”
Movement caught Valgard’s eye. The trek-master was coming through the hall, looking less than pleased. Thora, sitting beside Botolf, was already half out of her chair.
“Botolf,” Bug-eye said.
“What?”
“You want to come see this,” he said, then turned around and walked away. Botolf looked to Thora, but she was on the trek-master’s heels.
After the fire inside, the night air was as cold as a blade to the throat. Bug-eye headed down the steps to the snow corridor they’d dug earlier in the day.
“What do you want me to see?” Botolf growled at Bug-eye’s back, but got no answer. Scowling, the chieftain stormed across the tramped-down snow, a shadow in the faint moonlight. Thora followed him, chasing the scent of danger, blood, and action.
A hundred yards farther on, Bug-eye stopped by a pile of black cloth.
Instinct kicked in, and Botolf scanned the horizon. “What happened?” he growled.
“Two lads, out to take a piss,” the trek-master said. “They’ve had their skulls bashed in.”
“Tracks?” Thora asked before Botolf could say it.
“Snow’s tramped down,” Bug-eye replied. “The edges are too high to climb. We can look in the morning.”
Botolf crouched by the bodies. “They’ve not just been bashed; they’ve been torn as well,” he said. “Big knife. Sword, maybe.”
“What the fuck?” Thora said. “Seems a lot of trouble.”
“You know how it is,” Botolf said. “Once we’ve put the armor on, we might as well get our kicks.”
“Think there’s someone out there?” Thora said.
“Only possible explanation,” Botolf said.
“But—” Bug-eye started.
“Ghost? Spirit? Monster? If that’s what you’re going to say, don’t even open your fucking mouth,” Botolf growled. “I’ve not seen any of those, and I’ve seen a lot. This is the work of three, maybe four men—and I’ll bet it has something to do with those little shits we stopped on the way.”
“Hardly,” Thora said. “They were just boys—and stupid boys, getting caught like that,” she added with pursed lips. “We’ll have a look for tracks in the morning.”
“Fine,” Botolf said and turned to Valgard. “You’re a lucky bastard,” he said.
A lifetime spent with Harald had taught Valgard when to shut up. He waited for the next sentence.
“You’re alive, Grass Man—for now,” Botolf continued.
“Thank you,” Valgard said.
“Don’t thank me. Thank whoever did this. There’s obviously something here—and someone doesn’t want us to find it. I look forward to pissing them off.”
The chieftain turned and walked back toward the longhouse. Valgard could have sworn there was a spring in his step.
Behind him, Ormslev had approached Thora. “Do we tell the men?” he mumbled.
“No,” Thora said. “They can do with a nice rest. I’ll sort what needs sorting. It’s been a long walk,” she added.
“That it has,” Bug-eye said. He mumbled something else, but Valgard couldn’t make it out and didn’t care. The rim of light under the longhouse door was a lot more tempting.
If the north was indeed coming for him, he would prefer for it to do so when he was warm and dry.
Valgard woke up in the dark. The air was so heavy with the smell of warm, damp bodies that he might as well have come to in a barn full of wet dogs. His skin crawled. Moving carefully, he pushed off his thick woolen blanket.
The winter cold was still there, on the edges. He raised his head and looked around, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Soon the bodies of the men faded into shapes, a deeper black against the night inside the cold hall.
The ray of moonshine that slashed through the doorway as the longhouse door opened was a shimmering, pure slice of silver.
A shadow slipped through, and in an instant the door was closed again, all without a sound.
Taking care to move slowly, Valgard eased his head down onto his bedroll. His heart thumped so loudly in his chest that he was sure he’d meet a blade any second. A sharp one, wielded without mercy.
The shadow form was burned into his eyes, backlit by the moon. Only one person in their party was that short and slim. Something about the way she moved . . .
With infinite care, Valgard pulled the blanket over his head and hoped Thora hadn’t seen him looking.
“Up! Get up!”
The screams jolted Valgard awake.
The longhouse was all chaos and fear. Men were leaping to their feet, cursing, reaching for swords. Without thinking, Valgard rolled out of the way and under a table. His world was reduced to a line of stomping feet and rough, rasping voices shouting, “They’re outside!”
The walls shook as something bashed into them.
“Blades to the door!” Botolf ordered.
Thora’s voice sliced through the noise. “Stand firm, you fuckers! Don’t flap about like chickens! You’ll end up sticking each other, and that’s for personal time only!”
Laughter and cheers.
The walls shook again. There was a roar on the other side that sounded like several men—or one really big one. Thora roared back, and the men soon joined in, banging their swords on tables, shields, and anything else they could find.
Whatever was outside didn’t appear to like the sound of that. When the noise died down, there was nothing to be heard.
“Hjalmar, Skapti, Einar, to me,” Botolf growled from the doorway. “Bring five bastards each. Thora!” Orders were shouted. Someone called for a torch, and flickering light heralded the smell of burning pitch. The door opened and large men filed out, armed and dangerous. Then it slammed shut.
The men inside the longhouse grew deathly quiet as they listened for the sounds of clashing blades.
There was nothing.
Valgard crawled out from underneath the table moments before the door flew open and Botolf stomped in. The men nearest to the door took two steps backward.
“Nothing out there,” he growled. “Nothing.” No one spoke. “No tracks. Nothing.”
“Post eight men by the door,” Thora snapped. “And another eight outside.” Some of the men groaned, but a dirty look silenced them. “You fucking do as I say, or I’ll personally slit your throat while you sleep and save our northern friends the trouble, whoever they are. Get to it—the rest of you, back to sleep.” With that, she stalked in Botolf’s wake to the dais, where they’d dropped their bedrolls.
The men started bickering among themselves about guard duties. The ever-present Ormslev appeared to be everywhere at once, poking and prodding the men into submission. One by one, surly warriors shuffled to the door.
Valgard pulled his coat on. His legs and back ached as he shuffled forward, willing himself not to think about what he was doing and hoping he’d called it right. “I’ll do a shift,” he said.
Bug-eye turned and looked at him with poorly disguised contempt. “Will you.”
“I’m ready and—” He didn’t finish the sentence. Instead he ignored the screaming protest of his back and twisted to the left as hard as he could, shifting his body out of the way of Bug-eye’s meaty hand. The trek-master’s eyes opened in surprise when Valgard wasn’t where he thought he’d be. Instead, the skinny healer grabbed his wrist and pulled. Holding it in a vice-like grip, Valgard fell on Bug-eye’s elbow, bringing a forearm to the bigger man’s face. Already off balance, Bug-eye crashed to the floor. Valgard ended up lying on top of the trek-master, elbow on his throat. “Ready and able. You have a problem with that?”
The fat, bald man coughed, spat, and laughed, a coarse, braying sound. “Fuckin’ ’ell, d’ya see the fucker! Fast as a snake, this one! D’ya see ’im?” he said, lying on his back. “Fucking take all the shifts you fucking want.” He chortled. “Do we need the others? Heh.” Bug-eye laughed to himself as he clambered to his feet. “I’m getting old. Fucker. Heh. See that?”
Their encounter over, Valgard limped away. In his head, a plan was forming, but he needed more information. When he glanced behind him, Bug-eye was back to his usual commanding self.
“Inside or out?” A square-jawed man with a short red beard—Skapti—somehow managed to bite even the shortest words in half. Around him, the men were looking at Valgard like they had never seen him before.
“Out,” Valgard said.
“Suit yourself,” Skapti said and opened the door.
Valgard wrapped his coat tighter. The cold night air smelled of blood, steel, and promise.
The landscape outside was an odd blend of ghostly grays, pitch black, and the occasional silvery strand of moonlight on frozen snow. The longhouse faced the sea, and beyond the coast the world opened out into an endless line. Closer to home, shadows danced a silent dance beneath the white dunes.
Pretty hard to hide anyone in this, Valgard thought. It had stopped snowing soon after he stepped out, and soon after that his brilliant plan deflated. He would find no tracks to show Botolf. He had no idea where the attackers had come from. He did, however, now have wet and achy feet to go with his knotted back.
When he noticed Thora standing right behind him, he very nearly added a stopped heart to the list.
“Nice night,” she said.
After a couple of attempts to catch his breath, Valgard managed to squeak an agreement. He glanced over her shoulder as casually as he could, but for some reason he couldn’t see any of the other guards.
“Listen,” she said, leaning in. “I don’t have much time. I know what you seek. And I can tell you where it is, but I can’t come with you to get it.”
Valgard blinked. He stared at her, searched for the telltale twitch, but there was nothing. If it was a lie, it was the best he’d ever seen. She looked older, somehow. More settled.
“Oh, really? And what am I looking for?” he said.
“You seek the powers that Loki bestowed upon Skuld,” Thora said without preamble. “You want to find the source of her magic, the runes that made her strong. I know where they are—I sailed with the crazy bitch.” She turned to him and looked him straight in the eye. Valgard found himself wishing that she had a knife to his throat instead. “Do you think you’re strong enough, Healer?”
“I—I . . . ,” he stammered.
To his surprise, Thora’s face softened. “You’re stronger than you know,” she said. “You’re stronger than they know. And I think you always have been.”
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Valgard stared at her. His head struggled to make sense of it, but his heart flew. She understood him. She said the words he’d never spoken. She saw who he was.
“I . . . am strong enough,” he said.
“I know,” she purred. Valgard swallowed and pushed distracting thoughts away. “You need to get to the cave.” She pointed toward the hillside, toward the black spot on the white that suddenly looked so obvious. “I won’t go with you. My survival depends on Botolf believing that I’ll never leave his side. You’ll have to speak your own case, and I will not be able to support you or recognize you. Do you understand?”
Valgard nodded. “I do.” He took Thora’s hands. “Thank you.”
She looked at him then, her eyes filled with wisdom and mirth. “No, Valgard. Thank you. Just remember who your friends are, hm? Now go inside. Your shift is up, and they’ll come looking.”
He turned to face the longhouse and struggled to sharpen his thoughts. Visions of power, strength, and victory swirled in his head. He staggered toward the stripe of light around the door, and soon man-shapes came into view. He raised a hard; they did likewise.
When he entered the longhouse, he blinked and shook his head. Somehow Thora had made it back before him and was now deep in conversation with Botolf. Valgard tried to comprehend how fast she’d need to be to have managed that, but his mind warped at the thought.
“—Your spot?” He became aware of a presence close to him. A big, thick-necked man, one of Hakon’s, was talking to him. “Where’s your spot?”
“Down by the channel, between the two huts,” Valgard muttered.
The man left, muttering some less than complimentary descriptions of southerners.
A clear thought popped into Valgard’s head: rest. He’d need rest. He had a big day tomorrow.
It could hardly be called a dawn. The night just became slightly less determined, slightly less oppressive. A couple of rays of light with the best of intentions could be discerned over the mountains, creeping interminably slowly across the peaks and slicing through the bleak blackness of the ocean.
Blood Will Follow Page 23