The Valhalla Saga 01 - Swords of Good Men

by Snorri Kristjansson

  In the south-east corner Sven slipped between bodies, a knife in each hand. Like a viper he would appear, find a gap, stab, twist and slink away. By the other ramp, eastwards, Sigurd and Harald held their side. Sigurd’s axe drew deadly arcs in the air before him, splitting armour and crushing heads. Beside him Harald fought with cold precision, filling all spaces that Sigurd didn’t, blocking blows and meting out punishment to those who hesitated for a moment. All around them warriors were locked in deadly combat. By the foot of the stairs large groups of men waited to fill the gaps on the wall or face the attackers when they came down.

  One of Thrainn’s fighters was a fraction late with his shield. The blade of Sigurd’s axe passed neatly through his throat, severing his jugular and spraying shimmering red life over the wall. As the man went down Sigurd turned and shouted down to the ground: ‘Jorn! The gate! Bring men!’

  Moving quickly, Jorn gathered Birkir and Havar with him. Together they rounded up a fifty-strong group of fighters. Jorn picked one spearman for every three blades and then rushed them towards the south gate.

  *

  Leifur had barely had time to get in position. They’d dropped down under the shields and squeezed through the tunnel that led to the murder holes in record time. It was horribly cramped for a big man like him and sometimes he wondered whether Harald sent him down on purpose, just to torture him. Put him in his place. He’d had to hold his breath while he squeezed through and dropped down into the tiny chamber above the gateway. Inside the wall, away from the clamour of battle, the silence was deafening. Leifur had to work hard to still the thumping of his heart.

  Now he had his feet braced in the foot stands, spear in hand, eyes trained on the log that slid aside to open the hole. He reached for the handhold on the pole and moved it.

  The moment the murder hole opened a metal-tipped boat hook shot through from below, twisted and descended, burying itself into the timbers in the ceiling. An involuntary shout escaped Leifur’s lips and he slammed the log back into place, heart thundering.

  Too late.

  The hook had bitten into the timber and now someone was pulling, straining, working to wrest the floor from underneath him. Leifur watched as the woodwork started to shift. With each straining pull, the timber groaned.

  A single thought pushed all others out of his head.

  He needed to get out.

  Now.

  As he was clambering up, his handhold slipped. Heart thundering, he cursed his sweaty palms and tried again.

  Below him, the wood cracked and snapped.

  There.

  He could just about lever himself up into the tunnel that would take him back up to the wall. The spear was in the way. He fumbled with it, threw it down. Groping for a handhold, he started his ascent.

  As his feet left the footholds he felt more than heard the timbers groan, split and give way.

  Pushing himself back into the tunnel, Leifur scrambled away on his hands and knees, eager to get as far away from the hole as possible.

  Ahead he could see the chamber where he’d be able to stand up, get onto the wall and fight these bastards properly. Pain lanced through his knees but he didn’t care. He just needed to keep moving. Keep moving. Keep—

  A cold, bony hand latched onto his ankle and pulled him down.

  *

  Ulfar moved like liquid, like smoke before a strong wind. Running up the steps, he danced along the inner wall. He had to jump, skip and swerve to avoid being gutted by swords and axes swung by friend and foe.

  Seeing his first target fighting on the south-east wall, he shouted as loud as he could: ‘SVEN!!’

  The grizzled old warrior’s head snapped round at the familiar voice.

  ‘WHAT?’

  ‘CATCH!’

  Two fist-sized leather pouches flew towards the old warrior, who switched both knives into his left hand and plucked the bags out of the air with ease. A puzzled expression crossed his face.

  ‘FROM EINAR!’ Ulfar mimed a gesture and nodded towards the walkways, holding two more bags. Comprehension dawned, and with it an impish grin. The old man barked a laugh, turned and dived back into the fray.

  Ulfar spun and headed towards the walkways on the southwest side.

  *

  No gate, armour or shield was thick enough.

  The screams from the gateway cut through everything.

  Howls of rage and hunger were soon mixed with genuine terror and pain. Blood leaked from under the gate in a mesmerizing, slowly growing pool. Someone cheered half-heartedly. ‘That’s it! Get the bastards!’

  No one joined him.

  Standing behind Jorn, Runar hissed into his ear: ‘Y-you ha-ha-have to say something!’

  ‘Any suggestions?’ Jorn snapped back.

  Runar’s eyes blazed with frustration. ‘No! Just say anyth-th—’ He squeezed his eyes shut and forced a deep breath. ‘Just … say … anything but say it like – l-l-like you bloody mean it! Go!’ With that he pushed the Prince of the Dales in front of the men waiting by the gate.

  Jorn looked at the soldiers. The faces before him were exhausted, frightened, and well on the way to losing their nerve altogether. He opened his mouth to speak and a spine-curdling wail from the gateway drowned his words, his actions and his thoughts. Completely unbidden, a bubble of mirth burst out of him and Jorn laughed. He shook with laughter. The men by the gateway stared at him like he was mad, but Jorn ignored them.

  When he finally recovered, he stood up straight and faced the men. ‘… I think someone might have sat on something sharp,’ he added by means of explanation.

  The effect was instant.

  The idea of a fearsome raider howling in pain and holding his arse bounced between the men, leaving smirks and sometimes even smiles. ‘Now I don’t know what’s in our gateway,’ Jorn continued. ‘But I’ve not yet encountered anything living that doesn’t die when you cut it.’ Grins turned cold and knowing around him. This, they knew. ‘So I say embrace it, hold fast and take whatever comes through that gate, cut it and cut it hard, and then cut its head off and stick it on the fucking wall! STENVIK!!’

  ‘STENVIK!!’ The men roared in response. Behind them Runar nodded approval.

  A thunderous boom shook the gate.

  ONBOARD THE NJORDUR’S MERCY

  Her voice was almost like touch, leading him in and out of consciousness. Words melted into each other and became sounds, devoid of language but full of meaning. Inside him the screams of the others had subsided. She had made them go away because she loved him. Oraekja was at peace now. He was full of the life of warriors. It didn’t feel different or wrong any more. He just wanted to do what she would ask of him. But she said he was not strong enough. Not yet. There was one strand missing, she said, one thread still uncut. He drifted off again, an ugly, warped smile on his blue-tinted lips.

  STENVIK

  Two moves. That was all he needed.

  Ulfar wrong-footed an attacker on the wall and ran him through. The sealskin-clad raider tumbled over the inner wall. Dodging a javelin thrust, he slammed his one remaining pouch down at the top of the walkway.

  One.

  A lithe raider sprinted up the walkway and leapt over him, aiming a savage sword blow downward. In one fluid motion Ulfar sidestepped and ducked, placed both hands under the man’s foot and heaved upwards as hard as he could. The sword sliced the air in front of his face as his opponent squealed in surprise and sailed over the edge of the inner wall. A scream of pain followed by the reserves’ roar of approval told Ulfar he was free to continue. He drew his sword and brought it down hard on the bag.

  Two.

  White, clear liquid gushed out over the ramp, dripping down towards the ground. ‘Is that it?’ Orn shouted from his position further to the west.

  ‘Just wait!’ Ulfar shouted back. A big, burly mail-shirted raider armed with a shield and a vicious-looking axe moved up the walkway, sure-footed and well balanced. He looked almost graceful until he got to the first
foothold covered by the white liquid, where suddenly his legs slipped from under him. He crashed into the planks. With both hands full and nothing to halt his fall he slammed down face-first on the wood, sending shudders through the structure and knocking him unconscious.

  Then he started sliding downwards.

  The men on the wall cheered, but Ulfar was not done. ‘TO ME! FOUR STRONG BASTARDS TO ME!’ he shouted at the top of his lungs. In an instant a handful of Westerdrake raiders gathered around him. The big raider continued sliding down, picking up speed as he went along. The ones after him tried to jump over, but found that the surface they left was not the surface they landed on. The walkway that had moments before been a passage for fierce and deadly warriors over the walls of Stenvik was suddenly like an icy slope in winter.

  ‘PUSH!’ The defenders on the wall went after the suddenly unencumbered walkway with gusto. Lifting and twisting, they seized control of the wooden structure, throwing it down to loud cheers. Suddenly the attackers on the wall found themselves without reinforcements and fighting reinvigorated men of Stenvik who looked less like fighters and more like demons in human form. Cheers from the eastern wall and loud curses from the ground told of Sven’s success on the other side.

  ‘My dad always said working is fun if you have the right tools,’ Ulfar said to Orn with a grin.

  ‘What was in the bag?’ the youth asked, open-mouthed.

  ‘Water and lard,’ Ulfar replied, grinning from ear to ear. ‘Einar had a pot full of it. Now make sure those bastards leave those bloody sticks lying where we’ve dropped them.’

  Smiling, Orn reached for his bow and watched Ulfar head to the ramp on the west wall.

  *

  ‘Spears!’

  Ten men stepped forward, all armed with the outlaws’ broad, thick hunting spears. They set them in the ground and braced, tilting them forward.

  ‘Bows!’

  Another five men took their places to the side, bows at the ready, arrows notched.

  ‘Blades!’

  Two lines of axes and swords formed beside the javelin wall. Birkir’s head rose above the others; on the other end of the line Havar’s cheeks wobbled nervously. The gate shook again. Stones broke loose from the wall.

  ‘HOLD YOUR LINES.’

  Earth and grass gave way as the gate creaked and leaned forward. Jorn darted in front of the gate and turned to face the men.

  ‘REMEMBER! IF IT BREATHES, IT LIVES! IF IT LIVES, IT DIES TODAY!’

  The men roared back at him, determination etched in their stances, in their faces.

  Something heavy hit the gate from inside. A voice bellowed ‘NOW!!’ and Jorn just got out of the way before the big slab of wood came crashing to the ground.

  Through the arc of the southern gate came the biggest man any of them had ever seen.

  *

  The last walkway tipped over and crashed to the ground. The few of Hrafn’s men that remained on the wall were overmatched and overpowered. Warriors were thrown over the edge, dead or dying. The remaining raiders shuffled back to their camp, some dragging wounded comrades, others limping on their own. The defenders cheered and shouted insults after them.

  Then the south gate came crashing down.

  As one, the men on the wall turned to look down on a living legend. Egill Jotunn strode into Stenvik wielding the log he’d used as a battering ram. Ten scrawny, filthy bearskin-clad warriors came with him, screaming garbled obscenities. Roaring, the small team charged the fifty defenders. Those on the wall watched in horror as the first volley of arrows slammed into the berserkers and didn’t even slow them down. Egill threw the log at the spearmen, took out three men and obliterated the first line of defence. In an instant the market square turned into a boiling, heaving mass of bodies, blood and pain.

  Sven turned away just in time to see the first murder hole shield rise silently on its hinges, soon followed by the other one. Without thinking he took a running jump and landed on the shield closest to him, slamming it down. Below his feet a howl of rage turned into a feral scream. ‘ENEMY ON THE WALL! TURN AROUND, YOU BASTARDS!!’ Sven yelled.

  The shield exploded upwards, sending the old warrior stumbling off. A snarling wild-eyed man in animal skins crawled up out of the hole, foaming at the mouth, keening and howling.

  ONBOARD THE NJORDUR’S MERCY

  Oraekja opened his eyes and saw only cold. Stars twinkled above him in a sky turning from day to night. She leaned in, looked down and smiled a kind smile. He watched her hand on his chest, felt the freezing, scalding feeling in his heart, felt it spreading through his veins. Felt his body spasm, shake, unfamiliar weight in his legs, in his arms. Felt himself scream again, his throat raw. He watched her mouth move.

  ‘Sleep now, faithful

  Fury’s servant

  Cloaked in starlight

  Sheathed in darkness

  Feel the thunder

  Taste the lightning

  Legend is your

  Destination.’

  And Oraekja was no more.

  STENVIK

  The heat in the smithy was suffocating. Everywhere he looked he saw sharp, jagged edges. Swords and axes. Spearheads. Blood. Audun leaned on his worktable, head spinning. There was too much blood. Too much death. It was in the air, he could taste it. He’d come to Stenvik to hide, to stay away from the blood, but he wasn’t safe, not even here among his tools.

  A wave of old, dark thoughts swept him away.

  *

  Sven barely dodged a murderous swipe from the berserker’s rusty sickle. Up on the wall around him the sounds of weapons clanging mixed with grunts and groans, screams of pain and spine-chilling howls from the men in animal skins.

  ‘DIE, YOU BASTARD!’ the old warrior screamed as he pivoted and rammed the dagger in his left hand to the hilt through the wolf-skin and into his opponent’s ribcage. ‘DIE!’ Sven kneed the grunting man savagely in the crotch for good measure. Blood spurted along the dagger’s blade as he pinned the berserker’s weapon arm between them.

  The stocky, thin-haired berserker did not go down. Instead he turned, looked at Sven and grinned, his face full of broken and yellowing teeth. The wounded man’s head came at him so fast that Sven barely got his nose out of the way.

  ‘OW! LET GO, YOU GOATFUCKER!’

  Sticky, scarlet blood streamed out of the fighter’s side as he pummelled Sven with his left fist, firmly hanging onto a clump of the old man’s big, bushy beard and pulling downwards, trying to dislodge his weapon arm.

  ‘Oh no you don’t,’ the old warrior grunted as he twisted the dagger savagely and yanked it upwards and out. His opponent coughed and staggered back, bleeding freely from his side. Face contorted in rage, he growled. ‘I know I’ve said to some people that their mother was a bitch, but in your case it might actually be true,’ Sven snarled back at his opponent. Never taking his eyes off the invader, Sven drew a battered old shortsword in his right hand to go with the bleeding dagger.

  Paying no heed to the gaping hole in his side, the berserker charged, screaming and foaming at the mouth, madness in his eyes.

  Sven stood still.

  The sickle swung back, muscles flexing in the madman’s arm. Then he unleashed a killing blow at his target.

  Which wasn’t there.

  Instead Sven stepped towards the berserker at the very last moment, putting all his weight into the impact, driving both weapons clean through the onrushing attacker. Dagger through the chest, sword through the stomach.

  Impaled by the strength of his own charge, the berserker sputtered and coughed. Sven braced against the dying man’s last gasps, feeling the life pour out of the insane fighter. ‘Now stay dead,’ the old warrior snarled through gritted teeth, shoulder to the dying berserker’s chest, head resolutely turned away.

  His blades made a wet, slurping sound as he withdrew and a last shove sent the corpse over the wall.

  Sven turned around and surveyed the scene. On the east wall Harald and Sigurd were hold
ing their own, but the sheer ferocity of the berserkers’ attack had taken the Stenvik defenders by surprise. Already exhausted, some of the men on the wall had simply been overwhelmed. Their dead bodies had been thrown like rag dolls over the wall or sprawled on the walkway, broken and mutilated.

  Down in the market square, things looked no better. The defenders were putting up a brave fight, but they were no match for the sheer brutality of the onslaught. Egill Jotunn had drawn a massive, two-handed sword that he swung in broad arcs, shattering armour and sending sprays of blood sky-high. A circle had formed around him as defenders sought to get out of the way of the killing blade.

  And now something seemed to be barrelling into the defenders from behind, from within the town, pushing and ploughing into their ranks, towards Egill.

  An axe thudded into the wall next to Sven. A frustrated roar followed too close, way too close and the old warrior jerked to his left as a skinny, scrawny fighter, shaking with fury, yanked the axe back and swung to face him.

  *

  Shoot and run.

  Runar fired again, an arrow thudding into the back of a berserker. The man did not turn, did not seem to notice. Instead his fist went into a defender’s face once, twice, three times, turning it into a bloody pulp. In an instant the vicious warrior was away again, seeking his next target like a starving dog. Something warm spattered Runar’s cheek. He turned to see the crazed light wink out in a berserker’s eyes not an arm’s length away, a serrated knife falling from his limp, lifeless fingers. Birkir pulled hard on his hand axe, working to dislodge it from the bearskin around the dying man’s neck. He managed on the third pull.

  ‘Move faster, you scrawny fucker,’ Birkir shouted. He smiled and Runar watched as the blood-lust swept him away. ‘COME ON THEN, YOU STINKING DOGS!’ the big man roared as he turned towards the giant in the square. Stepping over the bodies of many defenders and few berserkers he waded into the fight, axe in hand.

  Egill spotted him, turned and moved to meet the new challenger. Runar drew and shot but the angle was wrong. The best he could do was pierce the half-giant’s shoulder. Without breaking his stride Egill pushed at the end of the arrow until the head came through on the other side, then pulled the bloodied shaft out and threw it away.