‘You were nearly killed two nights ago, last night you risked your life, and now you’re losing your mind because you’re whistling badly in front of a house?’ Ulfar hissed. ‘Get a grip!’ He inhaled as slowly as he could, then exhaled and wet his lips. Taking a deep breath, he whistled a couple of notes of a gentle tune, a herdsman’s melody from home. Looking around, pretending not to notice the bearskin house, he repeated the whistled melody as clearly as he could. Then he ambled off towards the horse pens, heart thumping in his chest.
He desperately wanted to look back, but didn’t.
THE OLD TOWN
The guard pushed him out onto the docks, the ones he’d run along when he’d set fire to the big ship. He recognized the Njordur’s Mercy, moored a couple of ship’s lengths off the end of the middle pier. ‘Is she—’ Oraekja began. A jab from the butt of the spear silenced him.
‘Right. Hands,’ the guard snapped when they reached the end of the pier. Through a dull haze Oraekja summoned up what felt like the last of his energy and presented his hands together, ready to be bound. With practised movements the guard looped a cord around them and tied him up. ‘Get in the boat.’ He gestured at a small rowboat, bobbing by the end of the pier.
Oraekja clambered down a knotted rope with great difficulty and managed somehow to get into the boat with all the grace of a trussed pig. The guard shimmied down after him, positioned him at the back and sat down on the oarsman’s bench.
Soon they were moving across the water towards the Njordur’s Mercy. Onboard a small group of sailors noticed them and prepared to receive the newcomers. The guard swung the rowboat alongside the sleek, powerful ship and strong hands steadied them on approach. Oraekja was hoisted roughly to his feet and brought across, only just finding his balance. Swaying where he stood, he noticed all the men around him growing quiet.
He sensed Skuld’s presence behind him like the sun on his back. Inhaling slowly, he felt something of his old self return. He savoured the moment. He, Oraekja, had returned a conqueror after a successful and daring mission behind enemy lines. He had followed orders, survived on his cunning and guile, and would now reap the rewards.
Turning around, he took one look at her and slumped to the deck, unconscious.
STENVIK
Audun could feel the tension mounting inside the town. Word floated down from the walls that the enemy was lining up, that they were obviously up to something. Archers had tried a couple of times, but their enemies stayed just outside missile range. For now, Audun thought. Sven had ordered him to fix two broken handcarts and get them to the north and west gateways but park them to the side, out of the way.
Fair enough. He was happy doing anything to keep the hands busy, keep his mind off the violence. Grabbing a handful of bolts, he set to work on the first cart.
*
The brown horse trained big, accusing eyes on Ulfar. You shouldn’t be doing this, they said. It’s dangerous, it’s wrong and you know it.
‘Shut up!’ Ulfar snapped, leaning on the fence around the horse enclosure. ‘You don’t know anything anyways.’ The horse snorted, turned away and expressed its opinion by way of a sizeable load of manure. ‘Thank you. Thank you very much,’ Ulfar scolded the gelding. ‘That’s a really nice touch.’
‘Are you … talking to a horse?’ Lilia asked cautiously. Heart already hammering, Ulfar whirled. The only thing he saw was her smile, the smile that came from the corners of her eyes, the corners of her mouth, the centre of her very being.
It took his breath away. ‘I – I – erm …’
Her lips parted slowly as the smile spread wider and wider, revealing beautiful, white teeth. From somewhere within her, giggles bubbled up to the surface. She tried to stop them but failed delightfully. ‘You strange, strange man,’ she said, eyes alight. ‘What did the horse do to you?’
‘It shat in the pen.’ The words were out before he knew it. His eyes widened in horror as he saw the sentence hanging in the air between them. She looked at the horse, then at him. A moment later she burst out laughing. Waves of relief washed over Ulfar and he found himself laughing along.
Her eyes never left his.
Soon the laughter subsided. Ulfar took a cautious step in her direction, then another.
A tear glistened on her cheek.
Another step, then Ulfar reached slowly for the teardrop. He saw her twitch but she remained still, eyes fixed on him. Her sky-blue shift rose and fell with every breath.
He touched her cheek and he was falling. It all seemed so right and happened so smoothly. How his fingertips traced her red curls, how his hand found her neck and pulled her gently close, how she melted into him.
They kissed, cautiously at first but then with increasing, intoxicating urgency.
*
‘Here. Drink this.’
‘I’m not really that thirsty,’ Geiri muttered, propped up against the wall.
‘Drink it. It will help with your recovery.’
He paused, then smiled a tired smile. ‘Thank you. That’s most kind.’
‘Don’t worry. It’s what I do. I patch you up when you fall on your head.’
Geiri drank. ‘It’s … sweet. Kind of …’ he blinked. ‘Kind of … like juniper. I like it.’ His words slurred. ‘Can I have some more?’
‘Of course.’
Geiri took the leather bottle and tried to raise it to his lips again. It fell from his hands as he slumped against the wall, a peaceful smile on his face.
Geiri’s heart slowed. Then it stopped.
Slim, delicate fingers picked up the bottle and put the cork in. When Valgard left it looked like the young man was simply sleeping.
THE NJORDUR’S MERCY
Skargrim stepped onboard his ship and looked round, but Skuld was nowhere to be seen. The four fighters he’d set to guard her sat in the prow playing dice. One of them caught Skargrim’s eye and nodded silently towards her quarters.
When she’d made it clear that she would be coming with them to attack Stenvik, he’d set aside a little bit of space for her in the stern. He’d erected poles and strung hides to shield her from wind, rain and the gazes of the men. He’d even thrown in his best furs to make her journey comfortable.
Moving towards the hides, Skargrim could hear voices, hers and someone else’s. Jealousy flared. Who was she speaking to? Who had she allowed onto the Njordur’s Mercy? His ship?
The vaguely familiar voice suddenly stopped.
‘Enter, Skargrim.’
He drew the hide flaps aside.
Sitting on the soft furs, Skuld smiled up at him. She looked different somehow, as if she’d aged by several years. Somebody lay next to her, resting his head in her lap like a babe. It was the little runt that she’d forced Ragnar to take along for the poisoning. Skargrim’s brow furrowed. What was this? When had he returned? Where was Ragnar? Nothing was adding up. At last he managed to stammer: ‘What’s he doing here?’
The scout made to speak but she interrupted. ‘There are things that need to be said, Skargrim.’ Fear and guilt flitted over the scout’s face.
A chill settled on Skargrim’s heart and started to spread, like a lake freezing in winter.
‘You know Oraekja. His deeds are heroic and he has shown much bravery. The well in Stenvik is poisoned, and they have no more than three days’ worth of water. However, he brings ill news of your brother.’
STENVIK
‘Not bad at all.’ Sigurd speared a chunk of roasted pig on his knife, leaned back and nodded at Sven. The smell of cooking drifted across the longhouse and a handful of men sat around the table eating. ‘I like it. So you say that was Ulfar’s idea?’ Sven nodded, gnawing on a leg of lamb. ‘Well done. Now all we need to do is send a couple of Harald’s men into the holes. Thorvald – we’ll need some kindling on the wall.’
‘Torches and fire arrows already up with my best remaining archers,’ came Thorvald’s curt reply.
‘Good.’ Sigurd’s eyes lingered on the scou
t master’s features. ‘You’re angry, my friend. I can see that. But that damn dale boy is right. We need to get word to King Olav as soon as possible. It might make a difference. It might make all the difference.’
‘I know,’ Thorvald replied.
‘Sigmar was practically born in these woods. If anyone could get through unseen, it’s him,’ Sven added. ‘You say he left yesterday?’ Thorvald nodded. ‘If he keeps a good pace he should have a decent shot at finding Olav in a day, another two to bring him here. We’ll be nearly out of water, but we can source that in the springs at Huginshoyde until the foxbell rinses out of the well. We just need to hold for a couple more days.’
Thorvald turned in his chair and looked away. ‘It should have been me.’
Sigurd replied at once. ‘And who would then lead the scouts? The fighters on the wall? Who would give commands when neither I nor Sven are around? Who could I trust to plant an arrow in Skargrim’s eye at fifty paces?’
Thorvald turned back towards Sigurd, but did not speak. The three sat in silence.
‘It’s going to be one mother of a scrap,’ Sven offered after a while. ‘More lamb?’
THE NJORDUR’S MERCY
‘So you’re saying they surprised you and there was a fight. Ragnar was killed, but you escaped. That my brother fought like a demon, but there were too many.’
Oraekja nodded once, then glanced at Skuld. Skargrim felt her eyes on him but did not turn, did not meet her gaze. The waves lapped at the Njordur’s Mercy.
‘And then you sneaked out of Stenvik, hid in the forest for two days and now you’re here.’ Oraekja nodded again. ‘Where are the plans? The numbers? Guard spots? Strike points? What do the gates look like? How do we break them? Did he not tell you anything?’
‘I don’t understand … The gates are made of wood …’ Oraekja looked like he was trying to remember something. ‘He told me I should have looked up …’ he muttered.
Skargrim’s head felt fit to burst. It just sounded … wrong. Ragnar would have collected information, lots of information, anything to help the assault. He would have told the boy. Anything else made no sense. And he would never have got himself caught. How did they catch him? Why? And how was Oraekja the one to escape?
‘Your brother is dead, Skargrim.’
He couldn’t be. Ragnar was supposed to outlive him, to see his own nephews grow to become raiders.
‘Your brother is dead. They killed him. He died in Stenvik. Behind those walls.’ Her cold, bony fingers touched his forearm and he turned towards her.
‘Avenge him, Skargrim.’
Strength surged through every fibre of his being. Somewhere in the back of his head he heard the chant of a thousand warriors, the hard pounding of pommels on shields, battle cries that sent shivers up and down the spines of those about to die.
‘Make them pay.’
Oraekja stared at him and seemed to wilt, to push back into the skins. Skargrim didn’t care. He rose without a word, turned and walked off the Njordur’s Mercy back onto the rowboat. A single thought echoed in his head, thrashed and roared like a trapped bear.
Revenge.
STENVIK
‘This is it.’ Thorvald’s voice was cold, distant. Skargrim’s raiders were lining up by the harbour, behind a protective wall forming slowly as warriors linked their shields.
‘It very well might be, yes.’ Sigurd looked to the south. ‘But you know, my friend, I won’t be able to see my enemies for the thundercloud above your head. Why don’t you take your anger out on those bastards instead? I challenge you to hit one of their shields from this distance.’
‘They’re too far away.’
‘Come on, Thorvald. You taught all those boys to shoot. No one’s ever bested you at the bow. Have you forgotten? Or are you scared you can’t hit it from this distance?’
Thorvald wheeled on Sigurd, face contorted in fury. ‘They’re too – far – away!’ he snarled.
Sigurd stepped in close, grabbed the scout master’s tunic by the neck and twisted hard, pulling the tall man’s face down to his own. Stunned, Thorvald struggled for breath. Quietly and calmly Sigurd whispered: ‘Shoot. Or so help me I’ll push you over the wall when the first charge comes, make it look like an accident, say you died a hero and use your bloody corpse and stamped-on head to rally the men. Because right now you’re absolutely no use to me whatsoever.’
He let go and Thorvald recoiled as if he’d been slapped.
Sigurd just looked at him.
‘Well?’
THE OLD TOWN
Thrainn had picked a hundred of his men, Hrafn another hundred. Some of them carried big iron picks, hammers and wedges to complement their weaponry, tools to break down the gate. Ingi’s men stood silently by, all carrying massive round shields for the shield wall. Egill had supplied fifty of his black-clad warriors, all standing to attention and carrying compact recurved bows, ready to provide cover fire. The remainder of their force was arranged in groups led by named and proven men, ready to charge into the breach when the first wave was done. Skargrim’s warriors stood by and awaited his command.
He’d stormed ashore barking orders like a foul-tempered northern gale. Ingi had wanted to know what she’d said about commanding the forest people and got a vicious glare in return. Not even Thora dared ask him what had happened onboard the Njordur’s Mercy. Whatever apprehensions the fighters might have had about charging Stenvik, more than one of them thanked their gods that they were on Skargrim’s side today. Wearing his double mail shirt and adorned helmet, he looked like an iron giant.
Pacing between the men, Skargrim was about to sound the charge when the first arrow thudded into the shield wall. Taken by surprise, the shield carrier lowered his guard a couple of inches. The next one tore into his throat, just under the jawbone. He collapsed, gurgling and clutching feebly at the shaft that protruded from his neck.
‘LINK UP! MOVE!’ Ingi’s men adjusted with frightening efficiency, ignoring the dying man and re-forming the shield wall. Alert to the danger, the wall was up when the third arrow buried itself several inches into overlapping shields.
The fourth came from above, only moments later. One of Thrainn’s men was unlucky and had his foot nailed to the ground. His screams drowned in the battle cries of the raiders charging.
STENVIK
Thorvald stepped back and exhaled, sweating profusely. He turned to Sigurd. ‘Thank you,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m here now.’
Sigurd looked back at his scout master and closed his mouth slowly. Two shots in quick succession, the third straight up in the air and the fourth before the last arrow had even reached its apex. ‘I’ll say you are.’ He slapped Thorvald on the shoulder. ‘Now get some of your boys shooting like you just did and we might still live through this one.’ Turning, he roared at the men on the wall.
‘READY!’
THE NJORDUR’S MERCY
Oraekja could not remember feeling this good. He was warm, he was comfortable, and safer than he could ever have imagined. The sea rocked him gently, but he paid it no heed. He had eyes only for Skuld. Nothing else mattered. Even the battle cries seemed muted somehow, like they were filtering through from another world.
He felt his body respond to her presence, felt it shed the fears and horrors of the forest. His strength returned quickly now that he was in his rightful place beside her. Leave the fighting to Skargrim and the animals. He’d be just fine commanding from here. And soon it would be time to claim his prize, the one she’d all but promised before he set out. Right here on these lovely soft furs would do nicely. Still, he could wait a little bit. The anticipation would be at least as sweet as the act itself, he thought.
Her beauty seemed to grow as the fighting intensified. Oraekja leaned back on the furs and gazed up at her immaculate skin, twinkling blue eyes gazing towards the shore, her lips pursed in thought.
Absolutely silent.
In fact, she hadn’t spoken or even acknowledged him since Skargrim left
for the shore. She’d just tilted her head slightly and closed her eyes, like she was listening to something. Worry lines had scarred her face and made her seem different for a moment. Older than he remembered, somehow. But he wasn’t sure. He’d been really tired, and maybe he’d nodded off briefly at that point. He thought he’d heard her mumble some words, but she hadn’t woken him. She probably sensed that he needed his rest.
But now he felt ready. It was time to claim his throne.
‘What’s the plan then?’
She didn’t answer. It didn’t even look like she’d heard. He giggled nervously. ‘Now that I am back, you can tell me everything you want. It is only right, I think. So what’s the big plan?’
Still she ignored him.
This wasn’t right. This wasn’t like he thought it would be. Reaching out, he grabbed her.
‘Hey!’
He pulled at her arm, meaning to turn her around so she would face him.
She didn’t budge. It was like trying to move a boulder.
Without thinking Oraekja strained against her, pulled as hard as he could. His face turned red and veins throbbed underneath his skin. A faint metallic taste seeped into his mouth and breaths came in spurts. This was not right at all. Her flesh was warm to the touch but he could not move her no matter how he tried.
Slowly, as in a dream, her head turned towards him. She looked him in the eyes and smiled. And with that, she showed him who she really was. What she was.
His grip on her arm grew slack, as did the muscles in his face. He wanted to speak, wanted to apologize, wanted to beg, cry, dive overboard and swim for shore, but his body wouldn’t let him. Looking at her, seeing past the surface for the first time, Oraekja was overcome with blind, animal terror.
She smiled. ‘Do you love me?’
He nodded, tears streaming down his cheeks.
‘Would you do anything for me?’
He nodded again. There was nothing left now but to say yes.
‘I need you, Oraekja. The threads are tangled, so we will need you to carry our strength.’ He gazed at her, blinking through the tears, understanding nothing. ‘But for that you will need rest. Now sleep.’ She put her hand on his arm, her touch a gentle autumn breeze.
The Valhalla Saga 01 - Swords of Good Men Page 22