A warm feeling spread through him when he thought of her lips, her eyes, her curves.
He’d heard the cries when they found Ragnar’s body. The old bastard had actually almost managed to crawl away on one good leg, but they’d caught him. Just as he said they would.
It hadn’t seemed all that right to him once the fury had faded away, but she’d explicitly said Ragnar would have to die. She’d also told him what he’d have to say to Skargrim when he came back.
If he came back.
He just needed to find … there. Three farmers loading an ox-cart. There’d been people streaming out since they saw the pole. They knew all too well what it meant, and Skargrim’s name had already been bandied about. The people of Stenvik seemed to have the proper respect for Old Grey-hair. Oraekja decided he’d remember to tell her that. Now, however, he had to leave, and these men would be his disguise. He scanned the area from the cover of the shadows. When he was certain as he could be, he walked calmly around the hut he’d been hiding behind.
They looked at him with dull suspicion. ‘What do you want?’
Oraekja put on his most charming smile. ‘Me?’ No response. ‘I just want to get out of this stinking place, to be honest, and I wouldn’t mind doing so with some company.’
None of them invited him, but the man nearest to the cart relaxed his stance a little. Oraekja did not wait for permission. He stepped to a sack of hay and hauled it up onto the cart floor. A few moments later the three men around him started again, working in sullen silence under the last twinkling stars of the night sky.
WYRMSEY
Skargrim could smell the fresh resin on the newly felled logs. Valhalla rose before him, impossibly huge. The walls were made of majestic timbers, latched together to make a hall fit for heroes. He looked round the clearing. Around him the fir trees stood tall, lords of the forest, the treeline dark and menacing. Nature was strong here. The air crackled with raw power, the power of the old gods.
A crack and a creak behind him, and the doors swung open. Towering slabs of iron-bound wood moved as if mounted on air.
He turned.
A wave of light, sound and smell spilled out. The lusty roars of drinking men, roast meat that made his mouth water, flames from giant cooking fires. The hall was bigger than any he had ever seen. Golden light reflected in polished shield bosses, gilded spear points and goblets of finest bronze. Rows of fighters, all merrily in their cups, singing and roaring along. A dais stood at the far end, almost covered in the gloom. On it he thought he could see a tall, grey-clad figure watching from the shadows, face hidden by the brim of his hat.
The chant rang out into the starry night.
‘We fight for the glory of Odin, of Odin!’
The sound of it filled his head, pumped in his veins. Soon he found himself mouthing along.
We fight for the glory of Odin.
Before he knew, his feet had taken steps toward the door. Honour, pride and joy coursed through Skargrim.
We fight for the glory of Odin.
With grim satisfaction, he noted that some of the men were sizing him up. There would be a reckoning later. In fact, there was someone that looked like Hedin the Unruly from up north, scowling at him. Big guy, braided beard, hammer at his side. Hovering behind was that dog-faced helper of his, all skin and bones and dark hair. The kind that always has a knife handy.
We fight for the glory of Odin, of Odin.
He remembered the swell of the ocean, the ships tied together to create a makeshift fighting platform, the feel of his axe going through Hedin’s collarbone. How his followers had scattered. That had been a good day.
We fight for the glory.
The colours, sounds and smells bled into one for Skargrim. All that was left was the thrumming pulse in his blood, the chant, the pride. The knowledge of who he was, what he was and why he was.
A beatific smile spread on the sleeping raider’s form.
Skuld looked down on him, smiled back and continued her walk through the camps, past and over the rows of sleeping men. Under her breath she muttered over and over words that hadn’t been heard in the world for a long time.
NORTH-EAST OF STENVIK
The blood-red rays of the dawn sun broke through the darkness and shone on the hills, the stray firs and the forest down below.
‘L-l-look,’ Runar whispered, laying flat against the ridge, adjusting the recurve bow on his back.
Jorn peered down into the trees. ‘I see nothing. You’ve stolen my sleep and wasted my time, you idiot. We’re still far away from Stenvik,’ he growled, and made to rise.
Runar grabbed the young prince by the collar and hauled him back to the ground. Struggling to get the words out, eventually he stuttered: ‘St-st-st-st-stay d-down and l-lll-lllook better!’
Furrowing his brow, Jorn turned his eyes back to the treeline. As he adjusted to the gloom, he could detect movement. After a while he looked over at Runar, who nodded excitedly.
‘Th-th-th-they’re—’ he began, but now it was Jorn’s turn to signal for quiet.
‘Noise carries, Runar,’ he whispered, without taking his eyes off the forest. ‘They look to be about four hundred yards away, but I really don’t want to start the day with a foot race.’
Runar grinned, eyes beaming.
Jorn trained his eyes on the treeline. Indistinct figures were slowly emerging from the forest. They wore rags, carried a variety of weapons and moved with purpose. Fleet-footed hunters armed with bows set up a perimeter.
‘Th-th-th—’ Runar whispered, gritted his teeth in fury and gestured for Jorn to look at him. With exaggerated movements he sniffed and looked around.
‘You mean they’re—’ Jorn’s heart leapt. Quickly he checked. Through some blind luck, he and Runar were downwind.
His heart started beating again.
Suddenly the group seemed to focus on the treeline. Even the guards on the perimeter gazed into the shadows. Two big, burly men appeared, dragging a struggling, wailing farmer. Behind them a man walked calmly. He had his hair tied up in a ponytail. The farmer cried for help. Runar stirred beside him but Jorn put a hand on the young man’s arm. ‘No. There’s at least thirty of them down there and more are coming.’
The small procession had now reached the edge of the forest and set about tying their captive to a tree. A scream of pain bounced off the hillside as arms were bent backward and lashed together behind the tree trunk. More of the scruffy forest people kept emerging from the woods.
‘They just keep on coming,’ Jorn muttered to himself. ‘There must be at least a hundred and twenty of them.’
‘A hundred and f-f-forty-three,’ Runar spluttered.
Jorn smiled and nodded. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘N-no problem.’
The leader had taken up a position directly in front of the captive. He seemed to be speaking but Jorn could not discern the words. The farmer shook his head repeatedly. The pony-tailed man stepped closer to the captive. A flash of metal, a cheer from the crowds and the farmer’s tunic fell away.
A deep feeling of unease crept over Jorn. He looked across at Runar, who seemed to feel the same.
‘Th-this is not good, is it?’
‘No.’
The poor farmer was thrashing on the tree now, straining against his bonds. The voice of the leader grew louder. The numbers in his circle swelled.
‘T-t-two hundred and twelve now,’ Runar added.
The leader was shouting single words now. As one, his followers echoed. Jorn felt the dread in the pit of his stomach but he found he could not look away.
Suddenly the leader plunged a knife into the victim’s shoulder. The screams of pain mingled with the shouts of the gathered men and dragged on as the knife moved from shoulder down to rib, towards the sternum and up to the shoulder again. With a flick of the knife the pony-tailed man carved a piece of flesh out of the farmer’s chest and tossed it back to the two big men standing behind him. Red flowed down the front
of the howling, weeping farmer. The knife dug in again and soon another piece of flesh came flying over his shoulder. A faint, metallic smell of blood drifted up towards Jorn and Runar.
As the farmer’s body slumped against the tree, the man with the ponytail turned to address the group. Jorn strained to hear but as much as he tried he could only discern one word.
Stenvik.
Sweating despite the cool morning air, Jorn and Runar stole away as quietly as they could.
WYRMSEY
‘… for the glory …’
Another man from Ingi’s camp passed him, composed and quiet.
‘We fight …’
All around him, men were moving with determination towards the beach, towards their ships, ready for the assault.
Tall, broad-chested Thrainn’s men.
Hrafn’s sealskin-clad warriors.
Ingi’s army, silent and well-drilled.
All of them wearing the same, glazed look.
All of them muttering the same chant under their breaths.
Skargrim’s heart thumped in his chest.
Out on the bay, Egill Jotunn’s five black ships already waited, tacked and ready.
Skargrim glanced up at the rock he had used as his vantage point.
The morning sun cast its rays on Skuld’s back. Her silhouette looked … older.
He could not see her face, but he felt her smile.
JUST OUTSIDE STENVIK
Oraekja had kept close to the side of the cart as it inched through the eastern gateway. Nobody had asked any questions. He had guessed correctly – they’d found Ragnar by now and were looking for one man, not four traders with an old, creaky cart. The guards had just wanted rid of anyone who wasn’t going to stay and fight. Clear of Stenvik, Oraekja allowed himself to turn around and look.
Bathed in the rays of the morning sun, the walls around the town looked massive and impenetrable. Huge grass slopes up to the fortified walkway, too steep to charge. No way of getting to the top of the wall, which was manned by a score of spear-carriers. They’d have a lot of supplies in there, too.
Not so much water, he thought with a grin.
Still, he couldn’t see how Skargrim’s crew would manage this. Maybe she could. If so, then he’d know soon enough. Skuld would share her plans with him so he could offer suggestions and improvements.
He smiled.
It would be good to see Skargrim’s face when he, Oraekja, gave the orders. Now all he needed to do was get to the forest, give these oafs the slip and find a nice hiding place overlooking the beach where Skargrim said he’d land. They drew closer to the treeline, in the middle of a modest caravan. Forty yards now. He wondered what Skuld would be like naked, whether she’d hold him tenderly and gaze deep into his eyes or go wild, screaming and bucking. Maybe both if he did it right. A smirk crept across his pockmarked face. Thirty yards. Thirty yards and he could break free of these plodding farmers, circle Stenvik on the north side under cover of the forest and emerge by Muninsfjell. And then – back to her. Twenty yards. The road snaked in amongst the trees, dipping out of sight. The first cart disappeared around the bend. Fifteen yards. Ten.
The wrist-thick spear hurtled silently out of the shadow of a cluster of trees and took their old ox just below its head, breaking its neck on impact. A blood-curdling yell from a hundred throats followed, and as the animal hit the ground a swarm of men in rags burst out of the forest, charging the caravan at a dead run.
Oraekja realized that his life was now measured in moments. He scanned the faces of his fellow travellers.
Wide-eyed panic.
Dismissed.
Cattle.
Going back was not an option.
Neither was sideways.
Oraekja filled his lungs with air, summoned up all the hardest bastards he could ever remember giving orders at sea, and screamed at the top of his voice:
‘RUN! BACK TO STENVIK! RUN!’
STENVIK
Just one.
Just one of them.
Harald clutched the leather bottle so hard that he thought the veins in the back of his hand would pop.
Please.
Let just one of them give him a reason to smash their face in. He rocked slowly back and forth on his bed, jolted awake by a dream he couldn’t remember, no matter how hard he tried. Somewhere in his head he was vaguely aware of the empty place where Lilia was supposed to be.
It didn’t matter.
Nothing did.
His mind didn’t sit right. There was too much going on. He’d tried to sleep after the night meeting in the longhouse, but had found no peace. The move on the two pig-fuckers was small consolation. They’d drown screaming, but the Westerdrake still sailed to its doom before his eyes, a burning skeleton ship. In his mind Sven told him off, humiliated him in front of his men. Even Valgard snapped at him – and how dare he? Should have broken that weakling’s neck on the spot. The feel of the leather in his palm reminded him why he hadn’t.
Without thinking, Harald raised the leather bottle, licking his lips in anticipation. The mixture oozed out slowly. As it touched his lips vivid colours, shapes and scents seemed to blossom from the inside of his mouth, from the bitter-sweet taste of it, spreading warmth through his body like a fire in a cold house.
His eyes closed. Another world opened up.
He was inside a longhouse, finer than he’d ever seen. The echoes of a thousand men, shouting and singing drinking songs.
Three people sat by the end of the long table.
A mountainous, muscle-bound, red-haired warrior, hair and beard braided in fine lines, hammer at his side. A woman unlike any he’d ever seen, her every curve a whispered challenge to his manhood, daring him to resist her. Blonde hair cascaded down to her ample chest, curls falling over curls, adding curves and more curves. Her simple white shift nearly hid and nearly showed, and Harald found it hard to keep his imagination in check.
It was only the third one that gave him pause. His eyes watered as he tried to get a good look at him. The slim, dark-haired man seemed to slip into and out of shadow, never quite … there. The wiry form reminded Harald of a killing knife. Fresh, sharp and just waiting to do some damage.
They all looked straight at him. Into him. Through him.
He wanted to speak, but no words came out. Instead the colours in the hall started to fade. He heard the faint echo of a chant, but caught only three words.
‘For the glory.’
He couldn’t be sure, but as the image in his head disappeared, Harald thought the woman might have winked.
A powerful sense of loss tore through him and he opened his eyes again. A single room, pot in the far corner, double bed. Spikes in the wooden wall, clothes hanging on them. A chest for valuables, baubles he’d brought back to her in moments of softness. Sword, axe, shield, spear. Tools. His home.
None of this registered.
In his head the people from the dream still looked into his soul.
Thor. Freya. Loki.
*
Ulfar sat in the corner of the patients’ hut, too tired to move. ‘Well, you’re not moving much either so you can’t argue,’ he said wearily to Geiri’s still, silent form. He could hear the sound of Stenvik through the walls, but there was a different quality to it, a current of tension and fear.
The incident by the well had taken more out of him than he’d care to admit. His head still pounded and the image of the old, grey raider with the skinning knife still lingered.
Ulfar shuddered as he remembered the night before and the hatred in Valgard’s eyes. There was something about the healer. Something that wasn’t right. Before he could think more about it he felt his skin tingle and his heartbeat quicken. Then the door flap moved. Daylight spilled in and hit his eyes, blinding him. Someone moved into the doorway and blocked out the light from the entrance.
‘… Ulfar?’ The voice was soft, searching.
In his mind the walls of the hut fell away. Nothing mattered but
him and her, Lilia, stepping from the outside into his little world. She was just a silhouette in the blinding daylight. On reflex, he brought his hand up to shield his eyes.
‘Oh – forgive me.’ She stepped nimbly inside and drew the door flap shut.
A sudden, embarrassed silence filled the room.
Heart thumping, Ulfar looked at her. He almost laughed when he realized that moments ago, he’d been reflecting on moments of life or death – and now he was wondering whether his hair looked all right.
But then this was also a matter of life and death. He wanted to spend his life with her, and he’d die if he couldn’t. He would never touch another woman. The certainty of the realization struck him hard, and he looked at her almost in a daze.
Soft red curls framed her delicate features. She looked away and chewed her lip nervously. ‘Is … is this your friend?’ She moved to the middle of the hut and knelt over Geiri.
‘Yes,’ Ulfar half-whispered, breath caught in his throat as he followed her. ‘Yes,’ he repeated, regaining control of his voice and cursing himself. ‘He had a nasty fall. Hit his head. He should be all right, we hope. Valgard says he should be fine.’
‘How did it happen?’
‘There was a fight in the old longhouse. This man called Harald and two others beat that man over there’ – Ulfar pointed to the big pig farmer, snoring softly in the corner – ‘pretty bad. His cousins then went after the two others in the old longhouse and Geiri got caught in the middle.’
Lilia went very still.
‘So this all traces back to Harald, does it?’ Her voice was leaden.
‘I don’t know. Yes, maybe so. When Geiri comes to, we might ask for damages, but I don’t know. He got caught in the middle of something that this man Harald started.’ Ulfar looked at her, trying to figure out what she was thinking. ‘Why? Do you know … ?’ Ulfar’s voice trailed off.
Their eyes met and her smile broke his heart.
For the first time he could see the pain, the suffering. The lines and contours in her face, scars that belonged to someone a lot older.
He saw the stone woman.
The Valhalla Saga 01 - Swords of Good Men Page 14