The Valhalla Saga

by Snorri Kristjansson

  ‘It is true, then,’ she said, nodding slowly to herself. ‘You really do love her.’ Ulfar blinked, speechless. ‘Then may your love be a true one in joy and in strife, and never forgotten for the rest of your life.’

  A draught trickled in from somewhere, chilled Ulfar’s bones and made the hairs on the back of his hand stand on end.

  ‘Yes. I mean, I won’t.’

  Inga blinked a couple of times and her lip trembled for a second. ‘Good. If you walk past a house with bearskin on the door and carvings of Thor, Tyr and a dragon, whistle the same tune twice. Then go to the horse pens and wait a while. She’ll sneak out if at all possible.’

  She turned around and headed for the door.

  ‘Wait! Where’s the house?’

  ‘Go east just before the north gate,’ she said over her shoulder and was gone.

  Ulfar was still looking at the door to the longhouse when Valgard entered. Their eyes met and the healer nodded once before picking his way towards Einar and the pots.

  STENVIK FOREST

  A dull throb of hurt woke Oraekja. The branches he’d chosen for a bed last night were digging into his back and hip, sending needles of pain through his whole body. Easing up to a sitting position, he blinked a couple of times and shielded his eyes from the stinging sunlight.

  He could not see any outlaws but they were there. He could feel them. They were around him, all around him like an itch. Striving to quell the rising sense of panic, he looked to the south. In the morning light he could see the expanse of Skargrim’s camp. It seemed much bigger than he remembered.

  Still, that would be where she was. He clambered gingerly down from the tree and started walking towards the camp, skirting Stenvik. He saw the camp guards soon enough, but found he didn’t recognize them. It didn’t matter.

  ‘Skuld. I need to see her.’ His voice sounded unfamiliar to his own ears as he approached, squeaky and wrong.

  The two men looked at him with scepticism. ‘Why? And who are you?’

  ‘I just need to. She calls to me. I must.’ Desperation threatened to overtake him and he had to fight back the tears.

  The guards looked at him strangely. ‘Hand over your weapons and we’ll take you to her.’

  Oraekja found it hard to part with his knife and felt naked without it, helpless. Like prey. Visions of the forest, blood and death flitted through his head. Exhaustion blurred his eyes and his knee buckled. A spear butt jabbed into his spine brought him back to the present.

  ‘Move.’

  The guard pushed him towards the centre of old Stenvik, back towards the harbour.

  NORTH OF STENVIK

  ‘My King, come quick. Please, hurry!’

  King Olav ducked out of his tent. ‘What is it, Finn?’

  Breathless, Finn gestured for the King to listen. Cries of ‘Heathen! Heathen!’ rang out from the camp.

  Without a word King Olav strode towards the source of the sound, leaving Finn to scurry after him. Soon they came upon a bloodied, scrawny man surrounded by a group of furious soldiers. Finn recognized him. The man’s name was Hrutur, a hunter of little skill. His captors hurled abuse and spat at the man, calling him a heathen and a traitor.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ King Olav asked.

  One of the soldiers turned to the King, bowed his head and showed him a thumb-sized Thor’s Hammer on a ripped leather thong. ‘The bastard was wearing this underneath his clothes, my King. He’s a heathen, a supporter of the old gods and an enemy of the White Christ.’ Silenced by his presence, the men stared at the King, awaiting orders.

  King Olav drew a deep breath.

  ‘Deal with him according to his conduct. You are warriors of the White Christ’ – in the circle, Hrutur’s face went pale – ‘and he is the enemy.’

  Finn stood, mouth agape as the King turned and walked away.

  The soldiers set upon Hrutur, raining blows on the figure in the middle of the circle.

  Finn chased after the King. ‘My King … they’ll kill him!’

  ‘Yes. Yes, they will.’

  ‘Why are you letting them?’

  King Olav stopped and turned to Finn. The young man’s face was drawn and hard, pain in his eyes. ‘Because I’m not just fighting chieftains. I’m uniting a country. Because they need to feel superior to someone, feel right about something. And because conviction, Finn, is worth a thousand swords of good men.’

  STENVIK, THE OLD TOWN

  ‘So – how many for a direct charge, then?’ The short fat captain smiled as Thrainn’s face flushed crimson.

  ‘Give the boy a break, Ingi. You’ve sailed long enough. You’ve had some idiots in your crew. Thrainn has done well to get rid of them,’ Hrafn added. Ingi raised his eyebrows and seemed about to answer when Egill Jotunn intervened. ‘Who’s got the thickest armour?’ he asked.

  ‘It seems my men are the best equipped,’ Ingi replied cautiously. ‘That is why I volunteered them for guard duty.’

  ‘Your men for the shield wall, ours through the holes?’ Hrafn suggested. The assembled chieftains lapsed into thoughtful silence.

  ‘Would work, but negates our advantage,’ Ingi finally offered. ‘There are clearly more of us than there are of them, which would make it stupid to crowd into a tunnel. They could hold the gateways with very few men. I say we go over the wall.’

  ‘They’ll see us coming for miles. That wall looks a bastard to climb and we’ll be target practice. If we go through the gateway we’ll at least be up close and personal,’ Hrafn countered.

  ‘I’m not sending my men into that hole,’ Ingi replied, full of good grace.

  ‘Nor am I sending mine over that wall,’ Hrafn said, equally friendly.

  Skargrim cleared his throat and the other captains fell silent.

  ‘Here’s what we’ll do.’

  STENVIK

  Ulfar’s mind reeled as he hurried up the walkway towards the north-east of town.

  Bad idea. Bad, bad, bad idea.

  He really shouldn’t be doing this. He should be running to Audun or Sven or Geiri or someone. Someone who could smack some sense into him.

  But he didn’t care.

  Instead he focused on the simple things. Like walking. Because if he ran as fast as he wanted to he might attract attention, and that was the last thing he wished for. He was about to do something forbidden. Something wrong. Something his friends would definitely tell him not to do. Breathing deeply, Ulfar continued walking at a measured pace.

  Heading off the north road, he noticed the difference in the houses. This was where the raiders lived, the men who could afford wooden houses instead of wattle huts.

  There!

  The bearskin on the door. And sure enough, the carvings. Ulfar’s heart thundered in his chest and suddenly his lips were too dry to whistle. The only sound that escaped was a pathetic squeak. Panicked, he looked around him. Had anybody seen him? Frustration, fear and tension brought him close to throwing up on the spot.

  ‘You were nearly killed two nights ago, last night you risked your life, and now you’re losing your mind because you’re whistling badly in front of a house?’ Ulfar hissed. ‘Get a grip!’ He inhaled as slowly as he could, then exhaled and wet his lips. Taking a deep breath, he whistled a couple of notes of a gentle tune, a herdsman’s melody from home. Looking around, pretending not to notice the bearskin house, he repeated the whistled melody as clearly as he could. Then he ambled off towards the horse pens, heart thumping in his chest.

  He desperately wanted to look back, but didn’t.

  THE OLD TOWN

  The guard pushed him out onto the docks, the ones he’d run along when he’d set fire to the big ship. He recognized the Njordur’s Mercy, moored a couple of ship’s lengths off the end of the middle pier. ‘Is she—’ Oraekja began. A jab from the butt of the spear silenced him.

  ‘Right. Hands,’ the guard snapped when they reached the end of the pier. Through a dull haze Oraekja summoned up what felt like the last of hi
s energy and presented his hands together, ready to be bound. With practised movements the guard looped a cord around them and tied him up. ‘Get in the boat.’ He gestured at a small rowboat, bobbing by the end of the pier.

  Oraekja clambered down a knotted rope with great difficulty and managed somehow to get into the boat with all the grace of a trussed pig. The guard shimmied down after him, positioned him at the back and sat down on the oarsman’s bench.

  Soon they were moving across the water towards the Njordur’s Mercy. Onboard a small group of sailors noticed them and prepared to receive the newcomers. The guard swung the rowboat alongside the sleek, powerful ship and strong hands steadied them on approach. Oraekja was hoisted roughly to his feet and brought across, only just finding his balance. Swaying where he stood, he noticed all the men around him growing quiet.

  He sensed Skuld’s presence behind him like the sun on his back. Inhaling slowly, he felt something of his old self return. He savoured the moment. He, Oraekja, had returned a conqueror after a successful and daring mission behind enemy lines. He had followed orders, survived on his cunning and guile, and would now reap the rewards.

  Turning around, he took one look at her and slumped to the deck, unconscious.

  STENVIK

  Audun could feel the tension mounting inside the town. Word floated down from the walls that the enemy was lining up, that they were obviously up to something. Archers had tried a couple of times, but their enemies stayed just outside missile range. For now, Audun thought. Sven had ordered him to fix two broken handcarts and get them to the north and west gateways but park them to the side, out of the way.

  Fair enough. He was happy doing anything to keep the hands busy, keep his mind off the violence. Grabbing a handful of bolts, he set to work on the first cart.

  *

  The brown horse trained big, accusing eyes on Ulfar. You shouldn’t be doing this, they said. It’s dangerous, it’s wrong and you know it.

  ‘Shut up!’ Ulfar snapped, leaning on the fence around the horse enclosure. ‘You don’t know anything anyways.’ The horse snorted, turned away and expressed its opinion by way of a sizeable load of manure. ‘Thank you. Thank you very much,’ Ulfar scolded the gelding. ‘That’s a really nice touch.’

  ‘Are you … talking to a horse?’ Lilia asked cautiously. Heart already hammering, Ulfar whirled. The only thing he saw was her smile, the smile that came from the corners of her eyes, the corners of her mouth, the centre of her very being.

  It took his breath away. ‘I – I – erm …’

  Her lips parted slowly as the smile spread wider and wider, revealing beautiful, white teeth. From somewhere within her, giggles bubbled up to the surface. She tried to stop them but failed delightfully. ‘You strange, strange man,’ she said, eyes alight. ‘What did the horse do to you?’

  ‘It shat in the pen.’ The words were out before he knew it. His eyes widened in horror as he saw the sentence hanging in the air between them. She looked at the horse, then at him. A moment later she burst out laughing. Waves of relief washed over Ulfar and he found himself laughing along.

  Her eyes never left his.

  Soon the laughter subsided. Ulfar took a cautious step in her direction, then another.

  A tear glistened on her cheek.

  Another step, then Ulfar reached slowly for the teardrop. He saw her twitch but she remained still, eyes fixed on him. Her sky-blue shift rose and fell with every breath.

  He touched her cheek and he was falling. It all seemed so right and happened so smoothly. How his fingertips traced her red curls, how his hand found her neck and pulled her gently close, how she melted into him.

  They kissed, cautiously at first but then with increasing, intoxicating urgency.

  *

  ‘Here. Drink this.’

  ‘I’m not really that thirsty,’ Geiri muttered, propped up against the wall.

  ‘Drink it. It will help with your recovery.’

  He paused, then smiled a tired smile. ‘Thank you. That’s most kind.’

  ‘Don’t worry. It’s what I do. I patch you up when you fall on your head.’

  Geiri drank. ‘It’s … sweet. Kind of …’ he blinked. ‘Kind of … like juniper. I like it.’ His words slurred. ‘Can I have some more?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Geiri took the leather bottle and tried to raise it to his lips again. It fell from his hands as he slumped against the wall, a peaceful smile on his face.

  Geiri’s heart slowed. Then it stopped.

  Slim, delicate fingers picked up the bottle and put the cork in. When Valgard left it looked like the young man was simply sleeping.

  THE NJORDUR’S MERCY

  Skargrim stepped onboard his ship and looked round, but Skuld was nowhere to be seen. The four fighters he’d set to guard her sat in the prow playing dice. One of them caught Skargrim’s eye and nodded silently towards her quarters.

  When she’d made it clear that she would be coming with them to attack Stenvik, he’d set aside a little bit of space for her in the stern. He’d erected poles and strung hides to shield her from wind, rain and the gazes of the men. He’d even thrown in his best furs to make her journey comfortable.

  Moving towards the hides, Skargrim could hear voices, hers and someone else’s. Jealousy flared. Who was she speaking to? Who had she allowed onto the Njordur’s Mercy? His ship?

  The vaguely familiar voice suddenly stopped.

  ‘Enter, Skargrim.’

  He drew the hide flaps aside.

  Sitting on the soft furs, Skuld smiled up at him. She looked different somehow, as if she’d aged by several years. Somebody lay next to her, resting his head in her lap like a babe. It was the little runt that she’d forced Ragnar to take along for the poisoning. Skargrim’s brow furrowed. What was this? When had he returned? Where was Ragnar? Nothing was adding up. At last he managed to stammer: ‘What’s he doing here?’

  The scout made to speak but she interrupted. ‘There are things that need to be said, Skargrim.’ Fear and guilt flitted over the scout’s face.

  A chill settled on Skargrim’s heart and started to spread, like a lake freezing in winter.

  ‘You know Oraekja. His deeds are heroic and he has shown much bravery. The well in Stenvik is poisoned, and they have no more than three days’ worth of water. However, he brings ill news of your brother.’

  STENVIK

  ‘Not bad at all.’ Sigurd speared a chunk of roasted pig on his knife, leaned back and nodded at Sven. The smell of cooking drifted across the longhouse and a handful of men sat around the table eating. ‘I like it. So you say that was Ulfar’s idea?’ Sven nodded, gnawing on a leg of lamb. ‘Well done. Now all we need to do is send a couple of Harald’s men into the holes. Thorvald – we’ll need some kindling on the wall.’

  ‘Torches and fire arrows already up with my best remaining archers,’ came Thorvald’s curt reply.

  ‘Good.’ Sigurd’s eyes lingered on the scout master’s features. ‘You’re angry, my friend. I can see that. But that damn dale boy is right. We need to get word to King Olav as soon as possible. It might make a difference. It might make all the difference.’

  ‘I know,’ Thorvald replied.

  ‘Sigmar was practically born in these woods. If anyone could get through unseen, it’s him,’ Sven added. ‘You say he left yesterday?’ Thorvald nodded. ‘If he keeps a good pace he should have a decent shot at finding Olav in a day, another two to bring him here. We’ll be nearly out of water, but we can source that in the springs at Huginshoyde until the foxbell rinses out of the well. We just need to hold for a couple more days.’

  Thorvald turned in his chair and looked away. ‘It should have been me.’

  Sigurd replied at once. ‘And who would then lead the scouts? The fighters on the wall? Who would give commands when neither I nor Sven are around? Who could I trust to plant an arrow in Skargrim’s eye at fifty paces?’

  Thorvald turned back towards Sigurd, but did not spe
ak. The three sat in silence.

  ‘It’s going to be one mother of a scrap,’ Sven offered after a while. ‘More lamb?’

  THE NJORDUR’S MERCY

  ‘So you’re saying they surprised you and there was a fight. Ragnar was killed, but you escaped. That my brother fought like a demon, but there were too many.’

  Oraekja nodded once, then glanced at Skuld. Skargrim felt her eyes on him but did not turn, did not meet her gaze. The waves lapped at the Njordur’s Mercy.

  ‘And then you sneaked out of Stenvik, hid in the forest for two days and now you’re here.’ Oraekja nodded again. ‘Where are the plans? The numbers? Guard spots? Strike points? What do the gates look like? How do we break them? Did he not tell you anything?’

  ‘I don’t understand … The gates are made of wood …’ Oraekja looked like he was trying to remember something. ‘He told me I should have looked up …’ he muttered.

  Skargrim’s head felt fit to burst. It just sounded … wrong. Ragnar would have collected information, lots of information, anything to help the assault. He would have told the boy. Anything else made no sense. And he would never have got himself caught. How did they catch him? Why? And how was Oraekja the one to escape?

  ‘Your brother is dead, Skargrim.’

  He couldn’t be. Ragnar was supposed to outlive him, to see his own nephews grow to become raiders.

  ‘Your brother is dead. They killed him. He died in Stenvik. Behind those walls.’ Her cold, bony fingers touched his forearm and he turned towards her.

  ‘Avenge him, Skargrim.’

  Strength surged through every fibre of his being. Somewhere in the back of his head he heard the chant of a thousand warriors, the hard pounding of pommels on shields, battle cries that sent shivers up and down the spines of those about to die.