‘Geiri, I—’
‘One town. With one provincial chieftain that we need to see and impress once, so he’ll continue trading with our fathers and then with us. One stinking town. And you go and get your head all wrong over a girl.’ Ulfar winced but Geiri didn’t notice. ‘Leaving your brain in your pants and your tongue on the pier. Leaving me to make some half-cooked introductions which I made a mess of—’ Geiri took a deep breath, scowled and tried to control his temper. ‘Your head wasn’t there, cousin. Your mind was down on that pier. Because of a girl. A girl. You know, I stopped counting a year ago, Ulfar. Every port. Every market. Twice, sometimes three times. Sisters at one point. You’d have had them on the ships if you could. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a school of seal-women trailing us coming here. And then you let me down like that over one stupid cow.’
One moment Ulfar was standing a few feet away, the next he’d thrown a jab directly at Geiri’s jaw.
He stormed out as his friend crumpled to the floor and stalked down the wooden walkway stringing together an impressive list of colourful curses. Fresh, cold autumn air and morning drizzle did little to improve his mood.
It had been inevitable, though. Geiri had not spoken to him all of yesterday after the disastrous meeting with the old man, and the tension had been building between them. He could understand that his friend would be a little annoyed, but he took it too far by a ship’s length. It was one town. One town! Who cared? Ulfar kicked at a stone and missed. Those greybeards would not have had any time for pleasantries or trade talk anyway. Besides, he doubted that even his best performance would have swayed that particular chieftain. From the looks of it the only thing that would have impressed him in the least would have been walking in holding the man-sized jaws of the Worm of Midgard, and even then he’d probably ask what you’d planned for the rest of the day.
That being said, Geiri was right. It had been an absolute disaster. They’d looked like foolish boys. Geiri had simply not been prepared to speak for them yesterday, and he himself had been in no mood.
That woman. Girl. Woman.
Thinking of her made him shiver.
He had moved in, brimming with confidence, opened his mouth to speak, looked in her eyes and simply lost himself.
She’d seen right through him. At least it had felt that way. He had tried to turn up the charm, but inside he’d felt increasingly naked and vulnerable. She’d undressed and disarmed him, without so much as a word.
Those eyes.
Even thinking about her felt strange. His scalp tingled, his eyes felt blurry and his heart beat faster. What was this? Witchcraft?
Ulfar ambled between huts, trying to walk the annoyance off. His feet took him through the south gateway and into the market square of the new town. The people of Stenvik were out and about, most of them seeming intent on getting in his way. He noticed the blond blacksmith they’d seen in the longhouse on the first night. This time he was wearing a leather apron and carrying firewood into a smithy. Ulfar found himself moving away from the vendors, north towards the centre and the longhouse where they’d had that disastrous meeting yesterday. Maybe he could walk across town and away from this strange feeling. Shake it loose. Go back down to the seaside, or out through one of the smaller side gates. Into the forest to the north. Maybe he could loiter at the market, see if the merchants had something to distract him.
There had been so much sadness in those eyes. Like she’d known every trick he would use before he’d thought of it and felt disappointed that he thought he would need to. Like she knew he was going to try to deceive her. Like somehow he’d already let her down, and he would never be able to make it better. Like seeing him could mean nothing good. She had stung him more than he cared to admit with just one look.
Ulfar walked on past the longhouse, head down. He would have to apologize to Geiri. He hadn’t meant to hit him, he shouldn’t have and he wouldn’t again. Could they make amends, maybe get to speak to the chieftain himself? Was there any way to salvage this, or should they just leave? The thought of leaving made him wince. He had to see her again. He had to.
*
‘… How many?’
The man in the high seat leaned forward. Thick, silver-grey hair in a plait held together with bronze wire snaked down over one shoulder. Weather-beaten skin stretched taut, thin lips and blue eyes composed the features of a slim man of average height. Still Sigurd Aegisson, chieftain of Stenvik, had stared down some big men in his time, and now he was looking down on the portly friar standing on the longhouse floor.
‘At least ten. There could have been more. I didn’t count.’ The friar shuddered but did not seem to notice. Wearing a simple brown robe with fresh rips, he looked likely to collapse on the spot. The left side of his face was covered with bruises and his shoes were badly torn. ‘They came at dusk. Howled like wolves, they did. Creatures out of the very pit of Hell, abominations on our Lord’s earth.’ He made the sign of the cross. ‘All with the claws of the evil one on their necks. Axes and swords and the green fire of the devil himself—’
‘Spare me your Christ-babble.’ Sigurd shook his hand dismissively. ‘You settled in Moster, we’ve left you alone, you’ve kept to yourselves. That’s the arrangement. And now you’re here and you’d like me to believe that there is an army coming from the north.’ The man nodded. ‘An invincible army of raiders.’ The man nodded again. ‘On ten ships.’ The man nodded again, hesitant. Sigurd continued. ‘Did they have Jotuns with them, maybe? Fire-breathing giants? Was the lead ship possibly made of nails, ripped from the fingers and toes of the dead?’
To Sigurd’s right, Harald snickered and shot a glance at Thorvald on the left. The tall, wiry scout frowned back and motioned for the captain to be quiet. The friar standing in front of Sigurd scowled. ‘Don’t mock me with heathen stories of your barbarian end of days, Sigurd son of Aegir. I saw what I saw.’
‘And what would you have me do then, Friar Johann?’ Sigurd snapped. ‘Unlike you, I don’t need to move around until I find an island small enough to hold only people that agree with me. What I do need to do is keep the people of Stenvik as alive and well as I possibly can. That is why I am here’ – Sigurd slapped the solid arm of the high seat for emphasis – ‘and you’re there.’ He gestured down to Friar Johann. ‘So consider my options. What happens if you’re correct? Stenvik has maybe twelve hundred men who could hold a sword, five hundred of whom are fighters. Damn good fighters, but just five hundred. Ten ships is not much but it still means two hundred raiders, possibly three hundred.’ Sigurd motioned at Harald, who shot the friar a filthy look. ‘Do you want me to ready our twenty ships and send them to the sea searching for ghosts? For creatures from Hell?’ Sigurd gestured to Thorvald then continued: ‘Or perhaps send a party of our finest hunters to search for tracks? Should I send half my men into a battle that is at best evenly matched or send all of them out on a wild chase after a phantom raiding party, which will either leave me looking like a fool with no defences or a wise man with a score of dead brothers and warriors, sent to their deaths for your beliefs and your insistence on having your own settlement? Would you like me to decide on one of those choices?’
The friar looked down. ‘I cannot ask you to do that.’
‘No,’ Sigurd said. ‘No you damn well can’t. So why are you here, Friar Johann? And how did you get here? I am an old man, but unless memory fails me you were a member of the council and a man of name and responsibility in your settlement. Why did you not die defending your people, Johann?’
‘We do not believe in fighting,’ the friar muttered.
‘Yet you are asking me to believe in your stories of a horde of mystical northerners, raiding and ravaging just up my coast. You’re asking me to believe that they’ve somehow raised a party that has advanced within four days’ journey of Stenvik without any word getting back to anyone, and that they have razed just your little pile of rock and nothing else. And that nobody has spotted so much as a sail of
theirs. I’ll tell you what I am going to do with you. I’ll—’
There was movement in the shadows behind the dais. Sven emerged, moved towards Sigurd’s seat, leaned in and whispered a few words in the chieftain’s ear.
Sigurd looked thoughtfully at the dejected friar. ‘Tell me about this so-called Devil’s Fire. It sounds like fun.’
The friar shuddered. ‘I was sleeping soundly when the screams started. When I got to my feet there was a noise … like a …’ He looked at his audience. ‘… Like a giant drawing a breath. Only it wasn’t. I went outside, and our church was on fire. And it wasn’t regular fire. It was like someone had draped our church in northern lights.’
‘They burned your roof? You Christians should be used to that by now,’ Harald smirked.
The friar turned to the burly captain as if noticing him for the first time. ‘No. Not the roof. The church.’
‘The church on Moster was built of stone, was it not?’ Sven asked.
‘Yes.’
An uneasy silence filled the room.
‘So … they set fire to the stone?’ Sigurd asked.
The friar winced at the edge in his voice. ‘I’m telling you what I saw.’
Sigurd stared at him for a long time. Finally, the chieftain leaned back in his chair. ‘You’re a lucky man, Friar Johann. My charity is such that I would happily have had your head mounted on our wall so you could scout your army of mysterious demons for yourself, but wiser men than I look to your fate. Go now, get out of my sight and try to make yourself useful somehow. Go to Einar in the old longhouse and tell him I said he should feed you.’
The friar made to speak but thought better of it, turned and walked away from the high seat. Sigurd and his men watched him leave without a word.
Silence descended upon the chieftain’s longhouse as the large wooden door closed. Sigurd seemed lost in his own thoughts. Thorvald watched him intently. Harald leaned back in his chair and stifled a yawn. The mounted weapons, elaborate tapestries and gilded wooden carvings did little to relieve the oppressive silence.
Finally, Sigurd spoke.
‘So. What do you think?’
‘We cannot be certain of anything,’ Thorvald said. ‘Common robbers? Or do we think he’s telling the truth?’
‘A couple of stinking northerners decided to do away with the simpering cowards on their little island. Why do we care?’ Harald spat for emphasis. ‘Stupid place to put a church anyway, stone or no stone. I can’t say I blame whoever did it – I just hope they got loot to show for it. Less use than tits on a duck, those Christians.’
‘Still, we cannot ignore this,’ Sven said. ‘You heard the man.’ He walked off the dais and sat down by the long table that stretched almost all the way from the dais to the door.
‘I heard a lot of moaning, some nonsense about burning stone, and I saw a fat friar about to piss himself like a child. What do you mean, Sven?’ Sigurd snapped.
Sven’s voice was measured.
‘Scars of the evil one. On their necks.’
A grim silence descended.
Then Thorvald spoke.
‘He really did say that, didn’t he?’
‘Could be anyone or anything. It makes no sense,’ Harald interjected. ‘And why would he raid to the south? They’ll get nothing here. Much better to carve the belly of the pig and go west. Better loot, more women, less trouble.’
The old, bearded man shot the big sea captain a cold look. ‘And have you ever known him to be averse to a spot of trouble, Harald? We all knew that church would not sit well with the northerners.’
Sigurd sighed. ‘But why now?’
‘I don’t know, but I doubt he would move without reason,’ Sven replied.
Thorvald frowned. ‘I have heard and seen nothing of this, Sigurd. Nor has Sigmar or any of our men. You would think that word would have reached us if he was on the move, especially during market.’
Sigurd ignored the captain and the scout, looking directly at the old man. ‘What would you have done, Sven? It’s plain to see that King Olav can’t march in winter. If he waits until next summer the chieftains up north will be able to band together and give him a proper fight. He needs us as a wintering base. Would you have signed the treaty or would you have had the homestead of our fathers and our fathers’ fathers razed for being a centre for heathen worship in the west? Those were my choices.’
‘I know,’ Sven replied. ‘You did the only thing you could do. But think on this. We have already heard talk of the King sweeping across the south and east, much faster than we thought he would last year, and he is a good eight days away. We all know by now how he rules and what he does to those who go by the old ways. Who else would stand against him?’
‘Hm.’ Sigurd’s eye was drawn to a hunting dog lying under the table, gnawing on a large bone. A half-grown bitch approached, sniffing for the meat. The big dog growled, a low, steady sound. The smaller dog slunk away with its tail between its legs.
‘Thorvald, send out three of your men. Tell them to watch, listen and stay out of sight at all costs.’ Sigurd turned to Sven. ‘Your counsel is wise as always, but I feel I have to know for myself. Even though I think anyone – even him – raiding in my back yard would be unlikely.’
‘Very unlikely,’ Harald chimed in and spat on the floor.
NORTH OF STENVIK
The two men leapt over the side of the boat. The younger one waded onto the beach carrying small packs, while the older pushed the boat off. The oarsmen deftly reversed and disappeared out of sight almost without missing a beat.
Wading to shore, Ragnar looked to the skies as he’d done every single time at the start of a mission since Saxony, many years ago. He’d learned then that a man who looks for rain going in doesn’t get stuck in mud coming out. Clouds were gathering in the north, much as he had expected. They were still white, but given time they’d grow thick and grey. He shivered. In front of him Oraekja was already opening packs, taking out dry boots, trousers and animal skins.
‘The moon will be full soon,’ he muttered to himself.
‘She said—’ Oraekja piped up.
‘I know full well what she said,’ Ragnar snapped, cutting him off and turning away. He started his preparations in silence and allowed his mind to roam, ignoring the youngster. He had led advance parties for raids more times than he wanted to remember and sometimes he felt he should count each of his forty-two years twice. He felt old, and he certainly had the scars and the bald spots to prove it. He hadn’t told anyone, but recently he had aches and pains to match. He had always been a scout – slim, light, quick and slightly below average height – not the best for a wild charge but just right for slipping in under cover of darkness and doing the dirty work. And it had been all right, too, in the old days. Back then you knew what it was about. It was different now. Had been ever since she came along. Suddenly everyone jumped to her tune, even his very own brother. He could understand that the men were frightened of her – he’d seen what she could do with her fire and her spells – but he’d never seen his older brother afraid of anything. She just seemed to … own him. And on top of that she’d saddled him with the puppy – Oraekja. The boy was obviously smitten with her, but Ragnar could not help but feel that the little runt was a bit … different. He didn’t look like much, but he moved and listened well. There was something about his eyes, though. They were always glancing, looking, scanning, moving. One of them would slide to the side from time to time. Ragnar hated to admit it, but the boy made him uneasy. He could just about sneak and fight, sure enough – but Oraekja had none of the sense. The kind of sense that got you out of trouble before you got yourself into it. The kind of sense that was telling Ragnar in no uncertain terms how this particular mission was going to go. ‘Fenrir take their bones. All of them,’ he muttered to himself, spat on the ground and turned to the young man.
‘Right, puppy,’ he said in a voice laced with menace. ‘Ready?’
The fervour in the boy�
�s eyes worried him.
‘Yes.’
He motioned for quiet and pointed towards the treeline, towards the road he knew would be within walking distance from the beach. They set off, moving in tandem and looking exactly like two hunters heading to market.
Underneath the bundle of skins strapped to his side, Ragnar could feel the cold, hard fire-steel against his hip.
STENVIK
The sounds of children running, shouting and playing outside in the crisp morning air were anything but joyous to Valgard, hunched over his workbench. In his head they still pursued him, after all this time. The memory of their faces, feral and twisted in cruel anticipation, exploded in his head, their cries cutting him to the bone even now.
A tingling sensation spread from the back of his head. His heart started beating faster, harder. Tremors shook his shoulders and his breath caught in his throat. ‘No,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Not now. No. No. No.’ He could feel the muscles in his back locking. The cramps spread to his hips, down to his legs. His hands twisted and turned, resembling the claws of a tortured bird.
Gritting his teeth through the spreading pain, he thought of the pond. A quiet pond surrounded by tall trees and steeped in dark, green shadows in the middle of a forest. He envisioned the surface of the pond swelling slowly, a horrific beast rising from the depths. Around it, birds took off from nearby trees and cried out in warning. He imagined himself, powerful and muscle-bound, vibrant and strong, stepping out of the forest, striding towards the water’s edge and spreading his hands. Breathing slowly, he halted the rising of the water with the power of his mind. The beast snarled and strained against him, scales and teeth and a baleful, malicious eye visible under the translucent sheen of the water.
He regained control.
The Valhalla Saga Page 4