‘At least ten. There could have been more. I didn’t count.’ The friar shuddered but did not seem to notice. Wearing a simple brown robe with fresh rips, he looked likely to collapse on the spot. The left side of his face was covered with bruises and his shoes were badly torn. ‘They came at dusk. Howled like wolves, they did. Creatures out of the very pit of Hell, abominations on our Lord’s earth.’ He made the sign of the cross. ‘All with the claws of the evil one on their necks. Axes and swords and the green fire of the devil himself—’
‘Spare me your Christ-babble.’ Sigurd shook his hand dismissively. ‘You settled in Moster, we’ve left you alone, you’ve kept to yourselves. That’s the arrangement. And now you’re here and you’d like me to believe that there is an army coming from the north.’ The man nodded. ‘An invincible army of raiders.’ The man nodded again. ‘On ten ships.’ The man nodded again, hesitant. Sigurd continued. ‘Did they have Jotuns with them, maybe? Fire-breathing giants? Was the lead ship possibly made of nails, ripped from the fingers and toes of the dead?’
To Sigurd’s right, Harald snickered and shot a glance at Thorvald on the left. The tall, wiry scout frowned back and motioned for the captain to be quiet. The friar standing in front of Sigurd scowled. ‘Don’t mock me with heathen stories of your barbarian end of days, Sigurd son of Aegir. I saw what I saw.’
‘And what would you have me do then, Friar Johann?’ Sigurd snapped. ‘Unlike you, I don’t need to move around until I find an island small enough to hold only people that agree with me. What I do need to do is keep the people of Stenvik as alive and well as I possibly can. That is why I am here’ – Sigurd slapped the solid arm of the high seat for emphasis – ‘and you’re there.’ He gestured down to Friar Johann. ‘So consider my options. What happens if you’re correct? Stenvik has maybe twelve hundred men who could hold a sword, five hundred of whom are fighters. Damn good fighters, but just five hundred. Ten ships is not much but it still means two hundred raiders, possibly three hundred.’ Sigurd motioned at Harald, who shot the friar a filthy look. ‘Do you want me to ready our twenty ships and send them to the sea searching for ghosts? For creatures from Hell?’ Sigurd gestured to Thorvald then continued: ‘Or perhaps send a party of our finest hunters to search for tracks? Should I send half my men into a battle that is at best evenly matched or send all of them out on a wild chase after a phantom raiding party, which will either leave me looking like a fool with no defences or a wise man with a score of dead brothers and warriors, sent to their deaths for your beliefs and your insistence on having your own settlement? Would you like me to decide on one of those choices?’
The friar looked down. ‘I cannot ask you to do that.’
‘No,’ Sigurd said. ‘No you damn well can’t. So why are you here, Friar Johann? And how did you get here? I am an old man, but unless memory fails me you were a member of the council and a man of name and responsibility in your settlement. Why did you not die defending your people, Johann?’
‘We do not believe in fighting,’ the friar muttered.
‘Yet you are asking me to believe in your stories of a horde of mystical northerners, raiding and ravaging just up my coast. You’re asking me to believe that they’ve somehow raised a party that has advanced within four days’ journey of Stenvik without any word getting back to anyone, and that they have razed just your little pile of rock and nothing else. And that nobody has spotted so much as a sail of theirs. I’ll tell you what I am going to do with you. I’ll—’
There was movement in the shadows behind the dais. Sven emerged, moved towards Sigurd’s seat, leaned in and whispered a few words in the chieftain’s ear.
Sigurd looked thoughtfully at the dejected friar. ‘Tell me about this so-called Devil’s Fire. It sounds like fun.’
The friar shuddered. ‘I was sleeping soundly when the screams started. When I got to my feet there was a noise … like a …’ He looked at his audience. ‘… Like a giant drawing a breath. Only it wasn’t. I went outside, and our church was on fire. And it wasn’t regular fire. It was like someone had draped our church in northern lights.’
‘They burned your roof? You Christians should be used to that by now,’ Harald smirked.
The friar turned to the burly captain as if noticing him for the first time. ‘No. Not the roof. The church.’
‘The church on Moster was built of stone, was it not?’ Sven asked.
‘Yes.’
An uneasy silence filled the room.
‘So … they set fire to the stone?’ Sigurd asked.
The friar winced at the edge in his voice. ‘I’m telling you what I saw.’
Sigurd stared at him for a long time. Finally, the chieftain leaned back in his chair. ‘You’re a lucky man, Friar Johann. My charity is such that I would happily have had your head mounted on our wall so you could scout your army of mysterious demons for yourself, but wiser men than I look to your fate. Go now, get out of my sight and try to make yourself useful somehow. Go to Einar in the old longhouse and tell him I said he should feed you.’
The friar made to speak but thought better of it, turned and walked away from the high seat. Sigurd and his men watched him leave without a word.
Silence descended upon the chieftain’s longhouse as the large wooden door closed. Sigurd seemed lost in his own thoughts. Thorvald watched him intently. Harald leaned back in his chair and stifled a yawn. The mounted weapons, elaborate tapestries and gilded wooden carvings did little to relieve the oppressive silence.
Finally, Sigurd spoke.
‘So. What do you think?’
‘We cannot be certain of anything,’ Thorvald said. ‘Common robbers? Or do we think he’s telling the truth?’
‘A couple of stinking northerners decided to do away with the simpering cowards on their little island. Why do we care?’ Harald spat for emphasis. ‘Stupid place to put a church anyway, stone or no stone. I can’t say I blame whoever did it – I just hope they got loot to show for it. Less use than tits on a duck, those Christians.’
‘Still, we cannot ignore this,’ Sven said. ‘You heard the man.’ He walked off the dais and sat down by the long table that stretched almost all the way from the dais to the door.
‘I heard a lot of moaning, some nonsense about burning stone, and I saw a fat friar about to piss himself like a child. What do you mean, Sven?’ Sigurd snapped.
Sven’s voice was measured.
‘Scars of the evil one. On their necks.’
A grim silence descended.
Then Thorvald spoke.
‘He really did say that, didn’t he?’
‘Could be anyone or anything. It makes no sense,’ Harald interjected. ‘And why would he raid to the south? They’ll get nothing here. Much better to carve the belly of the pig and go west. Better loot, more women, less trouble.’
The old, bearded man shot the big sea captain a cold look. ‘And have you ever known him to be averse to a spot of trouble, Harald? We all knew that church would not sit well with the northerners.’
Sigurd sighed. ‘But why now?’
‘I don’t know, but I doubt he would move without reason,’ Sven replied.
Thorvald frowned. ‘I have heard and seen nothing of this, Sigurd. Nor has Sigmar or any of our men. You would think that word would have reached us if he was on the move, especially during market.’
Sigurd ignored the captain and the scout, looking directly at the old man. ‘What would you have done, Sven? It’s plain to see that King Olav can’t march in winter. If he waits until next summer the chieftains up north will be able to band together and give him a proper fight. He needs us as a wintering base. Would you have signed the treaty or would you have had the homestead of our fathers and our fathers’ fathers razed for being a centre for heathen worship in the west? Those were my choices.’
‘I know,’ Sven replied. ‘You did the only thing you could do. But think on this. We have already heard talk of the King sweeping across the south and east, much faster
than we thought he would last year, and he is a good eight days away. We all know by now how he rules and what he does to those who go by the old ways. Who else would stand against him?’
‘Hm.’ Sigurd’s eye was drawn to a hunting dog lying under the table, gnawing on a large bone. A half-grown bitch approached, sniffing for the meat. The big dog growled, a low, steady sound. The smaller dog slunk away with its tail between its legs.
‘Thorvald, send out three of your men. Tell them to watch, listen and stay out of sight at all costs.’ Sigurd turned to Sven. ‘Your counsel is wise as always, but I feel I have to know for myself. Even though I think anyone – even him – raiding in my back yard would be unlikely.’
‘Very unlikely,’ Harald chimed in and spat on the floor.
NORTH OF STENVIK
The two men leapt over the side of the boat. The younger one waded onto the beach carrying small packs, while the older pushed the boat off. The oarsmen deftly reversed and disappeared out of sight almost without missing a beat.
Wading to shore, Ragnar looked to the skies as he’d done every single time at the start of a mission since Saxony, many years ago. He’d learned then that a man who looks for rain going in doesn’t get stuck in mud coming out. Clouds were gathering in the north, much as he had expected. They were still white, but given time they’d grow thick and grey. He shivered. In front of him Oraekja was already opening packs, taking out dry boots, trousers and animal skins.
‘The moon will be full soon,’ he muttered to himself.
‘She said—’ Oraekja piped up.
‘I know full well what she said,’ Ragnar snapped, cutting him off and turning away. He started his preparations in silence and allowed his mind to roam, ignoring the youngster. He had led advance parties for raids more times than he wanted to remember and sometimes he felt he should count each of his forty-two years twice. He felt old, and he certainly had the scars and the bald spots to prove it. He hadn’t told anyone, but recently he had aches and pains to match. He had always been a scout – slim, light, quick and slightly below average height – not the best for a wild charge but just right for slipping in under cover of darkness and doing the dirty work. And it had been all right, too, in the old days. Back then you knew what it was about. It was different now. Had been ever since she came along. Suddenly everyone jumped to her tune, even his very own brother. He could understand that the men were frightened of her – he’d seen what she could do with her fire and her spells – but he’d never seen his older brother afraid of anything. She just seemed to … own him. And on top of that she’d saddled him with the puppy – Oraekja. The boy was obviously smitten with her, but Ragnar could not help but feel that the little runt was a bit … different. He didn’t look like much, but he moved and listened well. There was something about his eyes, though. They were always glancing, looking, scanning, moving. One of them would slide to the side from time to time. Ragnar hated to admit it, but the boy made him uneasy. He could just about sneak and fight, sure enough – but Oraekja had none of the sense. The kind of sense that got you out of trouble before you got yourself into it. The kind of sense that was telling Ragnar in no uncertain terms how this particular mission was going to go. ‘Fenrir take their bones. All of them,’ he muttered to himself, spat on the ground and turned to the young man.
‘Right, puppy,’ he said in a voice laced with menace. ‘Ready?’
The fervour in the boy’s eyes worried him.
‘Yes.’
He motioned for quiet and pointed towards the treeline, towards the road he knew would be within walking distance from the beach. They set off, moving in tandem and looking exactly like two hunters heading to market.
Underneath the bundle of skins strapped to his side, Ragnar could feel the cold, hard fire-steel against his hip.
STENVIK
The sounds of children running, shouting and playing outside in the crisp morning air were anything but joyous to Valgard, hunched over his workbench. In his head they still pursued him, after all this time. The memory of their faces, feral and twisted in cruel anticipation, exploded in his head, their cries cutting him to the bone even now.
A tingling sensation spread from the back of his head. His heart started beating faster, harder. Tremors shook his shoulders and his breath caught in his throat. ‘No,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Not now. No. No. No.’ He could feel the muscles in his back locking. The cramps spread to his hips, down to his legs. His hands twisted and turned, resembling the claws of a tortured bird.
Gritting his teeth through the spreading pain, he thought of the pond. A quiet pond surrounded by tall trees and steeped in dark, green shadows in the middle of a forest. He envisioned the surface of the pond swelling slowly, a horrific beast rising from the depths. Around it, birds took off from nearby trees and cried out in warning. He imagined himself, powerful and muscle-bound, vibrant and strong, stepping out of the forest, striding towards the water’s edge and spreading his hands. Breathing slowly, he halted the rising of the water with the power of his mind. The beast snarled and strained against him, scales and teeth and a baleful, malicious eye visible under the translucent sheen of the water.
He regained control.
Slowly, the beast retreated back down into the dark waters, and Valgard came back from the lake in his mind to the workbench in his hut. He had to use the left hand to pry the right away from the edge, where white knuckles had grabbed hold and would not let go on their own.
‘Not now,’ he mumbled as cold sweat broke out on his forehead. ‘Not now. Maybe later, but not now.’
Shaking out the pain from his hands, he swallowed and composed himself, dried the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve and turned his attention to the workbench.
An array of jars, bowls and bags were arranged in a seemingly haphazard fashion about the surface, but there was a very particular system to it. His system. There had to be. You had to have access to the right things and in the right amounts, or the results would be … unfortunate. Spectacularly so in some cases, he mused. A healer that didn’t know his plants was no healer at all. At the time he had seized the idea of plant study just to get away from the other children and their relentless attacks, but he had to admit the old man had taught him well. He’d taught him all he knew about plants, in fact. This was why some of the plants on the table would have to be stored elsewhere, because if his mentor saw them there would be questions. Questions that Valgard had no interest in answering.
He clambered down from his stool and shuffled over to the doorway, stinging pains in his back reminding him of how close that had been. Wincing, he peered outside. A quick look satisfied him that he would have his privacy for a little while longer. Moving back over to the workbench, he quickly collected the bowls and bags that he needed. The wooden figurine stared at him impassively. ‘Shut up,’ he snapped, and turned the figure so that it faced away from the workbench.
He crawled under the bench, reached behind a bundle of wood and pulled out a small, intricately carved box. He made sure everything was in its place, felt for the plants, felt for the cool touch of metal, deposited the ingredients and returned the box to its hiding place. ‘Just in case,’ he muttered. ‘Just in case.’
Straightening up again, he sat down at the workbench. His hands started working seemingly of their own accord, tidying and ordering as he had been taught to do.
His brow furrowed in concentration as he gauged the situation. He knew full well what he wanted and how he was going to make it happen. He was going to make Harald the chieftain of Stenvik, whether the stinking brute liked it or not. Then he’d be Harald’s councillor and no one would ignore him. The foreigners were an interesting twist, though. Surely there must be some way of making that work in his favour. Speed things up a little.
He frowned and wondered if he’d made the right move.
There were many pieces on the board.
*
As his heart threatened to burst out of his chest, Ulfar’s brai
n scrambled to catch up.
‘Erm … thank you for the directions yesterday,’ he mumbled. Houses. He was in town somewhere, but he was not quite sure where. They were standing on a walkway between some sturdy wooden houses. Better than the ones outside the walls, anyway. He’d been staring at the ground, had rounded a corner and almost walked into her. Her curves led his eyes up a simple, light blue apron dress fastened with an elegant silver and black brooch, but now he could see nothing but eyes. Eyes that flickered between grey and blue, scrutinizing him, reading information out of every detail of his face.
He felt the heat spreading on his cheeks and realized to his horror that he was blushing. Embarrassment and fury sent his insides churning and he felt a little weak in the knees. He looked back at her.
She wore a crown of thick red hair, flowing in wild and unruly curls that seemed to leap and dance and have a life of their own, in stark contrast to her smooth and unblemished skin, the line of her jaw, her lips. Only her eyes seemed alive and seeking, the rest of her face could have been carved in marble. But the eyes looked at him and through him and he felt stripped of everything but the one thing he had to know.
‘What is your name?’ He blurted it out and wanted to kick himself. What is your name? What was he, twelve? What next? Run away and giggle? He was getting worse than Geiri, and he cursed himself inwardly for his own stupidity. Around them, Stenvik life eddied and swirled, taking little note of two young people talking.
Ulfar saw nothing but her.
He felt the ground slip away from him, so much so that he had to look down to make sure it was still there. Where were his words? Even her shoes were pretty, Bragi be damned. Her foot was pretty. The hem of her skirt was pretty. He felt as big as a field mouse, and made to turn away when a quiet voice broke the awkward silence.
‘Lilia.’
His heart stopped for a beat, then restarted with a flush of blood to his whole body. Stars burst inside him, and her name rang out in his head. Lilia. He turned and looked up at her.
The Valhalla Saga 01 - Swords of Good Men Page 4