You Die When You Die

by Angus Watson

  She was being sensible, fleeing the battle. There was no shame in running away from certain death. If any of the idiots running towards the fight had seen how many Scraylings had come across Olaf’s Fresh Sea, they’d have fled, too.

  She arrived at the blacksmith’s at the same time as Rangvald the Lawsayer and his son Chnob the White—father and brother of Thyri Treelegs. Thank Fray Thyri wasn’t with them. These two weaklings she could deal with.

  Frossa didn’t have a great deal of pity to spare—few people had had it as hard as her, after all—but she did feel a glint of sympathy for Thyri. Her mother had died when she was young and ever since her father Rangvald had put her down at every turn, all the while glorifying the useless Chnob, who joined in demeaning his sister whenever he could. This happened often in public and Frossa guessed it was worse in private. Frossa did not like the girl, but she could not deny that Thyri had reacted well to her father’s constant belittlement, by becoming a bold, ambitious young woman and first female member of the Hird. Her father and brother’s regular reproaches may have resulted in a positive outcome, but Frossa doubted very much that had been their plan. No. They were weak, nasty, small men, jealous of a more capable woman, even if, or perhaps because of the fact that she was one’s daughter and the other’s little sister.

  “What are you doing?” she asked them. “Why aren’t you fighting with the others?”

  “Oh, drop your pretence for a second,” said Rangvald. “I can see through you. You’re here to hide in the cellar just like we are. But there’s only room for two. Well, three normal sized people, but there’s no way your stinking bulk is going to fit with us and we got here first. So fuck off.”

  Frossa strode up to Rangvald and whacked Kimaman’s stone axe into his forehead as if it was a hammer, Rangvald a wooden post and she was trying to bury a nail with one hard, well-placed hit. The attack was so unexpected that Rangvald didn’t even raise his arms. So he could see through her, could he? thought Frossa as Rangvald the Lawsayer’s eyes crossed and he fell.

  Chnob the White was already on the other side of the heavy work table, gripping its sides and ready to flee.

  “We two can fit down there,” he gasped. “I won’t tell anybody what you did to Dad. If anyone else survives I’ll tell them I saw a Scrayling kill him, then I made you hide in the cellar with me so that you could tend to the wounded after the battle. If nobody else survives you’ll have a better chance of staying alive with me to help. I’ll be able to hunt and forage and fish and fetch water … Please don’t kill me. Let’s hide together.”

  The idea of cramming into the cellar with Chnob and his big beard did not appeal, but the points he made were good, and she knew he was far too cowardly and self-interested to avenge his murdered father.

  “All right. Help me with the hatch.”

  Finnbogi dug his heels into the earth and windmilled his arms to halt his pell-mell sprint along the rutted woodland road. Fisk ran into his back and nearly knocked him over.

  “What are you doing? I could have speared you!”

  “Sorry.”

  They’d just passed the overgrown track that ran between the roads from Hardwork to the church and the farm. Poppo had taught Finnbogi rudimentary tracking and he could tell from the fresh broken foliage around the edge of the track that someone had passed that way recently.

  He headed down the narrow path, beckoning for Fisk to follow, hardly slowing despite the clinging leaves and twigs. He was so worried about Freydis and Ottar that he didn’t even mind if he ripped his best striped trousers. He hacked at dangly, head-height branches with his sax as he ran.

  “Come out, come out! You can’t hide for ever!” That was Garth’s voice, up ahead. Finnbogi held up a hand, slowed, jogging now as quietly as he could along the vegetation-choked trail, Fisk tripping along behind him.

  They burst out of the trees and into a meadow of long grass, dotted with a few spindly young trees here and there. It was an old field that had been part of Sassa Lipchewer’s farm but was now abandoned to nature.

  Garth was off to the left, holding something large, furry and white in one hand.

  “Garth!” shouted Finnbogi. “What are you doing?”

  The big man strode over. For a moment Finnbogi thought he was about to whack him with what he could now see was a big white bear’s paw, but then he seemed to spot Fisk and decide not to. He flung the paw into the long grass.

  “What was that?” Finnbogi asked. “What are you doing? Have you seen Ottar and Freydis?”

  Garth looked at Finnbogi’s bloodied blade. “Never mind that, what have you been doing?”

  “Nothing much. Killed a Scrayling. Wasn’t a big deal.”

  “You? Killed a Scrayling? Was it a child?”

  “No. A warrior. They raided the church. I don’t know why. Poppo, Alvilda and Brenna are dead.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah. I got there in time to save Gunnhild. But why didn’t you come? What are you doing here?”

  “Hello, Finnbogi the Boggy,” said Freydis, as she and Ottar stood up from the long grass five paces away.

  Garth glared at them. Freydis looked at the big man as if he were a cauldron of water and she was trying to make him boil by staring at him. Ottar smiled and knocked his elbows together.

  Finnbogi looked from the children to Garth and back again. What had been happening here? Why by Loakie’s tits had Garth broken off from the Hird mission to the farm to chase the children with a bear’s paw?

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “We were playing,” said Garth, sounding about as playful as plague.

  Ottar pointed angrily at Garth and shook his head.

  “What happened, Freydis?” asked Finnbogi.

  “Garth Anvilchin was pretending to be a bear and chasing us. It was fun.”

  “Naaaah!” said Ottar, shaking his head.

  “Ottar doesn’t agree.”

  “He does. He says things differently. Now come on, we have to go and bury Poppo Whitetooth, Alvilda the Aloof and Brenna the Shy.”

  “How do you know they’re dead?” asked Fisk.

  “Finnbogi the Boggy said, when you got here.”

  “Ah.”

  The far-off note of the Hardwork trumpet sounded through the woods.

  “There’s trouble in town,” said Garth.

  “Of course there’s trouble in town,” Freydis shook her head. “Did you not listen to Ottar’s prophecy?”

  Garth turned and ran.

  “Hurry!” Freydis shouted at Garth’s back.

  Finnbogi looked down at Freydis. She met his gaze with disturbing equanimity.

  “What should we do now?” Finnbogi heard himself asking the six-year-old girl.

  Sassa gasped as she ran through the gates behind Wulf the Fat, Keef the Berserker, Bjarni Chickenhead and Thyri Treelegs. Doors were smashed, walls split, thatch on fire and Hardworker and Scrayling dead everywhere.

  She bent down to close the eyes of Thorval, then man who’d taught her to sew. His mouth was open and one hand gripping the arrow lodged in his heart.

  “No time for that yet,” said Wulf, touching her shoulder. “Listen.”

  There were shouts from up ahead.

  The five of them crept along, weapons ready, towards Olaf’s Square.

  As they approached, a voice rang out in a strange accent: “Kimaman is dead, as are many more. We will mourn later, but now let us carry out Ayanna’s orders. We will burn the Mushroom Men’s buildings and scatter their ashes in the Lake of the Retrieving Sturgeon.”

  “Not while I’m alive, you won’t!” shouted Thyri Treelegs, sprinting into the square with her sax aloft, shield bouncing on her back.

  Wulf, Keef and Bjarni ran after her, roaring.

  Sassa swallowed then followed.

  There were maybe twenty Scraylings in Olaf’s Square. The nearest one was staggering, clutching his severed throat as Thyri ran on, blood dripping from her blade.

&nb
sp; The other Scraylings gathered to meet her. Sassa closed her eyes. Surely the girl couldn’t take on so many?

  “Back, Thyri!” shouted Wulf. “Four-man diamond formation!” He looked about. The only visible Scraylings were up ahead. “Sassa, stay here, shout if you’re in trouble.”

  Treelegs dashed back, Scraylings at her heels.

  The three men advanced, Keef leading, Wulf behind him to the left, Bjarni behind Wulf to his right. Thyri took her place next to Wulf, making the right-most point of the diamond.

  The Scraylings came at them with axes, spears and knives. The four Hird advanced. The raiders charged from every direction with yells and courage but no tactics. This might have worked against the untrained townspeople, but against the tightly synchronised Hird it was suicide. Bjarni’s sword, Keef’s axe, Thyri’s sax and Wulf’s hammer swung and sliced and crushed and killed Scrayling after Scrayling.

  Two bowmen appeared on the far side of the square and took aim at the Hird, but couldn’t get a clear shot. Sassa raised her own bow, drew, aimed, hesitated, thought of her murdered family, and loosed. One bowman fell. The other spotted Sassa. Instead of shooting, he dropped his bow, pulled a flint knife from its scabbard and ran at her. She strung another arrow and shot. Her arrow went well wide and he kept coming, screaming an ululating war cry.

  There was no time to string another arrow. She tried to shout for Wulf but no sound came. He was right on her. She dropped her bow and held her hands in front of her face.

  Something swished over her head.

  She opened her eyes.

  The Scrayling was headless, blood spurting from his neck. He toppled as Garth ran past her to join the others, axes in both hands, blood dripping from one of them.

  ‘Mini swine five-man formation!” shouted Wulf. They switched about so that there were two at the front and three at the back. The Scraylings were warier now, holding back. The Hird advanced.

  Sassa shot one more Scrayling during the battle. The five Hird slaughtered the rest.

  Chapter 15

  Foe Slicer

  Finnbogi the Boggy, Fisk the Fish and the children reached the main path as Gurd Girlchaser ran down from the church.

  “Get back up there, Boggy, help your mother with Hrolf. Fisk, you come with me,” ordered Gurd, breathing hard, eyes looking all the bluer in his bright red face.

  Finnbogi nodded at Ottar and Freydis to follow him up the path to help Gunnhild because he wanted to, not because Gurd had told him to. And she wasn’t his mother.

  Fisk and Gurd ran off through the woods towards Hardwork.

  Gunnhild had fixed Hrolf the Painter’s jaw back in place and tied a scarf under it. The injured man’s eyes were slits and he was cooing like a bereaved pigeon.

  Aunt Gunnhild prepared food for all of them while Finnbogi used an iron spade from the old world to dig graves for Uncle Poppo, his daughters and Frood the Silent. It was hard work, but the mundane exercise certainly beat thinking.

  Gunnhild told Ottar to help with the graves but the boy sat, rocking and looking in turn at Hrolf and the corpses of Frood, Poppo, Brenna and Alvilda. Somebody should probably have looked after him but everyone was busy. Freydis sat with Hrolf, telling him every saga that she’d ever heard. Finnbogi almost told her to stop—Hrolf was in no mood to be listening to stories—but actually her babbling little voice lent an air of calm normality to the otherwise horrible task of burying his kind (until the end at least) adoptive father and sort-of sisters.

  Finnbogi avoided looking at them as he dragged them into the graves and set up the holy water tubes. He was just doing a job.

  It was only when he started to cover them in soil that he looked at Poppo, Brenna and Alvilda’s faces and found himself weeping. Ottar came and hugged him on one side, Freydis joined on the other. He put his arms round them both and the three of them stood and cried. Maybe death was fated, maybe everyone died when they died, but it still felt like someone had rammed a spear into his guts and was twisting it.

  “Enough of that,” said Gunnhild, emerging from the church with an armful of supplies. “There’s work to be done.”

  “I thought Krist lovers mourned the dead? Don’t you care about them?” Finnbogi said.

  Gunnhild gave him a look that would have curdled a sea of milk and Finnbogi wished he could have swallowed his words. “They are not dead. They are alive with Krist, in a better place. To mourn them would be selfish and weak.” Gunnhild’s eyes brimmed with tears. “Cattle die, kin die, we die; fair fame of he who has earned it never dies,” she blurted, then dashed back into the church.

  After the door banged shut, Finnbogi heard running footsteps coming up the path towards them.

  “Hide,” he hissed to the children as he pulled his sax from its scabbard. He held it with both hands and stood, shaking a little. He’d protect the children, Gunnhild and injured Hrolf, with his life if necessary. He gulped. He’d heard so many different ideas about where you went when you died—Olaf’s Hall, Gefjon’s Hall, Tor’s Hall and plenty more, as well as Krist’s Haven. He wasn’t keen to find out where he was going to end up just yet.

  Whoever it was, he was coming quickly. Finnbogi gripped the hilt of his sax and took a step back.

  Thyri Treelegs leapt from the trees, sax in one hand, shield on her back, eyes aflame. She was in her breechcloth and short leather jerkin, soaked in blood. Her raven-black hair was matted with gore. She looked amazing.

  “It’s you!” said Finnbogi, happy as he’d been all day.

  He dropped his blade and hugged her. It wasn’t the greatest hug, due to Thyri’s shield and her hands held up between them.

  Thyri asked what the situation was and Finnbogi told her. She examined Hrolf, nodding at the bandages.

  When Gunnhild emerged from the church, Thyri asked them all to sit down. She had something to tell them.

  “The Calnians have killed almost everyone in Hardwork, and at the farm.”

  “What?” Finnbogi couldn’t believe it. “Jarl Brodir?”

  “Everyone, apart from Frossa the Deep Minded, Chnob the White, Sassa Lipchewer, Bodil Gooseface and all the Hird, apart from Frood the Silent.

  Finnbogi nodded.

  “How did you and the other Hird survive?” asked Gunnhild.

  “Jarl Brodir sent us to investigate the fires here and at the farm. It’s clear now that they were meant as diversions. While we were away the main Calnian force attacked Hardwork. The people fought well. By the time we got back from the farm every Hardworker was dead, but so were most of the Scraylings.”

  As she spoke, Finnbogi marvelled at her. She was calm, wise, confident and ball-achingly sexy. Could she really be two years younger than him?

  “Your father?”

  “Dead.” Her expression didn’t waver.

  “How did Frossa survive?”

  “My brother Chnob and my father protected her. They wanted to keep her alive to tend to the wounded survivors. My father was killed undertaking that duty. Chnob survived.” It looked for a moment like her lip might wobble, but it remained firm. Finnbogi wondered if she was upset more by her brother’s survival than by her father’s death.

  Gunnhild did not look convinced. “Do we know why the Calnians attacked?”

  “Frossa spoke to their leader at the start of the attack. The empress of the Calnians ordered it.”

  “Why?”

  “Pale-skinned people like us will destroy the world, apparently.” Thyri shrugged. She was not much paler-skinned than a Scrayling, but she didn’t seem to know that.

  It took them an age to walk down to the town, since walking at any pace was agony for Hrolf. Finnbogi didn’t mind too much, as he’d been given an absolute ton of supplies to carry in a big leather backpack that weighed quite enough on its own before Gunnhild had stuffed it with dried meat, smoked fish, tools, a couple of blankets and Oaden knew what else. He couldn’t complain unfortunately, since Gunnhild was carrying an even larger pack as well as her clothes beater in case th
ey met any Scraylings, and even Freydis and Ottar were weighed down with supplies.

  Mostly he couldn’t complain though because Thyri was there. She wasn’t carrying anything but was supporting Hrolf, arguably the most difficult job of all, given the weight of the man and the disgusting fluids seeping from his bandages. He wasn’t quite sure that Hrolf’s hands needed to wander quite so much over Thyri’s exposed midriff and lower back; surely the man was too badly injured to be making full use of an opportunity to grope her? Finnbogi wondered for a moment if he himself would exchange having half his face smashed off for the chance to paw at Thyri’s torso for a while and thought, on balance, probably not.

  Finnbogi knew the smell of roasting human flesh from cremations, but the reek that assaulted his nostrils as they approached Hardwork was on another level.

  It became even more rank as they walked into the destroyed town and was almost overpowering by the time they reached Olaf’s Square, one end of which was a funeral pyre.

  Wulf the Fat and the rest were gathering supplies.

  When the workers spotted Gunnhild and the children, they ran over and there was much slapping of backs. Sassa Lipchewer gave Finnbogi a big hug, then helped Thyri to sit the injured Hrolf in the shade.

  Finnbogi asked Chnob how he’d survived.

  “What are you suggesting?” spat Chnob, poking a finger into Finnbogi’s chest.

  “I’m not suggesting anything, just asking how come you’re alive?”

  “How come you’re alive?”

  “I went to the farm, where I rescued Gunnhild by killing a Scrayling. So that’s my story. What’s yours?

  Chnob reddened. “I defended Frossa. The fighting drove us to the other side of town. By the time we got back to Olaf’s Square all the Scraylings were dead.”

  Now this was buffalo shit. One, weedy Chnob wouldn’t have been anybody’s choice of defender. Frossa would probably have had more of a chance without him. Two, both of them should have been in Olaf’s Square, helping the others against the Scraylings. Finnbogi knew Chnob was lying and he knew that Chnob knew that he knew it. Despite the size of his beard, Chnob had run from the fight. Finnbogi smiled.