The Valhalla Saga

by Snorri Kristjansson

  Still – something had to be done. But what?

  STENVIK FOREST

  Instinct, Oraekja thought. That’s what that was. He’d made a life-saving decision, just like great leaders do. Some of the useless farmers had died, but that was bound to happen. He was alive and he was going to stay that way. He’d got to the cover of the trees, found thick underbrush to hide in and lain down, aiming to do like he’d seen Ragnar do and stop breathing.

  It had worked. He’d melted into his surroundings.

  He wrapped the cloak tight around himself. Night was coming. It would still be a while before Skargrim arrived. Thinking of Skuld, he drifted off into an uncomfortable sleep.

  HARDANGER HEATH

  The last rays of the setting sun cast a fading light on the field. Tents were lined up in patterns, dotted by campfires being lit. Around the fires, the men of Olav’s army sat and talked.

  ‘Did you see?’

  ‘You’ve asked me three times now. Yes I did. We all did. We were all there.’

  ‘I still can’t believe it.’

  ‘I know. They should have queued up to strike the King down. What I want to know is what manner of god this White Christ is if he could outwit Odin, outfight Thor and ward off the charms of Freya. He must have either defeated them or protected our King.’

  ‘Or both.’

  ‘Or both. There has been no sign of thunder tonight.’

  ‘It makes you think twice, it does.’

  Finn listened to the campfire talk as he made his rounds. The events of the day clearly weighed heavily on the men’s minds.

  The camp looked much better now, he thought. When they started out men had just slung down their packs when it was time to stop. They would wander from their little circles to drink, argue or settle scores with old neighbours. King Olav had put a stop to that on the third day of their campaign, months ago now. ‘These are the old ways,’ he’d said. Finn still remembered the looks on the grizzled old chieftains’ faces as the young King told them how to command their men. The King had created rules. He had told the chieftains where to camp relative to his tent every night. He had shown them where to put sentries, where to place the horses at night. Rotations were drawn up and a division of hunters and gatherers created. Some of them were plainly furious, but none had dared to go up against him. And even the stubbornest chieftain had to admit that the young King seemed to know what he was doing. A few troublemakers had tried to upset the balance a couple of days later. The King had dealt with them fast and without mercy.

  Finn’s musings had brought him towards King Olav’s tent. The flap was open, the hide pinned back to let in air. Or display the inhabitant, he thought.

  The King knelt before a small wooden box or chest of some sort. On it was easily the biggest book Finn had ever seen, open in the middle. The young man seemed to be mouthing words, lost in thought. He fingered some sort of talisman that hung around his neck. All at once his lips stopped moving, and he reached for the book. He touched it tenderly, traced a line on the page. Reaching for the cover, he closed the book slowly and spoke without looking up.

  ‘Good evening, Finn.’

  Finn was taken aback. How could he know? He hadn’t made a sound. At last he managed to stutter a reply.

  ‘Good … good evening, my lord.’

  King Olav got to his feet, his back turned towards Finn. He looked at the ground and seemed deep in thought.

  ‘Tell me of the men. Are they tired?’

  ‘No, my lord. They are well. Most of them are sitting around campfires, talking.’

  ‘What about?’

  Finn paused. What were his options? Keep silent? Hardly. Lie? That didn’t seem very smart.

  ‘They’re wondering, my lord. About the White Christ.’

  King Olav turned around, raised his head and looked hard at Finn. His expression was very hard to read. ‘Well then. I suppose we should go and do our duty, should we not?’ He strode off without waiting for an answer.

  Finn followed the King. Daylight was fading fast, and he had to watch his step to keep from falling over.

  When they approached the first of the campfires, King Olav slowed down and turned to Finn.

  ‘Those men over there. Do you know them?’

  ‘Yes, my lord. They’re from the east coast. Part of the original group that rose up against Haakon Jarl. They’re trustworthy.’

  ‘So if I were to talk to them, do you think they would run around repeating what I said?’

  Finn answered immediately. ‘No, my lord. Not at all.’

  ‘Then we move on.’

  Thoroughly confused, Finn followed.

  At a distance from the next campfire, King Olav stopped again. ‘How about that bunch over there? Are they less worthy of my trust?’

  Finn peered through the gloom, trying to make out faces. ‘They seem to be from the south. Botolf’s men are there. Some are Skeggi’s. They’re … I probably wouldn’t … I mean …’ He hesitated. King Olav looked at him for a second, then turned and set off towards the campfire, silently and slowly. Strands of the men’s conversation lingered on the night air. What Finn heard set his heart racing.

  ‘… but surely the White Christ cannot have both the strength of Thor and the cunning of Odin?’

  Five soldiers were sat around a campfire. Some argued, others laughed. A fat man with crooked teeth and a bushy beard laughed the loudest.

  ‘What’s next? Does he have the hips of Freya?’ he roared, taken with his own wit. He slapped his thigh, made some very suggestive gestures and laughed heartily.

  Nobody laughed with him.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ he shot at his companions. ‘Did the King break your balls on that stone today or something?’ He faced a half-circle of white faces, all staring at a point a little bit above and behind him. Slowly, confusion flowed into realization as silence spread like rings on water around the campfire. Finally, one of his friends spoke up. ‘My lord … we were not … he didn’t mean …’

  ‘You have not understood what I told you about the White Christ today, have you?’ The King’s voice was steady and reassuring. The question was more of a statement.

  ‘… No?’ mumbled the bulky soldier.

  King Olav stepped into the circle. In the flickering light of the fire he seemed otherworldly, like something carved out of the bones of giants. The men stared at him, mesmerized.

  ‘What would you know of him? Ask and I will tell you.’ He looked at each one of them in turn. None dared hold his gaze. Finally one of them, a solidly built young man with unruly dark hair and a thick brow, worked up some courage.

  ‘See, um, we were wondering. Because the old gods, Odin and Thor and—’ The young man faltered. The others seemed to hold their breath. One or two of them looked for King Olav’s sword. The men to either side of the young soldier inched away. He bravely ploughed on. ‘The gods of our fathers have been with us for a long time. We know what they can do. But then you broke the idols and they did not strike you down. Why?’

  The question hung in the air for what seemed like an eternity. Then King Olav smiled. In the flickering firelight, it wasn’t an entirely reassuring sight. ‘They did not, as I told you, because my god—’ He paused and corrected himself. ‘Our god protects us, and he is wiser and stronger than both Odin and Thor.’

  Emboldened, the dark-haired man countered: ‘That must mean that the White Christ is a warrior beyond any the world has seen.’

  King Olav’s face was unreadable. There was an almost imperceptible pause before he continued. His voice changed subtly. ‘Yes. Yes he is. He is as tall as the biggest giants. He makes Thor look like a boy.’ Amazement shone on the faces of the soldiers. King Olav went on. ‘He has a sword that only he can lift. He uses this as others might use a knife. In his other hand he holds a shield that only he can hold and not even Tyr himself could break. It is pierced in two places by the fangs of the Worm of Midgard …’ King Olav paused artfully. The soldiers hung
on to his every word. ‘… which the White Christ fought for sport.’ The men stared at him, silent and rapt with attention. Olav’s voice carried conviction and strength, and he continued. ‘The White Christ lives in the sky, in a hall filled with riches that make all the gold and finery on earth seem like the contents of a smallholder’s pouch. He can take wives where and when he wants, but waits for one that is worthy of him.’ Some of the men seemed confused at this, and Finn noticed that more had drifted towards the spectacle, curious but wary of coming too close. King Olav continued.

  ‘The White Christ’s hall is at the very least twice the size of Valhalla. Many wondrous things are there to please the eye and fire the spirit. Shapely maids serve ale from golden urns. No man that takes the White Christ into his heart ever goes hungry or cold after he dies, nor does he have to content himself with the same pig’s flesh and goat’s milk every day. He can choose whatever he wants, and Christ provides.’ Among the men, nods and murmurs of assent were exchanged. With increased passion and intensity, King Olav pushed on. ‘The White Christ has won more battles than anyone can count. His followers toppled a mighty empire to the south, the Romans. Their armies seemed invincible, but with the might of the White Christ, the people of true belief could work miracles, things that mortal men cannot. And the White Christ performed miracles as well. He walked the earth in the guise of a man, much as Odin did.’

  The audience had quietly grown from five to twenty men, most of whom hid in the dusk beyond the firelight. All eyes were on King Olav. He paused, and the silence was absolute. None dared draw a breath. When he spoke again his soul seemed to be in every word.

  ‘The White Christ can heal the sick. The White Christ can wake the dead.’ Gritting his teeth, King Olav drew himself up to his full height and snarled: ‘The White Christ is good and pure. But he will not show mercy to those that have confessed to being his enemies. He will deal with them according to their conduct, and by their own standards he will judge them. Then they will know that He is the lord.’

  As he spoke, he looked into the face of each and every man standing around the campfire, finding the eyes even of those hiding in the dark. Daring anyone to object to anything he’d said, he held their attention and their silence for a brief moment. Then he nodded to the large soldier whom he had surprised earlier.

  ‘Get some rest. We march early tomorrow for Stenvik. Christ bless you.’ King Olav left the circle and disappeared towards his tent.

  Crackling fire, fading light and the measured voice of a man telling stories of his White Christ had cast a spell on the men. They sat around the fire in a stunned daze. Finn had to pinch himself to snap out of it. He ambled after King Olav, half aware of smatterings of conversation starting behind him.

  When he got to the King’s tent, the flap was closed.

  He could hear King Olav’s voice within, reciting softly.

  ‘Our father, which art in heaven. Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done.’ The voice seemed to trail off. The last thing Finn heard before he left to inspect the sentries was a muted whisper from the tent.

  ‘Forgive me.’

  STENVIK

  The fires in the longhouse burned low as Thorvald stepped through the doorway. Sigurd watched him from his seat on the dais.

  ‘Well?’

  Thorvald bit the words off. ‘There are a lot of them out there, but they keep to the darkest parts of the woods. It’s murder to get any kind of estimate on their number. I’ve lost two scouts trying.’

  ‘But they’re staying put? They’re not grouping up? Did you see their leader?’ Sigurd fired the questions fast and hard.

  The scout master looked wearily back at him. ‘What do you want me to say, Sigurd? I don’t know. I don’t know how they work. We’ve never faced them before. All I know is there’s a lot of them, ranging from the scrawny and desperate to some bastards that can really handle themselves. I also know they’re here and they got two of my boys.’ Thorvald’s face was flushed with anger and he had to swallow hard before he continued. ‘The answer to your question is no. We’ve not seen them grouping up in any way that I understand. Except for there being a pile of them in our own wood.’ Thorvald scowled.

  ‘Their lack of movement is not necessarily good,’ Sven added from the corner.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Sigurd spat.

  ‘Skargrim is coming and suddenly our forest crawls with outlaws.’

  ‘If you mean what I think you mean, you’re slipping into old age sooner than we thought,’ Harald countered.

  ‘Maybe, maybe not,’ Sven replied. ‘All I’m saying is that we should not be surprised if the outlaws move when Skargrim appears.’

  Harald banged the arm rest of his high-backed chair. ‘Shut up, old man! We should gather our fighters! Root them out before Skargrim—’

  ‘No, Harald. It’s time you shut up!’ Thorvald snarled. ‘I’m not risking any of my men in those woods just because you want to go bash some heads!’

  ‘I agree with Thorvald,’ Sven added.

  ‘You would,’ Harald shot back. ‘None of you dare stand alone against me. You always—’

  Sigurd rose slowly from his chair and the three men fell silent. ‘We know Skargrim is on his way. We know that there are outlaws in our woods, and they’ve come in numbers.’ Sigurd took his time and looked at his warriors in turn. ‘Now there is only one question. When the crows come to feast …’ He stepped off the dais, turned and looked up at Harald, Thorvald and Sven. ‘… are you going to sit here scratching your arses and yapping like old women, or are you coming with me to do something about it?’

  A cold smile played on his lips as he moved towards the door of the longhouse. Behind him, the others swapped quizzical glances as they got up to follow their chieftain.

  NORTH OF STENVIK

  ‘Pater noster, qui es in caelis …’

  Finn didn’t understand the words, but by now he knew them by heart. At first only a small group of men had wanted to join the King for Morning Prayer, but the number had grown steadily. Over half the army had joined in since King Olav cast down the totems.

  ‘Adveniat regnum tuum …’

  The murmured voices of two thousand soldiers sounded somehow unstoppable, like a glacier rolling over rock, crushing everything in its path. There had been a marked change in the men recently. No one dared cast snide glances at the young King now, and a core of them would gladly follow him to their deaths.

  ‘Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra …’

  A smattering of red and yellow decorated the nearby trees, a sure sign that autumn was coming. When they got to Stenvik they’d be able to split the army up into divisions, go further, cover more ground and always return to a safe base. The Lord’s work would go much faster.

  ‘… sed libera nos a malo. Amen.’

  The lithe young man rose and behind him, as one, a mass of soldiers followed suit. The body followed the head. It sent shivers up Finn’s spine. There was no doubt about it.

  These men would do anything for King Olav and the White Christ.

  BETWEEN WYRMSEY AND STENVIK

  Hrafn sailed on the left flank. Ingi formed the rearguard. Thrainn’s contingent covered their right flank and Skargrim’s ships made up the van. Egill’s men were not in formation, content to hover some distance off. Skargrim didn’t mind. He’d often said that a small dose of chaos did a powerful lot of good in a fight.

  ‘You. Get some sleep.’ Thora had somehow sneaked up behind him at his post by the masthead. ‘I won’t say it again, and I don’t want to kick you in the balls. Can’t be bothered dragging your big hairy arse to your perch. Get some sleep.’

  He turned away from the wind, the sea spray and the fresh rays of the rising sun. Nodding slowly, he offered a smile to his second in command and started picking his way across towards the helm. There was sense in the woman. Better grab rest when he could. One never knew when the opportunity would rise again.

  Far behind
him the west coast of Norway rose out of the mist, a green stripe on the horizon.

  STENVIK FOREST

  The road had led Jorn and his three riders through farmland, along the coast and now towards a forest that was growing steadily more dense. A beautiful autumn morning sun shone down on trees slowly shedding their summer hues, sporting the occasional yellowing and reddening leaf. The tranquillity of the scene drew them in. There was not a single sound of any kind to be heard in the forest.

  ‘Th-th-they’re h-here.’

  Birkir unwound the leather strap on the haft of his axe. It was a nasty piece of work, a woodsman’s hand axe augmented to serve other, less genial purposes. The blade tapered down from the edge to a pick-like point at the back and small iron tacks had been smelted onto the head, designed to rip and tear as the axe sliced through flesh.

  ‘Put it away, big man.’

  Birkir shot a glance at Jorn. ‘So we’re going in like lambs?’

  The smile on the young Prince’s face was chilling. ‘No, we’re not.’

  Realization dawned slowly on Birkir. ‘You’re saying we can’t fight our way through. And we won’t sneak. You’re going to run for it, aren’t you?’ Behind him, fat Havar whimpered.

  Jorn only nodded and reined in his horse. The animal, scenting something, snorted nervously. Runar lined up beside the Prince and inspected his bow. Behind them, Birkir shook his head. Starting at a trot, Jorn urged his horse forward, leaning on the animal’s neck and whispering in its ear. They picked up speed gradually until they were galloping along the forest path.

  Shaking in his saddle, Runar struggled to be heard over the din of hoofs. ‘I-I-I hope you’ve p-p-picked the right p-path!’ Jorn only grinned and spurred his horse onward.