The Valhalla Saga 01 - Swords of Good Men

by Snorri Kristjansson

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Ragnar muttered. ‘The hero may charge but the wise man …’ He looked up. ‘… waits.’

  The moonlight seemed to fade. A cloud drifted in, floating on the wind like the finest silk, draping itself across the moon. Soon another followed, and then another.

  Darkness descended on the square.

  ‘Now. Go.’

  On the walk to Stenvik they had mapped it out in detail so there was no need to ask, think or talk. Oraekja was glad of it. He just sprinted to the jetty. Ragnar went to the near end. Oraekja looked at the ships in the middle, seeking the right ones, the ones that would burn best. Ragnar picked a small, fat merchant boat hemmed in by larger ships.

  Oraekja became aware of movement out of the corner of his eye. Signalling furiously to Ragnar, he slid down into the biggest longship he could find and lay down, flattening himself against the side of the boat and clutching the bundles of thatch in his hand.

  Straining, he heard footsteps and heavy breathing. The pier creaked, the sounds coming closer and closer.

  Voices.

  ‘Which one?’ Out of breath. ‘Heh. Let’s take Ingimar’s. Never liked him. Besides, it’s next to the Drake, and nothing should be.’

  Someone spat. ‘Damn right.’

  Another man grunted. Wood creaked next to Oraekja’s ear. They were in the boat next to his. He pressed harder against the side and held his breath.

  ‘I say we cut them.’

  ‘No. No blood.’

  ‘Then what? They’re out now, but they’ll come to by dawn at the latest.’

  ‘Just wait and see,’ the third man growled. More grunting. The boat rocked. ‘Pass me the rope.’ Scuffing, straining. ‘Now give me the knife.’ Scraping noises. Oraekja felt the blow through the side of the ship. Then another two in quick succession. Metal on wood. ‘There. That should do.’

  ‘Oh. Oh, that is …’ there was admiration in the voice as it trailed off. Then, grim chuckles.

  ‘What about the pig man?’

  ‘A couple of well-picked words in his ear and he will find pigs somewhere else. Like Rus or somewhere. I’ve heard there are lots in Miklagard. If not … well, we can always arrange for another lesson,’ the growling voice concluded with smug satisfaction.

  More laughter.

  Creaking wood.

  Oraekja’s heart thumped. All they had to do was lean over the side and look down and they would be right on top of him. He was willing to bet that Ragnar would disappear, too. He’d be found alone, lying in a boat that wasn’t his, clutching fire-starting equipment.

  But they moved away, back up to the pier.

  He felt more than heard the push as the boat next to his ship slid out and onto the tide.

  ‘Their own fault.’

  ‘Damn right,’ the growling man agreed.

  Footsteps moved away.

  He peered up over the side as soon as he dared. In the distance, someone staggered along the street and disappeared among the houses. Behind him, a boat floated serenely out to sea, carried on the tide. He could vaguely make out two shapes on board, huddled close together. At the far end of the pier, he could see Ragnar. He must have sneaked across the square while the bastards were in the boat next to him, and now he stood by a shallow-keeled, speedy raiding ship, signalling him to hurry.

  Oraekja glanced at the moon and could see what he meant. It was full to bursting and starting to peer at them from behind retreating clouds. He must go, and go now.

  He looked around. It was a drake indeed. He counted twenty-five benches, exquisite curves, beautiful woodwork. Lost in thought, he ran a hand along a smooth and neatly tucked-in oar, a warrior’s weapon in the battle with the sea. It was a shame to destroy such a beautiful ship, but Skuld had been adamant. The raiders of Stenvik needed to have their manhood taken away, they needed to live in fear of the old gods. And her word was to be obeyed.

  Oraekja placed the bundles around the thick mast and had to suppress a wave of nervous giggles. This was not going to work. Trying to ignore the shaking in his hands, he found the bowline and dropped the sail. He could already see the flicker of a flame coming from the first ship that Ragnar had set on fire. The light was shielded from watchful eyes at the wall by barrels and cloth, but it wouldn’t stay that way for long. Working quickly, Oraekja cut ribbons from the woollen cloth. It was a well-made sail reinforced with leather and the cutting was hard going. Still, it yielded to his knife and slowly strips of cloth gathered in a pile at his feet.

  When he was convinced the pile was big enough he added the bundles, drew his dagger and loosened the fire-steel from his belt. Striking it hard against the flint pommel of the dagger, he produced a spark that flew at the touchwood, but didn’t take. He tried again. No luck.

  It took four tries, but then finally the spark became a flame that grew in size, devouring the thatch and the wool, sinking its teeth into the mast.

  The red-hot orange dance of the flame almost got him. Transfixed, he had to tear himself away from its beauty. But time was fleeing with the clouds. He jumped up onto the jetty, grabbed his sack and hurried to the middle of the square, where Ragnar was busy making a small hole in the ground.

  Shaking, Oraekja upended the sack at the old man’s feet. The horse’s head spilled out, staring with frozen eyes at the night sky. Ragnar looked round and nodded at Oraekja. The skinning knife flashed and three horizontal stripes emerged, widened and oozed blood just above the jagged cut where the head had been separated from the body.

  He watched as Ragnar grabbed the horse’s head under his arm, jammed the knife alongside the remainder of the neck joints and carved a hole. Then he took the pole, shoved it into the neck and gave a twist for good measure. Oraekja grabbed the bottom end and guided it into the hole in the ground as Ragnar steadied and pushed it. The damn thing seemed to rise for an age. Risking a look back, Oraekja could now see flames dancing onboard the three ships. The knarr was burning happily and the longship showed flames in five different places. Even the Drake’s mast seemed to be moving as fire-cast shadows caressed the timber. Finally, Ragnar let go of the pole. It stood upright, the horse’s head grinning madly at the pier. He turned it so the head faced the town, muttered something under his breath, reached into his bag and tied a calfskin roll to the wood. Then he turned to him. ‘We’re done. Let’s go.’ Oraekja grabbed the second sack and the two men rushed out of the square.

  *

  The shadow had always been Harald’s friend.

  He’d been alive again. Focused. Like he knew what it was about. Odin’s warrior, sent from above for the heads of weaklings. He had smelled the sea, the autumn in the forest, tasted the starlight in the air. It had felt good. He’d knocked his man unconscious in one. The boys had struggled with the other one, but managed eventually. Valgard had poisoned those two dirt-fuckers well enough.

  The boys had wanted to gut them on the spot, but he’d said no. He’d said no because he was a good leader. Blood meant questions and they didn’t need that.

  Not now.

  He smiled to himself.

  Problem solved.

  *

  ‘FIRE!’

  The cry carried across Stenvik, bouncing off the walls in the still night. Ulfar looked at Audun, searching for signs of a false alarm, a regular occurrence, something.

  ‘What do we—’

  Audun cut him off. ‘I go. You stay with Geiri.’

  And with that, he ran out.

  Ulfar was left blinking in the gloom of the hut. Shaking his head to dislodge the fog of sleep, he knelt down beside Geiri. A sheen of sweat had formed on the sleeping man’s brow.

  Ulfar found the water barrel but it was empty. He cursed, grabbed a water skin and left.

  *

  The old man really picked the worst time to lose his nerve. Confusion and panic shone out of his every move, leaked from every line on his face. Oraekja cursed as he trailed Ragnar at a dead run past the small wattle houses, heading back towards the souther
n gateway. A short, fat man emerged from a hut in front of them, fumbling with the cord of his trousers. Ragnar lost his balance and stumbled into him.

  Behind them, Oraekja stopped abruptly. The old bastard was going to get him caught. Caught and tortured. Without thinking, he reached for his sword.

  ‘Watch where you’re going!’ the fat man snarled and gave Ragnar a hard shove. Wild-eyed, the old scout turned around. ‘There’s a fire! Down at the harbour!’ The man frowned, suspicion etched on his face. ‘Use your nose if you don’t believe me!’ Ragnar implored.

  And sure enough, a faint whiff of burning wood carried on the wind.

  Snapping to in an instant, the man ran off, shouting ‘FIRE!’ at the top of his lungs.

  Oraekja watched in astonishment as the panic drained out of Ragnar’s face. The old scout flashed him a cold, calculating grin and winked. Almost instantly the panic flooded back into his eyes, into the turn of the mouth, the stooping back. He joined in with the rising chorus of ‘FIRE!’ and took off at a loping gait towards the south gate. ‘Bastard,’ Oraekja whispered as he chased him towards the south gateway.

  *

  ‘FIRE!!’

  Voices rose to echo the cry.

  ‘FIRE IN THE HARBOUR!’

  Suddenly the streets were full of bodies, jostling and pushing.

  ‘THE SHIPS ARE BURNING!’

  Elbows, shoulders and hands pushed at Audun.

  Too slow. Too many people in the way.

  A thin, greying man pushed past him going the other way, eyes wide open, panic etched on his face. ‘IT’S ALL BURNING!’ he shouted almost into Audun’s ear. A young, shifty and rat-faced man followed him, face set in a grimace. Audun shouldered past them and kept pushing, trying to inch and squirm closer to the gateway. The gate loomed, blocked by a throng of men pushing and scrabbling to get out of Stenvik and down to the seaside. Gawkers, he thought. It was all entertainment to them until proven otherwise.

  But if it broke, it had to be fixed. And if he got there first, he’d have a shot at doing it. That was the reason he gave himself for shoving harder, pushing more, receiving shouts and cries for his trouble. They did move out of the way though, he noticed with a twinge of satisfaction.

  Inch by inch he pushed closer to the south gateway.

  The stone tunnel was rammed full of people, pushing and shoving to get to the harbour. A surge of panic made Audun’s blood rise. This was not a good place to be. An animal urge drove him past the people in front of him and he gulped down the cool night air on the other side, allowing the stream of people to carry him down the road to the old town and into the square by the harbour.

  The scene before him was mesmerizing.

  The flames merged with the moon rays to cast a flickering, dancing, orange light onto the square by the harbour. Skittish shadows weaved this way and that as the flames licked masts, tore at sails and bit into deck timbers. A suddenly quiet half-circle had formed at a respectful distance from the burning ships. Audun broke through the wall of milling people and stormed down to the harbour, eyes trained on the three ships burning brightly in the harbour. Waves of heat washed over him. Undaunted, he sprinted to the far right, where the flames rose highest.

  *

  The stream of villagers through the south gateway had become a trickle. Shouts and cries could be heard past the gates, but they sounded muted and far away.

  Ragnar raised a clenched fist and signalled for a halt. He looked up, to the north gate then to the east, and veered to the right. Two more turns and they’d reach their destination.

  *

  As the knarr bobbed on the waves, unable to dislodge the crackling, spitting beast that gnawed at its innards, Audun’s eyes whipped round. The fire could jump across to the next boat at any moment, and from there …

  Think!

  There it was. A huge whetstone sat by a metalworker’s hut. Audun strode to it and took a deep breath. He bent his knees and took the time to test for the right grip. When he found it he strained, willing his muscles to cooperate. Somewhere within him a spark ignited, lighting an old fire. He growled and rose slowly, painfully, and the stone rose with him. Determined steps took him back towards the pier.

  *

  Ulfar felt it in the pit of his stomach the moment he rounded the corner.

  Something was not as it should be.

  The guard was nowhere in sight. Instead there were two men huddled around the well, looking down. One of them, an unpleasant-looking man with longish, greasy hair, hoisted a sack up onto the edge. The old, wiry one was busy untying a small cloth bag from his belt.

  Ulfar looked around. There was nobody near him. Even the walls seemed empty. Slowly the situation became clear.

  Everyone was down by the harbour.

  Ulfar took a deep breath and shouted as loud as he could, ‘THE WELL! ALL TO THE WELL!’ The old, grey-haired man whirled around, grabbed a fist-sized stone off the ground and hurled it at Ulfar. Pain exploded in his head and his knees buckled. Try as he might, he could not remain upright. Sinking to the ground he saw the grey-haired man approach him, kneel and draw a short skinning knife. Ulfar blinked as a ghost-like form emerged sneering behind the grey-hair, steel glinting in the moonlight. The surprise on the old man’s face as the dagger punched into his back matched Ulfar’s.

  He saw the old man go down, saw the long-haired, rat-faced devil grinning behind him. The long-haired warrior dragged the older man over to the well, shifted him quickly and grabbed his ankle. The knife flashed again, this time near the old man’s heel. In one forceful motion, long-hair sliced through the tendon.

  ‘You know what, Ragnar – I think they will catch you,’ he sneered. ‘Unless you can fly. Skuld sends her regards. You will no longer poison the minds of her warriors.’ The long-haired man turned and disappeared into the night.

  Ulfar’s head felt like it was about to crack. Stars sparkled in his eyes and his skull pounded.

  He passed out.

  *

  The whetstone punched through the hull with a loud crack. Water bubbled up and met burning wood, hissing and steaming. Audun was already on his way to the far end.

  ‘Sink the ships!’ he screamed at the top of his lungs. ‘Sink them! Or they’ll all burn!’

  Sven came running out of the crowd and towards Audun. ‘Right, son,’ he said, eyes gleaming in the reflected firelight. ‘You don’t have any more big stones and we won’t get her out to sea. We’re going for a dip. You’re front, I’ll go back.’ Audun wanted to ask him what he meant, but Sven was already on his way. Moving with surprising speed he leapt from the harbour to the back of the burning ship, finding a foothold on the slippery boards with ease and grabbing the graceful curves of the rising stern. ‘Come on! I’m not getting any younger!’ he hollered cheerfully at Audun.

  Realizing what Sven was asking for, Audun raced down the pier, past the burning midsection of the ship, and searched for the right place to jump. She was rocking gently on the waves now. Sven had found a foothold facing away from the pier and started to tug rhythmically at the stern, throwing his body weight back and forth to gain momentum.

  Sweating from the heat, Audun leapt onto the prow, crashing into the planks with little of the old warrior’s grace.

  ‘Cows on ice stand better than that!’ Sven shouted. A flush of anger propelled Audun into place and he locked eyes with Sven.

  As one, they started rocking back.

  The broad, shallow hull of the longship pitched to the side but the weight of the ship righted it again, sending the keel smashing into the water. The impact jarred through Audun’s arms and up into his teeth. Sparks flew, fizzed and spat when they hit the water.

  Again, they rocked. This time the gunwale lay flush with the water. Audun pulled for all he was worth, hanging off the prow. Water started seeping into the boat. ‘That’s the way, boy!’ He was sure he could hear Sven cackling.

  The weight transferred, but the ship had already taken on water that sloshed wi
th them, hissing when it met the flaming mast. The roll was powerful, almost tipping the ship over and into the jetty. He concentrated on finding footholds on the prow, inching higher up to create more counterweight.

  The ship tipped over again towards them, and he launched himself, hanging off the prow.

  The ice-cold water grabbed at his ankles, his calves, knees and thighs, the shock almost costing his hold.

  For a heart-stopping moment the ship rested on its side, keel showing for the whole world to see, mast horizontal with the water – and then it tipped.

  Steam erupted as the burning mast was plunged into the water.

  Pushing off, Audun swam clear of the capsized ship and towards the harbour.

  ‘Well done, son. Well done.’ Sven’s bearded face and calloused hand appeared from the pier above, helping him up. Breathing hard, Audun clambered up and stood there, wet and shivering. When he glanced at Sven, the old man didn’t seem to have landed in the water at all. He blinked, shook himself to clear his head, and focused on the task at hand. The Westerdrake. The big ship that they moored at the central pier was by far the largest one, and while the fire had started slowly it was locked in by now. A smell of burning thatch, heated metal and blackened wood rose to meet him. The sail billowed in the hot air. His first step towards the last ship was met with a coarse, pained scream.

  ‘NOOO!’

  People scattered as Harald cannoned through the throng, yelling at the top of his voice. Sprinting towards the pier, he pulled off his shirt as he jumped onto the Westerdrake, thrashing about, beating at the flames. Momentarily stunned, Audun could do nothing but watch as yellow tongues of fire licked at Harald, singeing his hair, blistering his skin. He was jolted into action as the crazed man on the boat shot him a murderous look. ‘Help me, you useless bastard! Get water!’

  But it was too late for that. Fire had eaten its way into the mast, bitten into the yard, spread over the sails. ‘Harald! We will have to sink it!’ Sven shouted from the pier.

  ‘NO! NO!’ Harald screamed, cried, roared in rage. ‘THIS IS THE WESTERDRAKE! BEARER OF ODIN’S WARRIORS! IT DOES NOT DIE!’

  A shadow appeared on the pier, walked briskly past Sven and Audun and stepped onto the Westerdrake, into the flames.