‘Do they have any family here?’
‘… What?’
In his mind, he heard the click-clack as the pieces moved.
‘The pig farmer and his kin. The people who started all this. Do they have any family here?’
‘How the hell should I know that? Do you think I asked? Hello, I’m going to beat the shit out of you, do you have any uncles in Stenvik? Don’t be stupid,’ Harald snapped.
‘Think, Harald,’ Valgard snapped back and turned, eyes ablaze. Harald stared dumbly at him. ‘Think. Do they have any family?’
‘You keep asking me! I don’t know! What does it matter?’
‘Because if they don’t have any family … then who is going to miss them?’ Valgard left the sentence hanging in the air but kept his eyes locked on Harald’s. He watched as the thought was born in the brute’s head; saw the expression on that big dumb face turn from hurt to comprehension to malice.
‘So you’re saying …’
‘I’m not saying anything. But sometimes simple country folk get scared in a big town and just run off home. As if they’d …’
‘… disappeared,’ Harald finished, whispering. The grin had spread to his eyes now. ‘Valgard, you are a true friend.’
‘Thank you. Now have a word with your boys. We’ll see what happens tonight.’
Harald rose, an oversized troll of a figure in his little hut.
‘Will do, Valgard. Now, do you have my mixture?’
‘I do.’ Valgard put the cork in the flask, heart thumping in his chest, and took a leap.
‘But first, Harald.’
Harald’s eyes darkened, his hand stretched out for the flask.
‘What?’
‘I know you. Have done for a long time. And I know it’s hard for you to control your moods. But try and go a little easier on Lilia for a couple of days.’
‘Are you telling me what to do, Valgard?’ Harald’s voice was a mixture of doubt, confusion and disbelief.
Now or never.
‘Do you think I’m an idiot?’ Valgard hissed. Harald recoiled and he pressed the attack. ‘Do you think I’d ever give you an order? Do I look like a fool?’ Valgard swung the bottle around for emphasis, feeling Harald’s worried eyes on it.
‘I just want you to think, Harald. If you hurt Lilia more now, she will break. If she breaks, Sven will take her. If he sees what you’ve done to her already’ – Harald winced – ‘he will tell Sigurd. And everyone else. Do you want that to happen?’
Harald shook his head.
Valgard nodded slowly.
‘So … ?’
‘Don’t hurt Lilia,’ Harald repeated as if in a trance.
Valgard handed him the bottle.
‘Now go. We’ll see about tonight.’
WYRMSEY
Skargrim looked at the camps. Fires had gone up with the setting sun, casting flickering shadows over ships and men. Sixty-three ships, raid-hardened crews. Nineteen hundred men quietly attending to their murderous tools. By themselves, each of those crews would inspire fear in anyone. He’d gathered a host that the whole of the north would deem legendary if they knew it existed.
Which they would, soon enough.
This time he saw Skuld approach. He suspected it was because she let him. She stopped a respectful distance away and inclined her head. ‘You have done well, Skargrim. The gods are pleased.’
He smiled a tired smile. ‘They’d better be. This is a host worthy of Valhalla, with tempers to match.’
‘I know. Rest, my brave captain.’ She placed a delicate hand on his arm and looked in his eyes.
‘I … will.’ Skargrim felt her fingers like delicious fire. Sweet weariness spread through his whole body, and his knees threatened to buckle.
Summoning up the last of his strength, he turned towards their camp.
‘Wait.’
Before he realized what had happened, he’d turned around. A brief twinge of pain on his chin brought confusion to his sleep-addled brain, but then she touched his arm again and everything was good.
‘Go now. Sleep.’
Skargrim turned around again and staggered towards the camp.
She watched him leave.
As he disappeared among the men, her gaze travelled upward, to the stars, and she started speaking in a soft, low voice.
You who are darkness
Swift and cunning
Move like the north wind
Old and wily
Drift on the wings
Of the wandering spirit
See all and know all
Come to your mistress.
She waited.
A faint sound on the wind turned into the flutter of wings. A large raven landed by her feet and cocked its head at her. She looked it straight in its sparkling black eyes, all the while rubbing together her thumb and index finger. Her voice quieted down to a whisper, and she offered her hand to the raven.
In it was a single, coarse, grey hair. The raven hopped towards her, nudged her with its head and plucked the hair from her hand.
The big black bird shot up into the air with the hair in its beak and streaked eastward into the night.
STENVIK
The words echoed in Lilia’s head.
Don’t move.
Don’t move.
She’d pushed everything else out, allowing just enough space for those words, repeated again and again.
Her body screamed at her, but she didn’t listen.
Don’t. Move.
She lay on her side, curled up into a ball. Everything hurt. Her scalp, where he’d pulled her hair. Her lips, where he’d bitten them. The salve that Valgard had applied on her back felt like cool breath on the burning skin, but it was not nearly enough. Harald had been nothing if not meticulous with the leather strap. The splints on her little fingers only framed the dull throbbing. She could picture his face all too well as he’d broken them. He’d come home furious about something, furious and miserable.
She hadn’t given him the pleasure of seeing her cry.
Instead she’d gritted her teeth and hid inside the stone woman, closed her heart to the world. She’d watched as his expression changed from anger to anguish.
He’d tried to take her but he had been limp, unmanned. And thinking back, she realized, he’d been afraid. Desperately afraid.
Right then, somewhere in her, something changed.
She shifted and lay down on her back.
Pain exploded like a blossoming flower in her head, filled her senses.
The tears came, flowed hot and silent.
She embraced them, embraced the pain. Wielded it, moulded it and relished it. She shaped it into a hammer and hefted it. She swung it with all her might at the stone woman, the granite prison all around her.
It bounced off, but so did a chip of stone.
Fuelled by the pain, by the soaring sensation of it, she swung again. The hammer smashed into the stone woman, sending a jarring blow through her arms up into her shoulders, making her teeth tingle.
Just before she lost consciousness, she saw the crack forming on the inside of the stone woman, reaching from head to heart.
*
Oraekja yawned. They’d been sitting and waiting since sunset. This could hardly get more boring. And Ragnar wasn’t one for idle chatter.
He just sat there, completely still.
It was quite unnerving how he could do that, just sit down and stop moving. Oraekja was almost sure he stopped breathing as well. He’d watched with incredulity as the damned old goat seemed to melt into the background.
Oraekja jumped when the raven landed in front of him.
Ragnar was on his feet. His voice was calm.
‘Right, puppy. That is our signal.’
As quickly as it had landed, the raven took off again.
*
The old longhouse was full of people. Valgard had to watch the entrance carefully, but he spotted them at last.
‘Fellows! Over here!’
All he got in return was a matching set of guarded looks from the two bruised and battered farmers. He waved them over nonetheless.
‘Come on, lads. Have a seat.’
The red-faced one looked at him with suspicion. ‘Why do you want us to sit with you?’
‘Are you in a position to choose?’ Valgard countered. The sound of a heated quarrel drifted towards them from the far end of the longhouse. The farmer was about to start arguing when his cousin pushed him towards the table. ‘Shut up and sit. I’ll go get drink.’
‘Better, better,’ Valgard smiled. ‘I just wanted you to know that your kinsman is recovering as well as could be hoped, even better. Our goddess of medicine is surely watching over him.’
The red-faced one scowled. ‘Never should have needed to in the first place.’
‘You’re right, of course. I—’
‘Hate this place,’ he sneered, daring anyone and everyone to object.
Valgard decided silence might be the best course of action. Luckily, the fat cousin soon appeared with three mugs of mead. ‘Ah, the saviour of parched throats. Sit and talk.’
‘About what?’ the red-faced farmer mumbled.
‘I reckon you have a good chance at damages.’
‘Do we?’ The fat one’s face lit up.
‘Don’t be an idiot,’ his cousin snapped. ‘That bastard Harald has friends all over this town. We have no chance.’
Little do you know, thought Valgard. He felt for the satchel on his hip, felt reassured by the shape. ‘We shall not complain, though. That does no good. For now, let’s drink to our health – and your kinsman’s! As Eir is my witness, I tell you his health will soon be like it’s never been before!’
The fat one smiled at that, while the other one frowned. Valgard did his best to down the sour ale. ‘Come on now – you’re not going to let a shrivelled town boy like myself drink you strong country men onto the floor?’ he managed to splutter between gulps. The red-faced farmer took to his ale with belligerent enthusiasm.
Soon their mugs were empty.
Valgard shot a look at red-face. ‘You or me?’
‘Much like cock-rot, rather you than me,’ he shot back.
Valgard raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘You have a way with words! I think you’re right. My turn now – you’ll go later.’ With that he left the table with mugs in hand and a sour taste in his mouth.
NORTH-EAST OF STENVIK
The raven flew like a black arrow to its target, a hillside strewn with moss-covered boulders and pines leaning at strange angles, reaching up to the starry night sky.
It landed in a clearing and hopped two steps forward, blinking and cocking its head as if listening in on a silent conversation.
Suddenly its head snapped round. It beat its big wings and pulled towards the air, towards the stars.
Too late.
The knife took it in the chest, whipped it sideways and pinned it to the trunk of a pine, killing it instantly.
Moments later a man emerged from the shadows and walked across the clearing without making a sound. With the practised movements of a hunter he pulled the knife free and wiped it clean on his old, ragged clothes. Behind him two big, burly men stepped into the clearing.
‘Good shot,’ one of them mumbled.
‘’s always a good shot,’ the other replied.
‘Always.’
‘Maybe next time something bigger, though. Like a … bigger bird.’
The man with the knife smiled. ‘Now now, boys. You’ll have your fill again. We fed well tonight; we’ll do so again tomorrow. This’ll keep you happy for a while.’ He tossed the bird to the two lumbering men, who set to tearing it apart with their hands. ‘That’s our signal. When you’re done, go tell the others.’ Grunted assent was mixed in with sounds of teeth crunching brittle bones. The man sheathed the knife, untied a leather strap from his wrist and tied up his dirty, matted hair into a loose ponytail. ‘It’s time,’ he said quietly.
STENVIK
Valgard took a hearty swig of the mug in his left hand, passing the two mugs in his right to the two cousins. ‘Round two!’ he declared and set to finishing his ale. The others did their best to keep up. Soon the mugs were empty again.
‘Right. Your turn,’ Valgard said jovially to the red-faced man. Seeing the frown on his cousin’s face, the fat one quickly volunteered, staggering towards the pots for more mead. ‘They pack a fair bit of punch into this piss,’ red-face slurred.
‘They do,’ Valgard concurred. ‘About as much as you deserve, I reckon.’
The farmer nodded, his face flushed. An awkward silence settled until his cousin staggered back, mugs in hand. ‘Round three.’
‘In fact, boys, I think I have had enough. I declare myself defeated. Share mine if you want. I bid you farewell.’ Valgard stood up and made for the door, vaguely conscious of a disinterested wave.
The night air was mercifully cooling on his skin. The full moon cast dancing shadows. Some of them seemed a little deeper than they should be. Maybe it was the mead.
And maybe not.
Valgard headed home and willed himself not to look over his shoulder.
NORTH OF STENVIK
Sigmar had smelled it for a while now. It had met them in the forests a mile downwind from here and grown stronger as they got closer. A mixture of things, and he couldn’t quite tell them apart. They had made good time up through Birkedal, but seen nothing. In fact they’d seen nothing at all, which was odd. They should have met someone or seen some kind of evidence of humans. But there was nothing. Now, approaching Gard by moonlight, they’d been slowing down.
Something was not right.
Cresting the hill overlooking the fields of Gard, the smell hit him like a wave.
It smelled like burning wood. It smelled like blood.
He looked down on the big farmhouse, saw the tendrils of smoke. Saw the yard.
The air smelled like roasting flesh.
STENVIK
Ulfar blinked.
The light in the hut was fading.
Geiri.
What?
Where was he?
Find Geiri.
He stumbled to his feet and staggered out. The stars twinkled above him. Clouds drifted past the moon, bathing his path in a silvery ghost-light. He staggered across the quiet walkways towards the healer’s hut, still more asleep than awake. When he got there he found Audun the blacksmith still on the same spot, eyes trained on Geiri’s sleeping form. As the smith made to rise, their eyes met. Ulfar nodded and helped the stocky man to his feet, but just as Audun got up they heard the scream.
‘FIRE!!!’
STENVIK
Ragnar was no more than a shadow gliding silently across the moonlit walkway. Oraekja watched him open the gate and step inside. Moments later, he led an obedient old draft horse out of the enclosure.
He had to admit it. Despite the old man’s stupidity and arrogance he moved well. So let him sneak and skulk. Lookout would do fine for tonight. Watch, melt into the shadows and disappear at the first sign of trouble. Oraekja smirked in the darkness. ‘No they won’t catch you. No, they won’t. We’ll see about that, old man,’ he muttered as he moved to join Ragnar.
They led the horse quietly past the huts and towards the harbour. The old man had found the spot earlier on one of his many walks, a darkened corner between some storage shacks. Apparently it was not visible from the walls – not that Oraekja had ever seen any of the guards Ragnar kept mentioning.
When they got there, a long rod and an armful of thatch lay on the ground waiting for them.
Ragnar started stroking and soothing the old horse, muttering in his ear all the while. Moving slowly, he produced a short, solid club from the folds of his tunic, raised it and brought it down with all his might on the back of the horse’s head, killing it instantly.
Oraekja had to hop away to avoid the falling body, which hit the ground with a muted thump. Ragnar was already crouching. H
e jerked the old nag’s head back, exposing the neck. Then he produced a skinning knife from somewhere and sliced into its throat. Soon the ground was painted with streams of blood. Amazingly, Ragnar had managed to escape without as much as a stain. As the flow slowed to a trickle the old scout started cutting into the flesh around the neck with the skinning knife. He worked quickly, carving a path to the neck joints.
*
‘You never were as much of a man as your father, I always said,’ the red-faced farmer slurred, leaning on a fencepost behind the longhouse for balance.
Standing next to him, his fat cousin heaved and gasped for breath. ‘Shut … up,’ he managed before another surge of bile filled his mouth.
The annoyed farmer breathed in, nostrils flaring and eyes widening. He breathed out again, slowly, and swallowed. ‘I’m fine,’ he added. ‘I’m not being sick like a little runny-ass girl.’
‘Shut up, you …’ his cousin doubled over again, a hacking cough sending up the remaining contents of his stomach.
‘Shut up, shut up. Why don’t you shut up so you stop’ – the red-faced farmer held his hand to his mouth, burped and winced – ‘spewing like a child, you wet-arse?’
Behind them the shadows changed shape.
*
Oraekja had to strain not to vomit.
It was filthy work.
The blood stank. The carcass stank. By now, Ragnar had finished the first stage and was on to the next, skinning knife in hand, sack at the ready. Oraekja busied himself tying together bundles of hay and touchwood from the pouch.
Soft, squelching sounds.
Ragnar’s voice was calm and measured. ‘Make sure you don’t get blood on your clothes. When the time comes we’ll be walking out of here.’
Oraekja chose not to look at him. The smell was bad enough.
And then they were done. Two full sacks, a pole almost half again the length of a man, and three touchwood bundles for each of them. Ragnar moved first, ducking between two shacks and looking towards the harbour. The square and jetty were dusted in silvery moonlight, almost as bright as day. Oraekja looked over Ragnar’s shoulder and swore under his breath.
The Valhalla Saga 01 - Swords of Good Men Page 11