Skargrim considered his captains and smiled.
That was unlikely to worry any of this lot.
What set the leader of the outlaws apart was his eyes. There was something cold and calculating in them, something … baleful.
‘So where’s the rest?’ The outlaw’s voice was pleasant and calm.
‘The rest of what?’ Skargrim replied.
‘We were promised two feed sacks full of silver and gold to come here, wait in the forest and kill anything that tried to get through. Now where’s my loot?’
‘See those walls? Your sacks of loot are in there,’ Hrafn chimed in.
‘Why don’t you take your rag brothers and go fetch?’ Thrainn added.
The outlaw leader smiled and looked at Skargrim. ‘How lovely. You’ve taught your dogs to speak. Do they do other tricks as well? I’ve heard they lick anything that’s had a bit of meat rubbed on it.’
Skargrim felt more than heard the hands on hilts and rising blood behind him. Tension rippled through the gathered men. The outlaw leader continued in the level tones of a man negotiating prices at a market. ‘I have about two hundred and fifty men in the forest and little time for this. If you don’t tell me where and when we’re getting paid and fed I’ll do one of two things. I’ll turn my two hundred and fifty over to Stenvik – there’ll be some minor debts of honour, but nothing we can’t figure out – or I’ll murder as many of you in your sleep as I need to. How does that sound?’ Behind him the outlaws gripped their weapons tighter.
The cold shock of the coming fight trickled through Skargrim’s spine. He welcomed it like an old friend. Now he’d need to play for time somehow. He puffed up his chest, ready to bellow some manner of nonsense at the man, give his men time to register the change and get ready. In his mind he charted the moves necessary for an attack straight for the leader’s jugular. If he hit it in one he might cause confusion and lead them in a rout. A dull pressure built at the base of his spine, pumped fight into his muscles, filled him with murder.
Skargrim reached for the hilt of his knife as the first notes drifted in from the sea.
The song was the yearning for home, the pain of goodbye, the forgotten touch of a long-lost mother. It went straight through Skargrim’s chest, tore open his heart and left it bleeding sweetly, yet somehow it filled up the empty black spaces that it found within him, filled them up with life and belief and delicious pain and joy, with pictures of moments with family, with friends, with home. Something blurred his vision and he struggled to stay on his feet.
Then the will to live kicked in and he blinked the tears away, shook the fog from his head.
There was no murder in the outlaws’ eyes any more. Instead they all looked up as if watching for the notes to come to life in the air, captivated, like children with a colourful toy.
Skargrim caught their leader’s gaze. He was the only other man he could see that was not swept away by the music.
‘Skuld,’ he murmured. ‘I remember. We will do what is needed.’ He nodded to Skargrim, turned and walked towards the forest. The outlaws turned with him and followed their leader, disappearing into the darkness as the song grew softer, the notes shorter and the silences longer.
Skargrim watched them leave. ‘Imagine that,’ he muttered.
When the last note ended the raiders turned and headed to their respective camps, unusually silent. On the way back Thrainn walked up alongside Skargrim. ‘That song. Was that her?’ Skar-grim nodded. ‘Was it … magic?’ the young captain whispered.
‘No it wasn’t,’ Egill Jotunn rumbled behind them. ‘It wasn’t magic. It was a reminder of what we’re fighting for.’
IN UNFAMILIAR WOODS
The echo of the song mixed with the bitter taste of the mixture and the raw smell of pine needles, resin and morning air. Harald’s breath caught in his throat. Those trees were bigger than anything he’d ever seen. Suddenly he felt tiny, shrivelled, like a pebble in a bowl. He turned and Valhalla towered above him, impossibly huge. The doors swung open without a sound and peace filled his heart.
He walked inside.
Light streamed from behind him, cloaking everything in a blanket of soft, grey morning sunshine. A massive table stood in the middle of the packed earth floor, stretching deep into the darkened far end of the hall. Thor and Freya sat on opposite sides. From under waves of luscious blonde hair, Freya glanced at the head of the table, at an available chair.
The hint was unmistakable. Harald sat down.
The gods smiled at him.
‘Well met, Harald,’ Thor said.
‘Indeed,’ Freya purred.
‘Your hero’s heart and skill in battle are the stuff of legend. We are pleased with you,’ the red-haired warrior continued. ‘Very much so,’ Freya echoed. ‘The ambush was a masterstroke,’ Thor concluded. ‘Perfect. Simple, smart and effective.’
Harald struggled to find the words. His tongue felt double the size and his cheeks burned. ‘I – I – it went well,’ he ended up whispering into his chest.
‘WELL?’ Thor thundered, banging on the table. ‘WELL? It was brilliant! Merciless and swift! You outfought and outsmarted your opponent—’
‘It was your idea, wasn’t it?’ The ever-present hint of a smile drifted with the voice that came from everywhere – the shadows, the darkness and behind him. Harald spun around on reflex, and Loki was there. Not three feet away, leaning up against a support beam, casually picking dirt from under his fingernails with a knife. He looked up and met Harald’s gaze. ‘Wasn’t it, Harald? Wasn’t it the idea of a great leader, a man who could be – no, should be chieftain?’
‘Leave it, Loki!’ Thor growled. ‘It could have been his idea. He could easily have made that plan. He could have made a better one, put killers in more huts. Or struck at the bloody forest folk first.’
‘He can do anything,’ Freya said, winking at Harald.
‘I have my doubts,’ Loki muttered.
‘Well, he could do anything to me,’ the goddess whispered, honey dripping off her every word.
Harald’s blood caught fire and seared his veins. His heart thumped and images of Freya’s naked body cascaded over him, overwhelming him. As he fought to recover he felt Valhalla fading away behind them. Suddenly he was overcome with grief, with the decay of everything good. He cried then, scalding tears of loss streaming down his pockmarked cheeks as the world he understood slipped from his mind, faded to grey, then black.
When he came to he was sitting on a stone bench, leaning up against the longhouse. It was dark outside, with only faint flickers of muted torchlight illuminating the huts of Stenvik. Harald rose, aching all over, and stumbled home.
STENVIK
‘Why did you pick me for this?’ Audun whispered between gritted teeth.
‘Because I like your company, you’re strong enough to pull the cart,’ Ulfar whispered back. ‘And we can’t use a horse. It’s too noisy. Opening the gate quietly was hard enough.’
‘So you’re saying I’m like a horse, only slightly more quiet?’
‘Shut up, you two,’ Sven muttered at them. ‘This is stupid enough as it is. If we get ourselves killed Sigurd will get very cross.’
‘And we wouldn’t want that, would we?’ The grin in Ulfar’s voice was very poorly hidden.
‘No we wouldn’t,’ Sven shot back. ‘We wouldn’t want that at all.’
Audun rolled his eyes in the darkness and pulled the cart onwards.
NORTH OF STENVIK
The shimmering half-light made the scout want to whisper and tiptoe. The heath looked like a landscape in a dream, with pools of darkness leaking out from underneath large boulders. The forest had been surprisingly easy going – the outlaws hadn’t bothered him at all and he’d got a good idea of where they were camped. Now all he needed to do was follow orders, run as fast as he could to King Olav’s camp and deliver the message. After that, his job was done.
STENVIK
‘So when do you say King Olav is com
ing here?’
‘I’d say in three days. Maybe four,’ Havar managed between mouthfuls. His chins wobbled as he worked his jaw. ‘This is some, mmh, incredible meat! How do you get the lamb so tasty?’
‘It’s all in the seasoning,’ Valgard replied.
‘Delicious. De-licious,’ Havar grunted as he reached for the bone. ‘You must show me how so I can cook for Jorn when the time comes.’ Holding it up to his mouth, he looked at Valgard. ‘May I?’
A smile and a nod later Havar was tearing into the meat on the bone, plump lips smacking on the fat. Valgard looked at the fat man, barely managing to conceal his disgust.
Three days.
That was all he had.
Three days to force a confrontation between Harald and Sigurd, make sure Harald won, install himself as chief adviser and be ready to welcome King Olav’s army.
Something had to happen, and it had to happen right now.
In his mind, he looked at the pieces on the board and remembered something about the game. Something Sven had tried to teach him once. ‘Like in life,’ he’d said, ‘you sometimes have to make sacrifices to get things going.’
Smiling, Valgard reached for a leather bottle.
*
Einar the town cook looked unusually flustered. ‘Too much,’ he muttered. ‘Too bloody much. Everybody’s eating like there’s no tomorrow. Too bloody much. The meat’s going to spoil, too.’ Shaking his head and mumbling into his chest, he scurried between the hastily erected pots around the fires in the long-house, stirring at random. He turned a lamb carcass on the spit and checked on the supplies. The night watch had eaten before going to sleep and the day watch had eaten before going up on the wall. The long table was littered with dirty crockery.
Ulfar sat at the far end, poking at his bowl of broth. He’d had too much excitement and too little sleep last night, he reckoned.
And still she would not leave his head. Even thinking about her made him feel warm inside, made his mouth turn upwards at the corners, made even the damn broth seem appetizing. Ulfar smiled and shook his head. So this was love.
He sensed more than saw the presence at the table. Turning, he found he was looking at a slight blonde woman – no, girl – with big blue eyes that scanned the room, seeking something. When she was satisfied, she turned to him and half-whispered: ‘She would like to see you.’
‘She – do you mean … ?’ She smiled and he realized he must look like a particularly dim-witted puppy.
‘Yes of course,’ she said. ‘Could it be anyone else … ?’
‘No! Not at all. No.’ The words tumbled out of Ulfar in a rush of panic. Then she saw her smile widen and composed himself. ‘No,’ he said, this time with more authority. ‘There is not nor shall ever be any other.’
He saw a playful glint in her eye. ‘Shame,’ she said, winking. ‘From what I remember on the night you arrived, you don’t kiss half bad.’
In a flash, Ulfar remembered and turned crimson with embarrassment.
‘I didn’t – so that’s – I mean, I wouldn’t – not that we didn’t but I hadn’t met her – but it’s – I mean—’
‘It is true, then,’ she said, nodding slowly to herself. ‘You really do love her.’ Ulfar blinked, speechless. ‘Then may your love be a true one in joy and in strife, and never forgotten for the rest of your life.’
A draught trickled in from somewhere, chilled Ulfar’s bones and made the hairs on the back of his hand stand on end.
‘Yes. I mean, I won’t.’
Inga blinked a couple of times and her lip trembled for a second. ‘Good. If you walk past a house with bearskin on the door and carvings of Thor, Tyr and a dragon, whistle the same tune twice. Then go to the horse pens and wait a while. She’ll sneak out if at all possible.’
She turned around and headed for the door.
‘Wait! Where’s the house?’
‘Go east just before the north gate,’ she said over her shoulder and was gone.
Ulfar was still looking at the door to the longhouse when Valgard entered. Their eyes met and the healer nodded once before picking his way towards Einar and the pots.
STENVIK FOREST
A dull throb of hurt woke Oraekja. The branches he’d chosen for a bed last night were digging into his back and hip, sending needles of pain through his whole body. Easing up to a sitting position, he blinked a couple of times and shielded his eyes from the stinging sunlight.
He could not see any outlaws but they were there. He could feel them. They were around him, all around him like an itch. Striving to quell the rising sense of panic, he looked to the south. In the morning light he could see the expanse of Skargrim’s camp. It seemed much bigger than he remembered.
Still, that would be where she was. He clambered gingerly down from the tree and started walking towards the camp, skirting Stenvik. He saw the camp guards soon enough, but found he didn’t recognize them. It didn’t matter.
‘Skuld. I need to see her.’ His voice sounded unfamiliar to his own ears as he approached, squeaky and wrong.
The two men looked at him with scepticism. ‘Why? And who are you?’
‘I just need to. She calls to me. I must.’ Desperation threatened to overtake him and he had to fight back the tears.
The guards looked at him strangely. ‘Hand over your weapons and we’ll take you to her.’
Oraekja found it hard to part with his knife and felt naked without it, helpless. Like prey. Visions of the forest, blood and death flitted through his head. Exhaustion blurred his eyes and his knee buckled. A spear butt jabbed into his spine brought him back to the present.
‘Move.’
The guard pushed him towards the centre of old Stenvik, back towards the harbour.
NORTH OF STENVIK
‘My King, come quick. Please, hurry!’
King Olav ducked out of his tent. ‘What is it, Finn?’
Breathless, Finn gestured for the King to listen. Cries of ‘Heathen! Heathen!’ rang out from the camp.
Without a word King Olav strode towards the source of the sound, leaving Finn to scurry after him. Soon they came upon a bloodied, scrawny man surrounded by a group of furious soldiers. Finn recognized him. The man’s name was Hrutur, a hunter of little skill. His captors hurled abuse and spat at the man, calling him a heathen and a traitor.
‘What’s going on here?’ King Olav asked.
One of the soldiers turned to the King, bowed his head and showed him a thumb-sized Thor’s Hammer on a ripped leather thong. ‘The bastard was wearing this underneath his clothes, my King. He’s a heathen, a supporter of the old gods and an enemy of the White Christ.’ Silenced by his presence, the men stared at the King, awaiting orders.
King Olav drew a deep breath.
‘Deal with him according to his conduct. You are warriors of the White Christ’ – in the circle, Hrutur’s face went pale – ‘and he is the enemy.’
Finn stood, mouth agape as the King turned and walked away.
The soldiers set upon Hrutur, raining blows on the figure in the middle of the circle.
Finn chased after the King. ‘My King … they’ll kill him!’
‘Yes. Yes, they will.’
‘Why are you letting them?’
King Olav stopped and turned to Finn. The young man’s face was drawn and hard, pain in his eyes. ‘Because I’m not just fighting chieftains. I’m uniting a country. Because they need to feel superior to someone, feel right about something. And because conviction, Finn, is worth a thousand swords of good men.’
STENVIK, THE OLD TOWN
‘So – how many for a direct charge, then?’ The short fat captain smiled as Thrainn’s face flushed crimson.
‘Give the boy a break, Ingi. You’ve sailed long enough. You’ve had some idiots in your crew. Thrainn has done well to get rid of them,’ Hrafn added. Ingi raised his eyebrows and seemed about to answer when Egill Jotunn intervened. ‘Who’s got the thickest armour?’ he asked.
‘It s
eems my men are the best equipped,’ Ingi replied cautiously. ‘That is why I volunteered them for guard duty.’
‘Your men for the shield wall, ours through the holes?’ Hrafn suggested. The assembled chieftains lapsed into thoughtful silence.
‘Would work, but negates our advantage,’ Ingi finally offered. ‘There are clearly more of us than there are of them, which would make it stupid to crowd into a tunnel. They could hold the gateways with very few men. I say we go over the wall.’
‘They’ll see us coming for miles. That wall looks a bastard to climb and we’ll be target practice. If we go through the gateway we’ll at least be up close and personal,’ Hrafn countered.
‘I’m not sending my men into that hole,’ Ingi replied, full of good grace.
‘Nor am I sending mine over that wall,’ Hrafn said, equally friendly.
Skargrim cleared his throat and the other captains fell silent.
‘Here’s what we’ll do.’
STENVIK
Ulfar’s mind reeled as he hurried up the walkway towards the north-east of town.
Bad idea. Bad, bad, bad idea.
He really shouldn’t be doing this. He should be running to Audun or Sven or Geiri or someone. Someone who could smack some sense into him.
But he didn’t care.
Instead he focused on the simple things. Like walking. Because if he ran as fast as he wanted to he might attract attention, and that was the last thing he wished for. He was about to do something forbidden. Something wrong. Something his friends would definitely tell him not to do. Breathing deeply, Ulfar continued walking at a measured pace.
Heading off the north road, he noticed the difference in the houses. This was where the raiders lived, the men who could afford wooden houses instead of wattle huts.
There!
The bearskin on the door. And sure enough, the carvings. Ulfar’s heart thundered in his chest and suddenly his lips were too dry to whistle. The only sound that escaped was a pathetic squeak. Panicked, he looked around him. Had anybody seen him? Frustration, fear and tension brought him close to throwing up on the spot.
The Valhalla Saga 01 - Swords of Good Men Page 21