‘Right then, Ulfar the Conqueror. Work your winning magic. Find us the way to the chieftain of this important hub of fish smell, street piss—’
‘Will you cease your endless complaining,’ Ulfar shot back as he scanned the area. ‘I’ll figure this out. We’ll ask someone. Find a nice fish-girl … or three …’
She caught his eye because she seemed to be the only person in the square who wasn’t moving. In fact it was almost unnerving how completely still she was. She just stood there, looking out to sea. Ulfar smiled to himself. She looked ripe for the picking.
‘Now, young Geiri.’
‘I’m three months older than you.’
‘Yet you never act like it. Now, young Geiri, I gather you had some trouble with the women last night. Watch and learn.’ Ulfar shot a meaningful glance towards the woman standing on the pier.
Geiri followed his gaze and frowned. ‘That one? She’s clearly waiting for a boat to come in. She’s not going to—’
‘Quiet, Geiri. Just watch the master.’
Ulfar ignored the bustle of the square. Instead he homed in on the girl. She did seem almost unnaturally still, though. As he sauntered towards her he wondered where the conversation would flow. Usually he was good at reading from their initial reactions what they wanted to hear, whether they wanted to be pushed or led, tempted or turned. He knew Geiri was staring daggers at his back and probably hoping he’d trip or something of the sort. Well, let him. Ulfar would never have Geiri’s wealth or honour, but the girls loved him better. Always had, always would.
Only a few steps now.
He planned his route, drifting towards her and stealing a glimpse. She was very pale but he liked that. Must mean she stayed a fair bit indoors, which was strange for this kind of town. Maybe she was a craftswoman. The red hair was nice. Looked a bit Celtic. He’d been with a slave girl a couple of months back somewhere on the mainland – hadn’t understood a word she said, but they’d got on well enough.
The memory made him smile.
He’d let himself accidentally happen to be near her now. Time for playing the lost traveller. In a smooth motion he turned towards the red-headed girl and put on a winning smile. ‘Hello. I’m wondering if you could tell me …’ And the words died in his throat. It was as if he didn’t exist to her. She didn’t acknowledge his presence. Instead she just stared at the sea. A spark shot up and down his spine. A challenge! He’d not had this before. The eyes. The eyes! Catch the eyes. He redoubled the charm, cleared his throat and moved so he was between her and the horizon.
‘Hello!’ He smiled. ‘I just arrived in town and was …’
Slowly, as if waking from a dream, she seemed to register him and realize that he was there. She looked him in the eyes and Ulfar felt like he’d been struck.
‘I’m … I’m … I’ve … We’re …’ he stammered, blushed and turned away. Furious heat burned his face. What? What just happened? His feet decided for him and walked him away from the pier, back towards his cousin.
Geiri looked him up and down. ‘So? Was it incredible? Did she laugh? Did she cry? Did she beg to bear your children?’ Ulfar found he couldn’t speak. Instead his eyes were drawn past and through Geiri, out to sea. After what seemed like an age he finally found some words. ‘She … um … she … Yes. I mean no.’
‘Ulfar … did you hit your head? What happened? What did she say to you?’
Ulfar briefly inspected his feet and fidgeted with his hair. ‘Nothing. Let’s go.’ He turned and walked away. Anywhere would do as long as it was away from the harbour. Vaguely aware that Geiri was shuffling behind him, Ulfar looked around for the biggest road leading out of the harbour square.
There.
A paved road ran due north, past the longhouse. As they breached the half-circle of houses around the harbour the old town thinned out around them. Ulfar drew a sharp breath.
What had looked like a hill when they arrived was in fact a fortress. The walls were massive, curving away in a perfect circle from a gate at the end of the road. They were the height of at least three if not four grown men, almost vertical and overgrown with grass. Sentries walked the walls, patrolling the gate at the end of the road.
‘Slow down, will you?’ Geiri muttered behind him as they walked towards the gate. Ulfar was in no mood to reply. ‘So that’s the new town. These guys seem to be serious about their fortifications, don’t they? This is like Trelleborg,’ Geiri ventured. Ulfar kept walking. The gate in the wall turned out to be the entrance into a short tunnel with a steady stream of people going in and out. They emerged on the other side and into a market square with stalls and carts wherever there was a bit of space. A road led straight north from the market to the centre of town, where a longhouse rose above the roofs of the surrounding houses. Without a word Ulfar walked towards it.
Geiri caught up with him at the door. ‘Okay. So. We’re here now.’ His cousin composed himself, smoothed out imaginary creases in his clothing and stood up straight. ‘Let’s go.’ He pushed at the thick oak doors, which swung open without a sound. He stepped inside. Ulfar followed.
The chieftain’s longhouse was empty save for two old men on an elevated platform at the far end. They seemed to be deep in conversation. Geiri moved towards them. ‘Svealand sends its greetings!’ he said loudly when he’d come halfway towards them.
The two men looked up. Something passed between them and the older one, a short, wiry man with a bushy white beard, stood and moved towards them.
‘Well met, Svealand,’ he said. ‘My name is Sven.’
‘No – I mean – I send greetings from Svealand,’ Geiri stammered. ‘I thought – are you Sigurd?’
‘No. My name is still Sven,’ the old man said, hardly able to contain his amusement. Ulfar could see the colour rise in his cousin’s cheeks. His own burned in response and he thought of the girl by the harbour. Nothing was real in this house because she wasn’t here. He felt like he was watching Geiri and the old man through water.
‘But you’ve not introduced yourself, Svealand. Who honours us with their company?’ the man named Sven asked, eyes glinting in the half-light.
‘Well met. My name—’ Geiri coughed and cleared his throat. ‘I am Geiri Alfgeirsson, son of—’
The old man snorted. ‘Svealand, my boy. Are you about to say you’re the son of Alfgeir Bjorne? Is that what you’re going to say?’
Geiri deflated. ‘… Yes?’
The old man’s eyes sparkled and he curbed a laugh. ‘Really. All right then. Let’s for a moment assume you are. What do you want, Geiri Alfgeirsson?’
‘My father has sent me to—’
‘Trade arms? Offer alliances? Take our gold and promise to come back with ships full of hardened Svear ready to do our bidding?’
Through the water Ulfar saw Geiri look at him with panic in his eyes. He saw his cousin beg for assistance, beg him to get them out of this mess. But she wasn’t there so it wasn’t real. He shrugged.
The old man looked at them then leaned towards Geiri, speaking softly. ‘Now, son. Let me tell you something. If you’ve come into Stenvik to lie and cheat you’re either very brave or not very smart. If you’ve come here in truth, think about this. Like a big sword, your father’s name has weight. If you want to lift something heavy you need to be strong. Now go away before my chieftain gets impatient and has you beheaded.’
Defeated, Geiri slunk off and Ulfar followed, his mind still at the harbour.
*
‘Just give me the damn flask.’ The hand was outstretched, huge, calloused and scarred, palm up.
‘I will, Harald. I will. Have I ever let you down?’
The big man snorted. Crammed into the little hut he looked ridiculously out of place. Like a bull, Valgard thought. Big, strong, clumsy, stupid and very dangerous. Especially when he wanted something.
And now Harald wanted his mixture.
‘Give me the bloody thing so I can go see Sigurd and give an account of the trip. They’re
unloading the Westerdrake now but they’ll be done soon and I need to get back. Next time I want more. I ran out four days ago. I am not happy, Valgard.’
Valgard shivered. He had seen first-hand what happened when Harald was not happy, so he spoke quickly, forcing a note of brightness into his voice. ‘I understand, Harald. I do. I will make more for the next trip. Did you have much luck?’
Valgard handed over a small leather bottle.
‘Luck has nothing to do with it,’ the big captain spat as he grabbed the bottle. ‘Luck is for the weak. Luck has no place on a raid. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, of course.’ He brought it to his lips and tilted the flask carefully. A big drop of black, viscous liquid trickled out onto his tongue. Then another.
He lowered the bottle reluctantly and savoured the taste. Then he sighed.
‘That … is exactly what I needed. I will go to Sigurd and tell him of our victories and he will be pleased, I think.’ Harald rose and manoeuvred himself awkwardly out of the hut without sparing Valgard another word. A breeze with a hint of autumn colds to come was all he left as a token of his thanks.
When he was sure Harald had left, Valgard dropped the appearance of fearful respect and looked again at the ingredients on his workbench.
A smile spread slowly across his face.
VINGULMARK, EAST NORWAY
Torches set on pikes cast a flickering glow over the tiny settlement. A solid mass of armed men formed a silent ring of steel and blades, two thousand strong. Inside the metal band, confused and shivering people were being roused from run-down huts.
It was a raw night. The kind of night that bit your skin and chilled your bone. If there was a moon somewhere, it was hiding behind thick banks of grey cloud.
A blood night, Finn thought.
A small shrine to the old gods had been erected in the middle of the place. It was a pitiful thing. Poorly carved statues teetered over stains from animal sacrifices and a faint smell of rotting food lingered in the air. Just like all the others so far. He detached himself from his regiment, strode into the centre of the ring, took up a position next to the shrine and turned towards the locals.
‘Who is your chieftain?’ he shouted.
None of them seemed eager to move, but eventually a council of sorts emerged. Five men shuffled reluctantly from the safety of the crowd and formed a line in front of the big bearded soldier. That would be the council, then. They looked miserable, Finn thought. They were ragged and scrawny, a mismatched family of starved dogs. Filthy rag-wearing mud rollers, the lot of them. But orders were orders, and his were to draw the leaders out and keep them there until the King would speak to them. Still, their chieftain seemed to have at least a little pride left in him. He straightened his back and squared his broad shoulders. With fire in his eyes he looked at Finn and took a step forward. ‘We have done nothing wrong.’
‘That will be for him to decide.’
‘Him who?’
Finn glanced at the man but did not answer. He looked strong. The way he puffed his chest and arched his back, Finn reckoned that’s what he wanted to look like. However, experience had taught Finn the difference between strong men and fighters, and this man was a farmer, not a fighter. Furthermore he seemed angry, and angry farmers had no business being out on a blood night. No business at all.
Out of the corner of his eye he spied movement. Unlike the confused peasants, he did not need to turn and look. He knew very well what was happening.
To his side, the soldiers in the ring made way for a man on horseback.
Straight blond hair framed a handsome, clean-shaven face. The rings in his mail shirt gleamed in the firelight and the silver embroidery on the cloak slung around his shoulders seemed to come to life, flowing up and down his arms and back. A simple metal band sat in place of a crown.
King Olav Tryggvason rode slowly into the centre of the settlement, past the men and the women, the young and the old, towards Finn and the pathetic village council.
As instructed, Finn had made them stand next to the shrine. When the King saw it, he pulled the reins on his horse and stopped. Dismounting swiftly, he walked around the shrine, inspecting the crude idols of Odin, Thor and Freya in turn. Finn watched as he bowed his head and clutched his hand to his chest, thumbing that strange necklace of his, the cross that looked like a Thor’s Hammer but without the head.
As Finn and the farmer watched, he turned and looked at them.
His features betrayed no emotion.
He walked slowly over to the man who had claimed to be the leader of the settlement. When he was close enough he fixed him with a cold look.
‘Who is your god?’
The man seemed confused at this.
‘Our god? What do you mean?’ He looked at the King for explanation. None was forthcoming. Looking at the idols, light dawned. ‘Oh. I understand. We sacrifice to Odin for the battle, Thor for crops and Freya for fertility, just like everybody else.’
King Olav looked straight at the leader. ‘For this you will give me twenty of your strongest men.’ The chieftain’s eyes opened wide, and he moved to protest. King Olav silenced him. ‘Choose them now. If you object, I take thirty.’
The farmer tensed his shoulders and took a step forward, poised and ready to strike. An almost imperceptible gesture from the King stopped him in his tracks.
Finn watched the fighting spirit in the man’s eyes fade from a burning fire to a flickering candle flame. After a brief while he turned towards the crowd and began shouting names. The King’s new men emerged reluctantly from the crowd.
‘You are my soldiers now,’ King Olav proclaimed over the shuffling group and motioned for them to leave. The soldiers stepped aside again, allowing the twenty recruits to leave the settlement.
Their friends, families and lovers watched them depart.
Olav waited until the recruits had left and the circle had closed. ‘I will deal with them according to their conduct, and by their own standards I will judge them. Then they will know that I am the Lord,’ he said softly to himself, and moved towards his mount.
‘This is not right,’ the village leader blurted, taking another step towards the king. His face was flushed. ‘You cannot take the men away from us to fight for you. For what? For sacrificing to the gods? Who’s going to defend us? Who’s going to harvest? We will starve! We will … we …’ the chieftain’s words faltered as Olav turned back towards him, looking him in the eye. Finn watched the man wilt under the King’s steely gaze.
‘Are you the leader of these people?’ Olav asked quietly.
‘Y-yes.’ The man looked around, but found little support. ‘Yes, I am.’
‘Are you the man they have turned to in their hour of need?’ the King continued, tension building in his voice.
‘I … yes.’
‘Have you taken responsibility for their lives? Their eternal lives? And have you led them in worship of’ – the King drew a breath and composed himself – ‘these gods?’ He gestured towards the shrine.
‘Yes.’
King Olav Tryggvason looked at the man standing before him and seemed to come to a decision.
‘Do you have any sons?’ he asked.
‘No. Not yet,’ the man replied.
‘Good.’
In a flash the King drew his sword and cut through the village leader’s throat with one forceful swing.
With eyes wide open and blood gushing from his throat the farmer collapsed onto the ground. King Olav had already moved on to the man next to the dying leader and fixed him with a level gaze, and now he spoke in calm, reassuring tones. ‘You are the chieftain of Vingulmark. This settlement will renounce its heathen ways. You will be responsible for removing the totems. You will not make sacrifices to the old gods. You will answer to me, and I will be your king. In time, I will send holy men to see how you fare, collect my due and teach you about the White Christ.’
The newly appointed leader looked from Olav’s face to the blood drip
ping off the point of his sword, and from there down to the dead man at his feet. Then he nodded, eyes wide with fear.
King Olav turned and looked at the assembled peasants.
Gaunt faces with hungry eyes stared back at him.
Instinctively, he made the sign of the cross over his chest and turned to Finn.
‘We leave now. Gather the men.’
‘Do we take supplies, my lord?’
Olav paused for a second and cast a sideways glance at Finn. Then he looked again at the forlorn group of peasants, staring at their dead leader.
‘There is nothing more here for me.’ He shook his head almost imperceptibly, mounted up and guided his horse to a slow walk out of the settlement.
AT SEA
Four oars sliced into the velvet ocean, making almost no sound. A small boat skimmed across the water, heading for the darkened mass of shore. Away from the rowers, two figures huddled in shadows in the bow.
‘It is a good night,’ a sibilant voice whispered. ‘She will be pleased that we are fulfilling the will of the gods. The signs are favourable.’
‘And so they will remain if you shut your mouth,’ another voice replied. The oars kept up their silent work as the boat moved on towards its destination.
STENVIK
Geiri leaned against a support beam in the corner, eyes closed, arms crossed. One hand rubbed and pinched at his brow. Without opening his eyes, he spoke.
‘Let me see if I understand this.’
‘Please. I know. I’m sorry. I said already.’
‘No. No, I want to understand.’
Ulfar paced back and forth restlessly in the cramped hut. ‘I don’t—’
Geiri cut in. ‘Two years. From the south of Svealand to Holmsgard, from Hedeby to bloody Aldeigjuborg and halfway to Smolensk and back. And we have only one town to see before we can go home, when your debt of honour will be repaid and we can inherit what our fathers have built. Only one town.’
The Valhalla Saga Page 3