‘You have not understood what I told you about the White Christ today, have you?’ The King’s voice was steady and reassuring. The question was more of a statement.
‘… No?’ mumbled the bulky soldier.
King Olav stepped into the circle. In the flickering light of the fire he seemed otherworldly, like something carved out of the bones of giants. The men stared at him, mesmerized.
‘What would you know of him? Ask and I will tell you.’ He looked at each one of them in turn. None dared hold his gaze. Finally one of them, a solidly built young man with unruly dark hair and a thick brow, worked up some courage.
‘See, um, we were wondering. Because the old gods, Odin and Thor and—’ The young man faltered. The others seemed to hold their breath. One or two of them looked for King Olav’s sword. The men to either side of the young soldier inched away. He bravely ploughed on. ‘The gods of our fathers have been with us for a long time. We know what they can do. But then you broke the idols and they did not strike you down. Why?’
The question hung in the air for what seemed like an eternity. Then King Olav smiled. In the flickering firelight, it wasn’t an entirely reassuring sight. ‘They did not, as I told you, because my god—’ He paused and corrected himself. ‘Our god protects us, and he is wiser and stronger than both Odin and Thor.’
Emboldened, the dark-haired man countered: ‘That must mean that the White Christ is a warrior beyond any the world has seen.’
King Olav’s face was unreadable. There was an almost imperceptible pause before he continued. His voice changed subtly. ‘Yes. Yes he is. He is as tall as the biggest giants. He makes Thor look like a boy.’ Amazement shone on the faces of the soldiers. King Olav went on. ‘He has a sword that only he can lift. He uses this as others might use a knife. In his other hand he holds a shield that only he can hold and not even Tyr himself could break. It is pierced in two places by the fangs of the Worm of Midgard …’ King Olav paused artfully. The soldiers hung on to his every word. ‘… which the White Christ fought for sport.’ The men stared at him, silent and rapt with attention. Olav’s voice carried conviction and strength, and he continued. ‘The White Christ lives in the sky, in a hall filled with riches that make all the gold and finery on earth seem like the contents of a smallholder’s pouch. He can take wives where and when he wants, but waits for one that is worthy of him.’ Some of the men seemed confused at this, and Finn noticed that more had drifted towards the spectacle, curious but wary of coming too close. King Olav continued.
‘The White Christ’s hall is at the very least twice the size of Valhalla. Many wondrous things are there to please the eye and fire the spirit. Shapely maids serve ale from golden urns. No man that takes the White Christ into his heart ever goes hungry or cold after he dies, nor does he have to content himself with the same pig’s flesh and goat’s milk every day. He can choose whatever he wants, and Christ provides.’ Among the men, nods and murmurs of assent were exchanged. With increased passion and intensity, King Olav pushed on. ‘The White Christ has won more battles than anyone can count. His followers toppled a mighty empire to the south, the Romans. Their armies seemed invincible, but with the might of the White Christ, the people of true belief could work miracles, things that mortal men cannot. And the White Christ performed miracles as well. He walked the earth in the guise of a man, much as Odin did.’
The audience had quietly grown from five to twenty men, most of whom hid in the dusk beyond the firelight. All eyes were on King Olav. He paused, and the silence was absolute. None dared draw a breath. When he spoke again his soul seemed to be in every word.
‘The White Christ can heal the sick. The White Christ can wake the dead.’ Gritting his teeth, King Olav drew himself up to his full height and snarled: ‘The White Christ is good and pure. But he will not show mercy to those that have confessed to being his enemies. He will deal with them according to their conduct, and by their own standards he will judge them. Then they will know that He is the lord.’
As he spoke, he looked into the face of each and every man standing around the campfire, finding the eyes even of those hiding in the dark. Daring anyone to object to anything he’d said, he held their attention and their silence for a brief moment. Then he nodded to the large soldier whom he had surprised earlier.
‘Get some rest. We march early tomorrow for Stenvik. Christ bless you.’ King Olav left the circle and disappeared towards his tent.
Crackling fire, fading light and the measured voice of a man telling stories of his White Christ had cast a spell on the men. They sat around the fire in a stunned daze. Finn had to pinch himself to snap out of it. He ambled after King Olav, half aware of smatterings of conversation starting behind him.
When he got to the King’s tent, the flap was closed.
He could hear King Olav’s voice within, reciting softly.
‘Our father, which art in heaven. Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done.’ The voice seemed to trail off. The last thing Finn heard before he left to inspect the sentries was a muted whisper from the tent.
‘Forgive me.’
STENVIK
The fires in the longhouse burned low as Thorvald stepped through the doorway. Sigurd watched him from his seat on the dais.
‘Well?’
Thorvald bit the words off. ‘There are a lot of them out there, but they keep to the darkest parts of the woods. It’s murder to get any kind of estimate on their number. I’ve lost two scouts trying.’
‘But they’re staying put? They’re not grouping up? Did you see their leader?’ Sigurd fired the questions fast and hard.
The scout master looked wearily back at him. ‘What do you want me to say, Sigurd? I don’t know. I don’t know how they work. We’ve never faced them before. All I know is there’s a lot of them, ranging from the scrawny and desperate to some bastards that can really handle themselves. I also know they’re here and they got two of my boys.’ Thorvald’s face was flushed with anger and he had to swallow hard before he continued. ‘The answer to your question is no. We’ve not seen them grouping up in any way that I understand. Except for there being a pile of them in our own wood.’ Thorvald scowled.
‘Their lack of movement is not necessarily good,’ Sven added from the corner.
‘What do you mean?’ Sigurd spat.
‘Skargrim is coming and suddenly our forest crawls with outlaws.’
‘If you mean what I think you mean, you’re slipping into old age sooner than we thought,’ Harald countered.
‘Maybe, maybe not,’ Sven replied. ‘All I’m saying is that we should not be surprised if the outlaws move when Skargrim appears.’
Harald banged the arm rest of his high-backed chair. ‘Shut up, old man! We should gather our fighters! Root them out before Skargrim—’
‘No, Harald. It’s time you shut up!’ Thorvald snarled. ‘I’m not risking any of my men in those woods just because you want to go bash some heads!’
‘I agree with Thorvald,’ Sven added.
‘You would,’ Harald shot back. ‘None of you dare stand alone against me. You always—’
Sigurd rose slowly from his chair and the three men fell silent. ‘We know Skargrim is on his way. We know that there are outlaws in our woods, and they’ve come in numbers.’ Sigurd took his time and looked at his warriors in turn. ‘Now there is only one question. When the crows come to feast …’ He stepped off the dais, turned and looked up at Harald, Thorvald and Sven. ‘… are you going to sit here scratching your arses and yapping like old women, or are you coming with me to do something about it?’
A cold smile played on his lips as he moved towards the door of the longhouse. Behind him, the others swapped quizzical glances as they got up to follow their chieftain.
NORTH OF STENVIK
‘Pater noster, qui es in caelis …’
Finn didn’t understand the words, but by now he knew them by heart. At first only a small group of men had wanted to join the Kin
g for Morning Prayer, but the number had grown steadily. Over half the army had joined in since King Olav cast down the totems.
‘Adveniat regnum tuum …’
The murmured voices of two thousand soldiers sounded somehow unstoppable, like a glacier rolling over rock, crushing everything in its path. There had been a marked change in the men recently. No one dared cast snide glances at the young King now, and a core of them would gladly follow him to their deaths.
‘Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra …’
A smattering of red and yellow decorated the nearby trees, a sure sign that autumn was coming. When they got to Stenvik they’d be able to split the army up into divisions, go further, cover more ground and always return to a safe base. The Lord’s work would go much faster.
‘… sed libera nos a malo. Amen.’
The lithe young man rose and behind him, as one, a mass of soldiers followed suit. The body followed the head. It sent shivers up Finn’s spine. There was no doubt about it.
These men would do anything for King Olav and the White Christ.
BETWEEN WYRMSEY AND STENVIK
Hrafn sailed on the left flank. Ingi formed the rearguard. Thrainn’s contingent covered their right flank and Skargrim’s ships made up the van. Egill’s men were not in formation, content to hover some distance off. Skargrim didn’t mind. He’d often said that a small dose of chaos did a powerful lot of good in a fight.
‘You. Get some sleep.’ Thora had somehow sneaked up behind him at his post by the masthead. ‘I won’t say it again, and I don’t want to kick you in the balls. Can’t be bothered dragging your big hairy arse to your perch. Get some sleep.’
He turned away from the wind, the sea spray and the fresh rays of the rising sun. Nodding slowly, he offered a smile to his second in command and started picking his way across towards the helm. There was sense in the woman. Better grab rest when he could. One never knew when the opportunity would rise again.
Far behind him the west coast of Norway rose out of the mist, a green stripe on the horizon.
STENVIK FOREST
The road had led Jorn and his three riders through farmland, along the coast and now towards a forest that was growing steadily more dense. A beautiful autumn morning sun shone down on trees slowly shedding their summer hues, sporting the occasional yellowing and reddening leaf. The tranquillity of the scene drew them in. There was not a single sound of any kind to be heard in the forest.
‘Th-th-they’re h-here.’
Birkir unwound the leather strap on the haft of his axe. It was a nasty piece of work, a woodsman’s hand axe augmented to serve other, less genial purposes. The blade tapered down from the edge to a pick-like point at the back and small iron tacks had been smelted onto the head, designed to rip and tear as the axe sliced through flesh.
‘Put it away, big man.’
Birkir shot a glance at Jorn. ‘So we’re going in like lambs?’
The smile on the young Prince’s face was chilling. ‘No, we’re not.’
Realization dawned slowly on Birkir. ‘You’re saying we can’t fight our way through. And we won’t sneak. You’re going to run for it, aren’t you?’ Behind him, fat Havar whimpered.
Jorn only nodded and reined in his horse. The animal, scenting something, snorted nervously. Runar lined up beside the Prince and inspected his bow. Behind them, Birkir shook his head. Starting at a trot, Jorn urged his horse forward, leaning on the animal’s neck and whispering in its ear. They picked up speed gradually until they were galloping along the forest path.
Shaking in his saddle, Runar struggled to be heard over the din of hoofs. ‘I-I-I hope you’ve p-p-picked the right p-path!’ Jorn only grinned and spurred his horse onward.
The sky above the galloping riders disappeared behind a ceiling of green leaves as the forest enveloped them.
The first arrow missed Jorn by inches. Shouts erupted and the shadows in the trees took form and purpose. Colours blurring around them, the four riders could do nothing but push on as arrows and spears whizzed past. Swivelling in the saddle, Runar fired back as best he could.
Suddenly a wiry fighter broke free from the bushes up ahead and ran snarling towards Jorn’s horse. Two powerful steps, a well-timed leap and the fighter was airborne, flying at Jorn.
Something blurred at terrifying speed into the Prince’s field of vision. The onrushing warrior’s head lost shape in mid-flight. Blood and brain matter sprayed the riders as the outlaw dropped dead and was trampled in an instant.
Jorn looked back at a grinning Birkir, reeling in his axe by the leather strap fastened to his wrist.
‘You disobeyed me?’ Jorn yelled.
‘Sure did!’ Birkir shouted back.
‘Good!’ Jorn screamed at the top of his lungs. ‘For the Dales!’
‘FOR THE DALES!’ the three men echoed, thundering through the forest drunk on blood and danger.
STENVIK
‘VALGARD! VALGARD, COME QUICK!’
The healer turned over on his pallet, pale and drawn, and began cajoling his body up into an upright position, inch by painful inch. Valgard, do this. Valgard, do that. Why couldn’t these bloody peasants have the decency to get sick, break bones or die when he was on his feet?
‘COME ON!’ The voice was insistent and far too loud.
‘Yes, yes! I’m coming!’ Valgard shot back irritably.
‘HE’S WAKING UP! THE SWEDE IS WAKING UP!’
*
The broad steps were hewn into the sloping side of the wall and paved with flat stones. Ulfar picked his way up towards the battlements. Sleep had not come to him last night. Every time he’d thought he could rest, images of her had filled his head – her touch, her smile, the feel of the rough linen bandages around her broken fingers.
She possessed him. She owned his every thought, and it felt delicious. Ulfar let his mind wander as he counted the steps. Faces of nameless, shapeless girls in long-forgotten ports floated into view and were summarily dismissed. They meant nothing to him now. He felt embarrassed about his womanizing, but then he reasoned that those girls had fallen for someone else. They’d fallen for a charming boy and nothing more. Someone who would do anything, say anything, use anything just to weasel his way into their affections. Just to win. That boy was gone, he thought proudly. Now he was a man, and somewhere deep inside Ulfar knew that it was how it had to be. He would have to be honest and steadfast. He could not – would not – toy with Lilia’s emotions.
His head spun. When he reached the top of the steps his stomach lurched as well. It had looked like an easy climb from the bottom, but the way down was much longer. He was struck by the sheer size of the battlements.
On top of the massive wall Sigurd’s men had formed a wide, shallow ditch, paved with planks. It was broad enough for three men to stand side by side and deep enough to cover a fighter’s lower half from attackers coming over. Set in the planks on either side of each gateway were what looked like a pair of battered old shields. Ulfar ran his hand absent-mindedly over the grass on the outer wall as he walked. Suddenly he scraped it on something sharp and jerked it back.
When he saw what it was, he whistled softly.
Set in the outer walls, invisible from below and covered by only a thin layer of turf, were murderous, three-inch-thick sharpened wooden spikes, facing outwards. He’d found the tip of one of them with his palm. Anyone scaling the wall from the outside would stand a decent chance of getting a nasty surprise if they put any sort of weight on what seemed like solid earth at the top.
He took in the near-perfect circle of the wall, with the town beneath him. Then he walked along it to the east, briefly noting some men with shovels on the road to the old town. Some of the Westerdrake raiders manned the gates, most looking towards the woods. Suddenly the forest seemed dark and forbidding, teeming with unseen outlaws. Some of the watchmen traded nods with Ulfar as he passed. A gentle autumn wind caressed him as he finished his circle and the smells of the sea drifted in.
A dull weariness crept up on the young man and he perched on the inner wall over the south gateway, looking out to sea.
The raw beauty of the land overwhelmed him.
On his right the shady forest loomed, ready to claim back farmland and buildings at the first sign of human surrender. Towering trees gave way to fields, squares of colour in stark contrast to the soft lines of the forest. The eye led on up the curve of the hill they called Huginshoyde, coloured in shades of grass, rocks and moss. He could still see some carts on the western road, lumbering away to another haven of perceived safety. Muninsfjell rose on the other side of the road, commanding and strong, and collapsed into the sea, an endless expanse of blue with a single thin black stripe of an island in the distance.
Ulfar looked down and swallowed hard as the emotions of days past came back with a vengeance. Fear. Anger. Love. Fighting back tears, he mouthed a silent prayer to Odin for Geiri’s life. The man was his cousin in name only. In Ulfar’s mind they were brothers. As he looked up again and wiped his eyes surreptitiously with his sleeve, he blinked. The haze made the island seem to move.
Looking around, he saw two large men manning the guard posts above the western gate. One of them sat on the back wall; the other stood and looked down at Sigurd’s group working by the harbour. A couple of strides later Ulfar was within speaking distance. The guards eyed him warily as he spoke.
‘Well met.’ The sitting guard, a solidly built young man with a broken nose, nodded noncommittally. The other one turned towards Ulfar. Tall and long-limbed, his black hair made a limp and greasy frame around a birthmark that covered half of his face. The look in his eyes gave Ulfar the sense that he was not necessarily invited to come any closer. He bit his tongue and forced an open smile. ‘I’m just wondering,’ he continued, ‘what is the name of that island out there?’ He pointed towards the black stripe on the horizon.
As the question penetrated, confusion spread slowly over the guards’ faces.
‘What island? There’s nothing there but sea,’ the broken-nosed one spat. ‘What are you talking about, boy?’
The Valhalla Saga 01 - Swords of Good Men Page 17