And even so, the defenders would still have struggled if it hadn’t been for Audun. That man had kept them alive. There was no doubt about it. The stories would probably vary, but by last count he was thought to have disposed single-handed of about twenty black warriors and five berserkers, not to mention the giant. Sven’s duel with the knife bitch had been something to behold too: she’d been murderous quick and taken out many good men, fat Havar among them, but the old dog had stepped in and simply refused to die. Instead he had seemed to read and anticipate all her moves, parrying and countering, pushing her slowly back. In the end she’d retreated into the tunnel with eight of the black-clad warriors, running to the safety of their own camp. No doubt she’d be telling some nice tall tales about the Stenvik men’s numbers and fighting ability. That would be good for making them think twice about the next assault, but it would probably still not be enough.
Someone moved in behind him. ‘Go get some sleep.’
The thin, pale healer snorted. ‘Sleep? Sleep is for—’
‘Now, son.’
Valgard smiled to himself. He knew better than to argue with that voice. He turned, nodded at Sven and walked off, past three women moving towards the longhouse, when something occurred to him. Slowing almost imperceptibly, he changed course and headed towards the west gate.
*
Ulfar wandered aimlessly through Stenvik. Audun had not wanted to talk to him. Instead he’d grunted and wiped the vomit off his chin, stumbled to his feet and staggered home. Every bit of his own body screamed for sleep, but his brain would not let him. Images of murder on the wall flashed in his mind, throats opening and blood gushing from gaping wounds, light leaving warriors’ eyes.
He saw Valgard slink away from the wounded, saw Sven sit down and start working by candlelight, rolling up bandages and preparing for the next wave of the wounded.
‘Not very nice, that,’ he commented casually as he ambled over to where the old man was sitting.
‘What?’ said Sven, taken aback. He peered out into the darkness, trying to locate the source of the voice. ‘Bloody light. I’m blind. It’s Ulfar, isn’t it? What’s not nice?’
‘Leaving a feeble old man all alone like this,’ Ulfar said with a smirk.
‘Oh go kiss a cow, you bastard,’ Sven replied cheerfully. ‘The bloody lard was inspired. It’s a good fighter’s head you have on your shoulders there, son.’
‘Thank you.’ Ulfar blushed in the darkness. ‘I just – I did what I thought I needed to do, I guess.’
‘You did well is what you did,’ the old man said. ‘Now, would you do me a favour and do the rounds? Have a look in on the lads. Some of them are sleeping. Some of the others are in a bad way. See if anyone needs help.’
Ulfar nodded and turned towards the rows of wounded men laid out on pallets. As he walked he found to his horror that these were no longer strangers. He recognized faces and remembered names. A chill passed through him.
‘Ul … far …’ A soft voice whispered from the pallets.
‘Coming,’ he answered on reflex. Looking over the rows of wounded men, he could not see any movement. ‘Where are you?’
‘… Here …’ the voice sounded again, along with a flicker of movement halfway down the row of sleeping bodies. It was Orn. The young fighter he’d left on the wall was now a boy with a shattered collarbone, four broken ribs, a fractured skull and a badly twisted leg. Someone had smashed his right shoulder for good measure.
‘Here I am.’ Ulfar took Orn’s hand and mustered a smile. The boy’s face was pale and drawn, making his eyes all the more remarkable. All his strength seemed to shine out of them, blue and sparkling in the faint moonlight.
‘I need to tell you what I’ve seen.’ His grip on Ulfar’s hand tightened.
‘Ah! Yes you do,’ Ulfar replied. ‘What is it?’
‘I didn’t know who else to tell it to. All the others always tease me because I’m so young,’ Orn said quietly. Ulfar said nothing. ‘I may not be full grown yet but I see well,’ Orn continued. ‘I’m named after the eagle and I’ve inherited his sight. Everyone knows this.’ Strength and determination crept into his voice. ‘And I’ve seen things in the last couple of days that I’ve not told anyone. Magic. Every time someone dies on the wall, a little grey spark or cloud or something seems to leave them and slide towards the harbour. I think – I think someone onboard the ship that lies anchored there is harvesting their souls.’ Orn looked at Ulfar, then looked away. ‘You don’t believe me, do you?’
‘I have no reason not to believe you, my boy,’ Ulfar said. Orn relaxed back onto his pallet. ‘I’m just not entirely sure what you’ve seen or what I’m going to do with it. Is it … what? We’ve already seen the strange army of outlaws, we’ve seen a union of bastards from the north, apparently – what can I do about some grey mist?’
But Orn was fast asleep, an exhausted smile on his lips.
VALHALLA
Empty.
Hollow.
Dead.
There was not a single soul in the mighty hall. There were no stools around the great table. No echo of fighting men’s songs. It felt like it had been empty for some time, and Harald could already see it falling into disrepair.
‘Thor … ? Freya … ?’
The words bounded around the wooden box, sounding weightless and stupid. What the hell was he doing? Calling out to … who? To what? He felt his anger rise. He was being a fool and he didn’t like it.
‘This is all cowshit. This never was. I’m dreaming,’ he spat into the darkened far end. Shivering, he suddenly felt absolutely certain that if he walked towards the darkness it would draw him in, surround him, gradually slow him down and then, when at last he stood still, it would kill him.
He would never find the far wall.
Shaking, he forced himself to look at tangible things, rotting wooden fixtures barely visible in the dusk.
He blinked.
How had he not noticed that?
Lying on the floor in front of the massive table, standing out like a bloodstain on a white shift, was a piece of wood.
Loki’s voice whispered in his ear.
‘Take it, Harald. Set things right.’
Startled, he spun around.
Nothing.
Heart thumping in his chest, he turned back to the table and the piece of wood.
He caught his breath.
It was stunning.
An exquisitely carved wooden dagger, edge and point sharpened to perfection, intricate runes set on the hilt. The work of Loki. Harald sheathed the dagger in the folds of his tunic with great care and left the hall.
EAST OF STENVIK
Two logs stood in the middle of the eastern road, midway between the forest and the wall. Diagonally crossed, they leaned back onto a third for support.
The scouts on the eastern wall peered out into the morning gloom. Something seemed to be tied to the logs.
Not something. Someone.
A man hung on the frame. He was naked from the waist up, arms tied to the rising ‘V’, legs spread and nailed to the logs. His head was pulled back.
As the first rays of the morning sun rose over the forest, light played on the ravaged body on the frame.
Broken ribs protruded from his back, shaped like blood-stained wings. Sigmar stared at Stenvik, his eyes wide open and lifeless, mouth frozen in a silent scream.
STENVIK, THE OLD TOWN
‘He’s gone. Ingi’s gone.’ Skargrim felt sick to his stomach.
Gone.
He looked at the other two captains standing around the cooling campfire, warriors rising around them.
‘I knew we shouldn’t have—’ Thrainn began.
‘No you didn’t.’ Hrafn cut in. ‘No you didn’t, and that’s a bad road to go down. You didn’t, I didn’t and Skargrim didn’t. So we all take the blame for this and we carry it like men. Unless this is part of some master plan that I am unaware of. I for one was happy when Ingi suggested that his men
take watch for the night because he’d missed out on the action. I have … I had nearly a hundred wounded men, and put some of them out with him. Their throats have all been cut. Clean, neat and silent. He launched over twenty ships last night. Next to our heads. And none of us knew, or noticed, or woke up.’
Gone. A third of their force was simply gone. Skargrim still couldn’t get his head around it.
Hrafn continued. ‘So what I would like to know is what we do now. I’ve not run away from a fight yet. What do you say, Skargrim? What do we do?’
Bile rising in his throat, the grizzled old captain turned without a word, set his sights on the Njordur’s Mercy and half-walked, half-stumbled towards the pier. Neither the wooden boards nor the familiar gentle roll of the waves lapping against the ferry boat calmed him down. He clambered onboard, moved to the hides and swept them aside. ‘You knew. You knew he would betray us,’ he snarled. ‘You – you …’ As his voice trailed off Skargrim blinked, shook his head and swallowed.
She looked up at him, sizing him up. ‘Yes, I did.’
‘Wh— why? Why didn’t you do anything?’ he croaked, unable to look.
‘I couldn’t. It was foretold.’
‘But you’re – you can …’
‘If it is in the web I cannot change it.’ Her smile was tinged with regret. ‘I can only … add to it. That is why I summoned the people of the land to stalk the forests, the shamed and the desperate, the cruel and the wicked. That is why I’ve called on the gods to help us. Behold the Einherji.’ Skargrim stole a glance at the body lying at her feet and an involuntary shudder rattled through him. ‘You were right about Ingi. He knows how to avoid a fight he thinks he can’t win. He was always going to leave at the first sign of real trouble.’ She paused and cocked her head, as if listening to something on the wind. After a little while she turned her eye back on the Viking captain, standing rooted to the spot, gazing at her. ‘Rouse the men. They fear you, they love you and they’ll follow you. Make ready to storm Stenvik.’
He stared at her, dazed.
‘Have faith, Skargrim. The gods are pleased with you. You are a man of great honour. If you sacrifice, if you give to the land, the gods will be good to you. Now go.’
And if you refuse, they will not.
Skargrim nodded, turned and walked towards the prow.
STENVIK
His face was drawn and his shoulders slumped, but there was no give in Sigurd’s voice. He turned to his hastily summoned war council, standing in a tight circle just outside the chieftain’s longhouse. ‘How many fighters do we have?’
‘About a hundred, give or take. Some more wounded, weak or old,’ Sven shot back. Jorn stood next to him, face grey with fatigue and a thick bandage wrapped around his upper left arm.
‘They’ll overrun us if we try to hold the wall,’ Thorvald said. His voice was flat, distant. Sigurd had led him up onto the wall, showed him what they’d done to Sigmar. The lanky scout master had taken a deep breath and nodded once. He’d stayed for a long-drawn-out moment, eyes fixed on the frame, on Sigmar. Then he’d exhaled, turned and walked away. Now he stood by the door to the longhouse, opening it mechanically to admit women and children, back straight, eyes looking out through the walls and to somewhere else.
‘I agree,’ said Sven. ‘Ideas?’
A timid voice broke the silence. ‘M-m-maybe I c-c-can … ?’
STENVIK, THE OLD TOWN
‘Tell the men we’re moving on Stenvik.’
‘What?’ Thora rounded on Skargrim, incredulous. ‘Is your brain wrapped in seaweed, captain? NOW you’re moving? NOW you’re charging? You could have HAD them last night! If you’d followed me – if you’d gone in – Egill Jotunn would have been alive. A lot of his men would have been alive! All you do is wag your fucking tail when she says so! You’re nothing but a dog to her! She whistles and you come calling, like a spineless, dickless lily boy!! How the fu—’
Skargrim grabbed Thora by the throat with incredible speed, the massive fist closing around her windpipe. Almost gently he inched his hand up until her jaw was resting on it. Then he lifted her off the ground. His arm did not tremble.
Thora struggled in his grip, clawing at his arm, kicking out, trying to reach the ground with her toes. Skargrim looked at her impassively.
‘Tell the men. Now.’ He let go. Thora collapsed on the ground, coughing, spitting and swearing. Around them, wide-eyed fighters turned on the spot and ran to follow Skargrim’s command.
STENVIK
Harald moved through the streets of Stenvik in a stupor. The wooden dagger by his breast felt hot and heavy like a stone from the fire, cold and light like an icicle. It pulsed, it sent his heart racing. It threw images at him. Images of power. The old gods, the knife in the stomach, muscles and sweat. Fighting the sea and winning, flying with the wind at their back. Taking pleasure, loot and women.
‘Harald.’ Someone appeared in his field of vision, blurred and shifting like a mirage on the horizon. He blinked and tried to focus. ‘Harald. Are you well?’ True concern in the voice. The figure moved closer, seemed to smell him. Muscles tightened, fists clenched. A cold smile spread on Harald’s weathered face. He could almost taste the blood about to be spilled.
‘Have you seen Lilia?’ the thin man asked. Harald recognized Valgard’s voice, but only just. With great effort he banished his dark thoughts. ‘I thought I saw her walking down towards the longhouse,’ Valgard continued. ‘She would be safer in your house, wouldn’t she?’
Harald growled and set off towards the middle of Stenvik.
Valgard smiled at his back.
ONBOARD THE NJORDUR’S MERCY
Wisps of grey smoke curled around the still body of Oraekja, twisting sinuously over and across each other in dizzying patterns. Looking down on him, Skuld closed her eyes and began to move her hands in waves and lines that matched the strands of grey, weaving and forming.
When she spoke, her voice was no more than a whisper.
‘Blood and body
Given freely
From the gods
The words are spoken
Threads are woven
You have woken
Rise, immortal
Odin’s warrior.’
At her feet something stirred.
STENVIK
Clutching his forehead and squeezing his eyes shut didn’t help. Harald’s head was full of fog. He growled in frustration.
Nothing made sense.
Why wouldn’t she be at home? She should be there, where she was supposed to be. She should be waiting for him. Why wouldn’t she be? Long, powerful strides took Harald to his house, past men running in different directions completing tasks he cared nothing about.
He pushed the door open. Nothing.
All at once the last days of waking, walking the walls and fighting to control his temper blended together and crashed down on his shoulders. The yearning for the sea took hold in a maddening rush. All the muscles in his body felt taut and tensed. He struggled to breathe. What had Valgard said? He hadn’t been sure where she was. He’d been pissing himself, the little weasel. He’d not wanted to tell him about Lilia and that skinny fucker from the south. But he had, eventually. Or as good as.
Where was she?
Where the hell was she?
STENVIK, THE OLD TOWN
Skargrim cursed.
Only a third of the men who had landed two nights ago stood lined up by the jetty, eyeing him with distrust. He stared back at them, scowling. He looked over at Thora, who refused to meet his eyes.
Be honest. That’s what Ragnar would have told him.
He cleared his throat.
‘I did not choose this.’ A battle-hardened army of warriors, brawlers and murderers looked at him warily. ‘And you do not answer to me,’ he continued, the words trickling out of him, flowing through him. He started walking in front of the men. ‘When the skalds sing of this day, they will NOT call it the Ballad of Skargrim!’ Months of strain and fe
ar came loose inside his chest and crashed like a breaking iceberg into the cold, dark sea. He rode the wave of it. ‘You have seen brothers and friends fall! You have watched the men of Stenvik fight back, hiding behind their walls and inside their holes! And you’ve asked yourselves why are we here? WHY?’ Suddenly he felt strong again, in power, standing in the bow of the ship in the van. ‘Because we fight for our lives! We fight for the right to live as WE choose! We fight to be free men, to decide for ourselves what we do!’ He stalked the square in front of Stenvik harbour, willing the men to see what he had seen, understand what Skuld had made him understand. Showing them the only way forward and the only reason to move. It was suddenly so clear. ‘We fight them here because the next fight will be closer to home and the next fight closer still, until we’re fighting them in our towns, standing over our children’s bodies. All because some upstart king wants to tell us our gods are wrong, our world is wrong, our understanding is wrong, our fathers and our fathers’ fathers are wrong. So now we turn on Stenvik for the last time. Their south gate is broken. They cannot man the wall for long. Then they will fall and the old ways will stand.’
The Valhalla Saga Page 28