And they would need it.
After the initial slaughter Skargrim’s army had drawn back, setting up camp around the far end of the old town, out of arrow range. Ulfar had tried to count heads but been chastised by Sven. ‘We don’t need to know,’ the old man had snapped. ‘There’s lots of ’em. Enough for everyone. Leave it at that.’ Then, a second later he’d added: ‘There’s fewer now than there were to start with, though,’ and walked away, chuckling to himself.
Now Sven was back at his side, looking to the east.
The fading light made the forest seem alive with movement. From behind every tree, out of every pool of darkness outlaws emerged, black shapes against a grey backdrop. Behind them, shadows flickered in the gloom. Shouts went up along the wall. ‘Calm down, boys!’ Sven shouted. ‘They’re just showing themselves.’ Most of the mass of outlaws disappeared back into the forest, but a small group broke off and headed towards the invaders’ camp, skirting the walls by a wide margin. ‘So, Ulfar. Did you count them?’ Sven snapped.
‘No … no, I didn’t. Maybe a hundred?’ Ulfar stole a look at the old man, who kept his eyes trained on the forest.
Sven’s voice lacked its usual note of mirth. ‘Eighty. Staggered over a broad line. Twenty more filling in gaps. Possibly another twenty running between trees in the back. They just showed us that they had numbers but made it impossible for us to establish how many they were. Clever,’ he mumbled. ‘The outlaws are not to be taken lightly.’
Ulfar thought he saw movement around the old town, but there was no mass mobilization, no onrush of Skargrim’s men to meet the forest bandits in bloody battle.
‘I hate it when I’m right,’ Sven mumbled by his side. ‘Somehow that old bastard has rounded up every murdering, thieving bastard around and got them on his side.’
Sigurd approached them. ‘So. Got any bright ideas, Sven?’ the chieftain muttered under his breath.
Sven snorted derisively. ‘Die fast?’
Sigurd looked at his friend. ‘I’m sure there’s women and children that need looking after if you’re scared, old man,’ he said gently, a mischievous glint barely visible through the eye guard of his helmet.
‘Oh shut up,’ Sven said, grinning into his white beard. ‘I thought I was destined to rot slowly and take a running leap off the cliff. If we die here we die with honour, defending our town. Can’t ask for more than that, can you?’
‘Don’t reckon you can,’ Sigurd replied. ‘Keep an eye on them. I’m going to go talk to the rest of our men, make sure they stay awake, alert and as alive as possible.’
‘You go do that,’ Sven replied.
The last rays of the evening sun faded into night.
STENVIK FOREST
Somewhere deep inside Oraekja, something stirred. Something called to him, made him feel warm and wanted, pulled at his blood. Made him want to get moving. Skuld was here. He could feel it. She was close and she needed him.
He could almost taste the sharp smell of the pine needles as he hurried through the forest, heading towards the sea. The sounds of the outlaws were all around him, but he didn’t care.
He would live.
She’d make sure that he did.
STENVIK
‘So what do you think, son? Should we be lighting torches on the wall?’
Ulfar smiled to himself. This was familiar ground. ‘Yes. Definitely, yes.’ Sven was about to speak when Ulfar interrupted him. ‘If you want to blind your men to the dark and light us up for their archers, then I say absolutely. What you can and will do is light torches down below. We’ll be able to use the edges of the light but won’t be too badly blinded.’
Sven nodded his approval. ‘You’re well schooled, boy. I suppose you’ve learned from your father?’
‘Don’t all sons learn from their fathers?’
‘Some do,’ Sven replied quietly.
The two men stood in silence for a spell, listening to the bustle of the town behind them, the chatter of the men on the east wall.
‘Geiri’s father – my uncle – used to drill me on these things,’ Ulfar finally ventured. ‘Reading the terrain, talking to the men, considering the outcome of every decision on the battlefield.’ Mimicking an aging chieftain, he rumbled: ‘That is what makes a good leader, Ulfar. Knowledge.’ He snorted noisily. ‘Mmm. Knowledge.’
‘You’re a piece of work, son.’ Sven smirked.
‘Thank you … I think?’ Ulfar replied.
‘Oh, you’re welcome. Now try not to die in the next couple of days, will you? We still need to finish that game. I remember the position exactly.’
‘I’m sure you do,’ Ulfar said. ‘Exactly like it was.’
‘How dare you question my honour like that! I’ll have your hide—’
‘— after your nap and your warm milk?’ Ulfar shot back.
‘Hah!’ Sven exclaimed. ‘Here’s a free lesson in leadership, son – two, actually, from a wizened old cheat. First – keep doing exactly what you’re doing. Keep the mood, the sword and the head up, and we all live to see another day. And last – never underestimate an old man.’ Sven grinned wickedly.
Flickering torches in Skargrim’s camp illuminated an army moving to the east. Towards the outlaws.
‘Looks like Skargrim is going to meet the woodworms,’ Sven spat.
‘It does indeed,’ Ulfar said. The silence lingered. ‘You’ve just slaughtered a lot of livestock, haven’t you?’ he added after a while.
‘Yes. Why?’ Sven said, a note of suspicion creeping into his voice.
‘Oh, nothing,’ Ulfar replied. ‘It’s just that I had an idea.’
BETWEEN THE OLD TOWN AND THE FOREST
The captains lined up in front of their men.
Thrainn, straight-backed and strong.
Ingi, calculating and assessing.
Wide-eyed Hrafn, grinning manically.
Egill, humming happily to himself.
And Skargrim.
Behind them, over a hundred battle-hardened raiders.
In front, a group of ragged, scrawny men. In the torchlight they looked more like a small band of demons. Gaunt and gangly, clad in green and brown rags. Scattered on the front line were long, thick spears, and the flickering torchlight caught on a variety of edges and spikes, knives and shortswords.
Two lumbering oafs stood out, a head taller than the rest of the motley crew. They looked big enough, but Skargrim had seen and killed bigger. The man in front of them was another matter. His hair was tied in a ponytail and his clothes were ragged, but with folds in the right places for any number of nasty surprises, Skargrim observed. He exuded a quiet physical confidence. Skargrim had no doubt he’d move fast and hit hard. He recognized a killer when he saw one, and this one had killed before.
Skargrim considered his captains and smiled.
That was unlikely to worry any of this lot.
What set the leader of the outlaws apart was his eyes. There was something cold and calculating in them, something … baleful.
‘So where’s the rest?’ The outlaw’s voice was pleasant and calm.
‘The rest of what?’ Skargrim replied.
‘We were promised two feed sacks full of silver and gold to come here, wait in the forest and kill anything that tried to get through. Now where’s my loot?’
‘See those walls? Your sacks of loot are in there,’ Hrafn chimed in.
‘Why don’t you take your rag brothers and go fetch?’ Thrainn added.
The outlaw leader smiled and looked at Skargrim. ‘How lovely. You’ve taught your dogs to speak. Do they do other tricks as well? I’ve heard they lick anything that’s had a bit of meat rubbed on it.’
Skargrim felt more than heard the hands on hilts and rising blood behind him. Tension rippled through the gathered men. The outlaw leader continued in the level tones of a man negotiating prices at a market. ‘I have about two hundred and fifty men in the forest and little time for this. If you don’t tell me where and when we’re gettin
g paid and fed I’ll do one of two things. I’ll turn my two hundred and fifty over to Stenvik – there’ll be some minor debts of honour, but nothing we can’t figure out – or I’ll murder as many of you in your sleep as I need to. How does that sound?’ Behind him the outlaws gripped their weapons tighter.
The cold shock of the coming fight trickled through Skargrim’s spine. He welcomed it like an old friend. Now he’d need to play for time somehow. He puffed up his chest, ready to bellow some manner of nonsense at the man, give his men time to register the change and get ready. In his mind he charted the moves necessary for an attack straight for the leader’s jugular. If he hit it in one he might cause confusion and lead them in a rout. A dull pressure built at the base of his spine, pumped fight into his muscles, filled him with murder.
Skargrim reached for the hilt of his knife as the first notes drifted in from the sea.
The song was the yearning for home, the pain of goodbye, the forgotten touch of a long-lost mother. It went straight through Skargrim’s chest, tore open his heart and left it bleeding sweetly, yet somehow it filled up the empty black spaces that it found within him, filled them up with life and belief and delicious pain and joy, with pictures of moments with family, with friends, with home. Something blurred his vision and he struggled to stay on his feet.
Then the will to live kicked in and he blinked the tears away, shook the fog from his head.
There was no murder in the outlaws’ eyes any more. Instead they all looked up as if watching for the notes to come to life in the air, captivated, like children with a colourful toy.
Skargrim caught their leader’s gaze. He was the only other man he could see that was not swept away by the music.
‘Skuld,’ he murmured. ‘I remember. We will do what is needed.’ He nodded to Skargrim, turned and walked towards the forest. The outlaws turned with him and followed their leader, disappearing into the darkness as the song grew softer, the notes shorter and the silences longer.
Skargrim watched them leave. ‘Imagine that,’ he muttered.
When the last note ended the raiders turned and headed to their respective camps, unusually silent. On the way back Thrainn walked up alongside Skargrim. ‘That song. Was that her?’ Skar-grim nodded. ‘Was it … magic?’ the young captain whispered.
‘No it wasn’t,’ Egill Jotunn rumbled behind them. ‘It wasn’t magic. It was a reminder of what we’re fighting for.’
IN UNFAMILIAR WOODS
The echo of the song mixed with the bitter taste of the mixture and the raw smell of pine needles, resin and morning air. Harald’s breath caught in his throat. Those trees were bigger than anything he’d ever seen. Suddenly he felt tiny, shrivelled, like a pebble in a bowl. He turned and Valhalla towered above him, impossibly huge. The doors swung open without a sound and peace filled his heart.
He walked inside.
Light streamed from behind him, cloaking everything in a blanket of soft, grey morning sunshine. A massive table stood in the middle of the packed earth floor, stretching deep into the darkened far end of the hall. Thor and Freya sat on opposite sides. From under waves of luscious blonde hair, Freya glanced at the head of the table, at an available chair.
The hint was unmistakable. Harald sat down.
The gods smiled at him.
‘Well met, Harald,’ Thor said.
‘Indeed,’ Freya purred.
‘Your hero’s heart and skill in battle are the stuff of legend. We are pleased with you,’ the red-haired warrior continued. ‘Very much so,’ Freya echoed. ‘The ambush was a masterstroke,’ Thor concluded. ‘Perfect. Simple, smart and effective.’
Harald struggled to find the words. His tongue felt double the size and his cheeks burned. ‘I – I – it went well,’ he ended up whispering into his chest.
‘WELL?’ Thor thundered, banging on the table. ‘WELL? It was brilliant! Merciless and swift! You outfought and outsmarted your opponent—’
‘It was your idea, wasn’t it?’ The ever-present hint of a smile drifted with the voice that came from everywhere – the shadows, the darkness and behind him. Harald spun around on reflex, and Loki was there. Not three feet away, leaning up against a support beam, casually picking dirt from under his fingernails with a knife. He looked up and met Harald’s gaze. ‘Wasn’t it, Harald? Wasn’t it the idea of a great leader, a man who could be – no, should be chieftain?’
‘Leave it, Loki!’ Thor growled. ‘It could have been his idea. He could easily have made that plan. He could have made a better one, put killers in more huts. Or struck at the bloody forest folk first.’
‘He can do anything,’ Freya said, winking at Harald.
‘I have my doubts,’ Loki muttered.
‘Well, he could do anything to me,’ the goddess whispered, honey dripping off her every word.
Harald’s blood caught fire and seared his veins. His heart thumped and images of Freya’s naked body cascaded over him, overwhelming him. As he fought to recover he felt Valhalla fading away behind them. Suddenly he was overcome with grief, with the decay of everything good. He cried then, scalding tears of loss streaming down his pockmarked cheeks as the world he understood slipped from his mind, faded to grey, then black.
When he came to he was sitting on a stone bench, leaning up against the longhouse. It was dark outside, with only faint flickers of muted torchlight illuminating the huts of Stenvik. Harald rose, aching all over, and stumbled home.
STENVIK
‘Why did you pick me for this?’ Audun whispered between gritted teeth.
‘Because I like your company, you’re strong enough to pull the cart,’ Ulfar whispered back. ‘And we can’t use a horse. It’s too noisy. Opening the gate quietly was hard enough.’
‘So you’re saying I’m like a horse, only slightly more quiet?’
‘Shut up, you two,’ Sven muttered at them. ‘This is stupid enough as it is. If we get ourselves killed Sigurd will get very cross.’
‘And we wouldn’t want that, would we?’ The grin in Ulfar’s voice was very poorly hidden.
‘No we wouldn’t,’ Sven shot back. ‘We wouldn’t want that at all.’
Audun rolled his eyes in the darkness and pulled the cart onwards.
NORTH OF STENVIK
The shimmering half-light made the scout want to whisper and tiptoe. The heath looked like a landscape in a dream, with pools of darkness leaking out from underneath large boulders. The forest had been surprisingly easy going – the outlaws hadn’t bothered him at all and he’d got a good idea of where they were camped. Now all he needed to do was follow orders, run as fast as he could to King Olav’s camp and deliver the message. After that, his job was done.
STENVIK
‘So when do you say King Olav is coming here?’
‘I’d say in three days. Maybe four,’ Havar managed between mouthfuls. His chins wobbled as he worked his jaw. ‘This is some, mmh, incredible meat! How do you get the lamb so tasty?’
‘It’s all in the seasoning,’ Valgard replied.
‘Delicious. De-licious,’ Havar grunted as he reached for the bone. ‘You must show me how so I can cook for Jorn when the time comes.’ Holding it up to his mouth, he looked at Valgard. ‘May I?’
A smile and a nod later Havar was tearing into the meat on the bone, plump lips smacking on the fat. Valgard looked at the fat man, barely managing to conceal his disgust.
Three days.
That was all he had.
Three days to force a confrontation between Harald and Sigurd, make sure Harald won, install himself as chief adviser and be ready to welcome King Olav’s army.
Something had to happen, and it had to happen right now.
In his mind, he looked at the pieces on the board and remembered something about the game. Something Sven had tried to teach him once. ‘Like in life,’ he’d said, ‘you sometimes have to make sacrifices to get things going.’
Smiling, Valgard reached for a leather bottle.
*
Ulfar sat at the far end, poking at his bowl of broth. He’d had too much excitement and too little sleep last night, he reckoned.
And still she would not leave his head. Even thinking about her made him feel warm inside, made his mouth turn upwards at the corners, made even the damn broth seem appetizing. Ulfar smiled and shook his head. So this was love.
He sensed more than saw the presence at the table. Turning, he found he was looking at a slight blonde woman – no, girl – with big blue eyes that scanned the room, seeking something. When she was satisfied, she turned to him and half-whispered: ‘She would like to see you.’
‘She – do you mean … ?’ She smiled and he realized he must look like a particularly dim-witted puppy.
‘Yes of course,’ she said. ‘Could it be anyone else … ?’
‘No! Not at all. No.’ The words tumbled out of Ulfar in a rush of panic. Then she saw her smile widen and composed himself. ‘No,’ he said, this time with more authority. ‘There is not nor shall ever be any other.’
He saw a playful glint in her eye. ‘Shame,’ she said, winking. ‘From what I remember on the night you arrived, you don’t kiss half bad.’
In a flash, Ulfar remembered and turned crimson with embarrassment.
‘I didn’t – so that’s – I mean, I wouldn’t – not that we didn’t but I hadn’t met her – but it’s – I mean—’
The Valhalla Saga Page 21