King Olav dismounted and stood face to face with Sigurd Aegisson. The King nodded towards the chieftain. ‘Your actions this day are those of a hero, Sigurd.’
‘Hero …’ The chieftain smiled wearily. ‘There are a lot of heroes in this town …’ He looked at the man in front of him and added: ‘… my King. Most of them are dead.’ Picking himself up, the chieftain continued. ‘But welcome to Stenvik. This is what we have to offer. We have a lot of roasted meat that will go bad if no one eats it. We have no water. We have many wounded, children without fathers, houses that need repair and two smashed gates.’
As he looked around, King Olav’s eyes followed his. Behind them, the King’s army filed in.
‘On the other hand, we have recently come into possession of quite a number of longships,’ Sigurd added with a feral grin.
King Olav nodded slowly. ‘I can see where you stand, Sigurd, and there is no doubt that your alliance with me has brought this on the town. As Christians’ – Sigurd grimaced; the King ignored it – ‘we are bound by the word of the White Christ to help one another in times of need. We will soon have—’
‘WARRIORS OF STENVIK!’
A booming, gruff voice rang out over the town, interrupting King Olav. Heads turned, seeking the source.
‘THIS – IS – WRONG!!’
STENVIK
Home.
This was not good at all.
Home. Get home.
Valgard rushed through Stenvik as fast as his breath would allow, tears streaming down his cheeks. He could see any number of ways that this would play out, and none of them looked good.
Now he had to put his trust in the contents of the box.
Tired, shaking, and trying his best to remember words in a foreign language, Valgard hurried home.
*
Confusion spread like a ripple in a pond.
The voice was a man’s, but coming neither from the people amassed behind Sigurd nor the army behind King Olav.
It came from the top of the eastern wall, where a burly man stood, lit by the rays of the evening sun. His arm was wrapped around a woman, his hand in her hair. She seemed to be struggling to escape.
‘You cannot give this town away, Sigurd Aegisson! You cannot just hand it over to that upstart puppy king and his White Christ!’ the man on the wall roared. Finn sensed the tension rising around him and saw some of Stenvik’s warriors glancing at each other. ‘I’ve watched you and Sven destroy my town. I’ve watched you piss on my father’s legacy, on his father’s legacy. BUT I WILL REDEEM US!’ The big man reached into the folds of his tunic and pulled out what looked like a piece of wood. There was no glint of metal to suggest it was a weapon. ‘You are about to sacrifice my town, so I must sacrifice that which is most dear to me.’ The woman kicked and struggled, but to no avail. He had her pinned. Out of the corner of his eye Finn recognized Runar, sitting on top of the longhouse with an arrow nocked. Finn traced Runar’s glance to a tired and bloodied Jorn, who was signing for him to hold.
‘STENVIK BELONGS TO THE OLD GODS!’
Staggered roars of approval from the men of Stenvik turned to shocked cries as the man on the wall jammed the piece of wood into the side of the woman’s neck and tore through her windpipe. He grabbed her by the hair, jerked her head back as he held her body over the wall and let blood stream from her cut throat down onto the ground.
King Olav and Sigurd Aegisson turned to face each other.
Over the King’s shoulder Finn saw the spark of realization in the grizzled chieftain’s eyes, saw the fluid motion as he stepped back and the axe that swept up to block the King’s sword. As one, the King’s soldiers drew their weapons and Stenvik descended into chaos. Wading over dead bodies, the King pressed the attack against Sigurd. The chieftain parried the first three blows. Then the arrow took him in the shoulder. Up on the longhouse roof, Runar was firing indiscriminately at Stenvik’s fighters.
A bearded, scrawny and furious old man rushed at the King, screaming at the top of his lungs and wielding a knife in each hand. Finn drew his sword and stepped in to cover the King’s flank. The old man struck like an adder and Finn had to retreat in a panic. There was no doubt – the whole town was bewitched, under some kind of mad blood-spell. Finding power in the purity of his belief, Finn struck back faster than he thought possible, slashing across the old man’s chest.
The fighter coughed and blood spattered his beard. Taking two steps back he sized Finn up. ‘Not bad, son. Not bad at all. You hit hard for a fat little seal,’ and quick as a flash he threw his left-hand knife underhand at Finn’s leg.
Finn felt the point slam into his thigh just above the knee, just below the edge of his mail coat. Something ripped.
He brought his sword up on reflex to block the old man’s assault but he would not hold out long on one leg.
‘HELP!’ he shouted.
‘And you sound just like your mother too,’ the old man snarled. Three arrows punched through the old warrior’s hand, knee and shoulder in quick succession. He snarled as he fell. Limping, Finn turned to the longhouse.
Runar waved at him. Finn saluted weakly. Turning, he was just quick enough to see Sigurd Aegisson stumble and fall. King Olav levelled the point of his sword at the chieftain’s throat.
*
Ulfar had only one thought in his mind.
Harald would die.
Bounding up the broken steps, he drew his sword. When he reached the top of the wall he turned and moved towards the hulking sea captain, stepping carefully on the blood-slick planks. Harald turned, saw him and dropped Lilia’s body. Ulfar watched her topple over the wall and fall silently to the ground. There was no scream of pain. There was no crash. Instead she landed with a dull thump and lay still, a discarded carcass.
Ulfar recovered just in time to deflect Harald’s first blow. The burly fighter was on him, slashing and hacking madly with a big, heavy sword. Ulfar danced and dodged Harald’s frenzied onslaught. ‘YOU RUINED IT!’ the big man shrieked. ‘This is ALL YOUR FAULT! If you hadn’t come here she wouldn’t have died! You killed her! You did! You did!’ The words melded together into a torrent of wide-eyed snarling insanity, followed by blows that grew ever heavier. Ulfar stepped backwards into a pool of blood, his foot flew out from under him and his head smacked into the wooden fortifications.
Blur
Ears ringing
Something walked over him.
Something big.
Couldn’t see.
Sword.
There.
Get up get up get up
Someone on the walkway.
Fighting.
Hammer.
Audun.
Embracing Harald.
Ulfar shook his head and blinked furiously. Harald and Audun were locked in a crushing embrace. The point of Harald’s sword jutted out of Audun’s back. Audun’s head was smashing into Harald’s face. The big sea captain buckled. Audun had him in a crushing hold and head-butted him again. And again. And again. Harald seemed to sink into himself, his face a bloody pulp. The point of his sword disappeared into Audun, who staggered backwards. The big sea captain fell to the ground and lay still.
Audun seemed to struggle for balance. One step forward, then one step back. He turned and looked at Ulfar.
‘I … can’t follow you around all the time …’ he wheezed and smiled.
‘You idiot,’ Ulfar muttered, voice shaking. ‘You bloody idiot.’
Audun’s eyes rolled up into his skull.
Ulfar rushed forward and caught the blacksmith before he fell. ‘No. No no no no no.’
Audun died in his arms.
Supporting the weight of the stocky blacksmith, Ulfar looked over the inner wall. Beneath him King Olav’s soldiers were busy rounding up the people of Stenvik, stripping able-bodied men of weapons, forcing proud warriors to their knees. To the north and south archers clambered up the broken steps, but no one seemed to take notice of them.
Audun’s face looked surpr
isingly serene in death. Ulfar adjusted the body so he could lay his friend down to rest.
He felt the first thump as Audun’s heart started beating again. The blacksmith’s eyes flew open. He gasped for air, face contorted in agony. Ulfar saw King Olav’s archers take up positions on the wall on either side of them. He saw the sun dipping below the horizon in the west, casting long shadows across the land. Then he dragged Audun to the outer edge of the wall and found a spot where the spikes had been broken. Holding on to his friend, he let himself fall.
Epilogue
‘You are an asset, my good man.’
‘Thank you, my King.’
King Olav nodded graciously and leaned back on the high seat in the longhouse. ‘It was an absolute pleasure to find you here. It pained me to discover that the old ways were still alive in Stenvik. It gave me no choice. I had to fight and subdue Sigurd Aegisson, a man I respected.’
‘As did I, my Lord. But he was no man of Christ.’
King Olav nodded. ‘And my judgement turned out to be correct. It was shocking to find that he had poisoned a significant amount of the grain stores; no doubt what he intended to feed to my men. His punishment will be suitable.’ He looked thoughtfully across the longhouse. Tapestries taken from Saxon monasteries hung on every wall except the one behind the dais. There, wall mountings for some sort of weapon stood empty. ‘I still remember my soldiers’ surprise as they brought you before me. They found you in your little hut, kneeling, they said, cross in hand, praying to the Lord. In Latin! He truly is a hidden gem. Isn’t he, Finn?’
Slumped in the right-hand seat on the dais, Finn spoke slowly and measured every word. ‘He most certainly is, my lord.’
‘It is only my duty as a Christian,’ their visitor replied.
‘And the Lord thanks you. Before you leave, however, I would like to thank you for the work you’ve done for poor Finn here. No doubt his leg will heal fully. He says that mixture of yours is very good for pain relief. I’m sure we can find a place in our ranks for a man with such skill.’
‘You’re too kind, my Lord. Too kind,’ Valgard replied.
Outside, banks of grey clouds drifted across the moon.
To my wife and family.
Seriously. Thank you.
Prologue
EAST OF STENVIK, WEST NORWAY OCTOBER, AD 996
Ulfar walked, and the world changed around him. With every step the colours shifted from green to yellow, from yellow to red, from red to brown. Around him, nature was dying. Every morning he watched the same pale sun rise over greying trees. He was cold when he woke and wet when he slept. He jumped when he heard a twig snap or a bird take flight. Every shadow threatened to conceal a group of King Olav’s men about to burst out of the forest with drawn swords. His ribs still hurt after the fall, but there had been no other way out of Stenvik. They’d hidden themselves among the corpses at the foot of the wall until dark, then made their way in silence to the east, past the bloody remains of Sigmar on the cross and into Stenvik Forest, over the bodies of scores of slaughtered outlaws, after King Olav’s army had charged through the ranks of the forest men, killing everything in its path.
Audun marched beside him, hardly saying a word. The blond blacksmith had regained his strength incredibly quickly after the fight on the wall. The only thing that remained was a hole in his shift, front and back, where Harald’s sword had skewered him.
Audun had died on that wall. They both knew it.
Yet there he was, marching stony-faced beside Ulfar, hammer tied to his belt. Neither of them spoke of the fey woman on the ship – beautiful, evil and serene in her last moments. Neither of them mentioned her words. Were they truly cursed to walk the earth for ever? Would they never know the peace of death? Audun refused to speak of his experience, as if talking would seal their fate and somehow make it real. Just thinking about it sent chills up and down Ulfar’s spine.
On the first night after the wall he’d fallen into an uneasy sleep, only to wake with the breath stuck in his throat and Lilia’s falling body in his mind. Audun, standing first watch, had spoken then. He’d known what was wrong, somehow. He told Ulfar she’d be with him for ever and that no matter what he did, he couldn’t make her leave and he couldn’t make her live, so he should accept it, let her into his head and let her out again. That night Ulfar wondered just how many people visited Audun in his dreams.
The sharp wind tugged at Ulfar’s ragged cloak as his feet moved of their own accord, picking a path over stones, tree branches and dead leaves. When they set out they’d gone east, then north, then further east, with the sole aim of putting the most distance possible between themselves and King Olav, ignoring everything else. They were fleeing, like animals from a fire. Like cowards from a fight. At their back was the smell of Stenvik’s corpses, burning on King Olav’s giant pyre. No doubt Geiri’s body was among them.
Ulfar stopped.
He searched for the sun in the sky. He looked north, then south. He looked back to where they’d come from.
Audun shuffled to a halt and glared at him. ‘What?’
Ulfar swallowed and blinked. ‘I’m going home,’ he said. ‘There’s something I need to do.’ Then he turned to the east. He felt Audun’s eyes on his back as he walked away.
STENVIK, WEST NORWAY OCTOBER, AD 996
‘Do you accept our Lord Christ as your eternal saviour?’ Finn snarled, forearms taut with tension.
Valgard sighed. ‘He can’t hear you, Finn. Lift his head up.’
The burly warrior snorted, grabbed a handful of hair and pulled the prisoner’s head out of the water trough. The bound man tried to cough and suck in air at the same time, thrashing in panic as his lungs seized up.
‘Hold him,’ Valgard said. Finn strengthened his grip and planted a knee in the small of the prone man’s back. The slim, pale healer knelt down on the floor, leaned into the prisoner’s field of vision and put a firm hand on his chest. ‘You’re not dying,’ he said. ‘You’re getting enough air to survive. Breathe,’ he added, prodding at the man’s sternum with a bony finger. ‘In … out … in … out … Good.’ The man stopped squirming and lay still on the floor. Finn shifted the knee against the prisoner’s back but did not let go of the man’s hair. ‘Now. My friend here asked you a question. Do you believe?’ The man spat, coughed and tried to speak, but all that came out was a hoarse wheeze. Valgard’s smile flickered for an instant. ‘Let me see if I can explain this,’ he said. ‘King Olav has told us that for a man to accept the faith he needs to be … what was it?’
‘Christened,’ Finn said.
‘That’s right. Christened. And this involves pouring water over the head. We thought about this and figured that the more heathen you are, the more water you will need. So we have this’ – Valgard gestured to the trough – ‘and we have you. And we’re going to keep christening you until you believe. Do you believe in our Lord Christ?’ He expected the tough-looking raider to spit and snap like the others had – either that, or accept his circumstances and lie. Some men had a bit of sense in the face of death, but among the captured raiders that hadn’t appeared to be a highly valued trait.
Neither of these things happened. Much to Valgard’s surprise, he noticed that the prisoner’s lips were quivering. The man was crying silently, mouthing something. ‘Put him down. Check the straps.’ Finn lowered the prisoner to the floor and quickly did as he was told. When he’d examined the wrist and ankle straps to his satisfaction, he nodded at Valgard. ‘Good. Would you bring us something to eat? He’s not going anywhere and you could use the rest.’
Finn lurched to his feet, favouring his right leg. ‘You staying with him?’
Valgard rose alongside the big soldier and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘I don’t think we should leave him alone. You go – I’ll be fine. You’ve made sure he’s all tied up.’ Watching the concern in the eyes of King Olav’s captain as he left the house, Valgard had to fight to suppress a smile. It had taken fewer than four days since the f
all of Stenvik to bring Finn over to his side. The fact that he’d made the big warrior dependent on the mixture that soothed his aches helped. Mindful of the lessons learned from Harald’s descent into madness, he’d gone easy on the shadowroot this time.
Still, Valgard felt the last days deep in his bones. The aftermath had been hectic – much to everyone’s surprise, the king had refused to put the captured raiders to the sword. He’d extended the same mercy to the men of Stenvik, explaining to Valgard that he wanted to show all of them the way of the White Christ first. Valgard had nodded, smiled and done his best to patch up those most likely to survive – including his current visitor.
The man on the floor looked to be around forty years old, with thinning hair the colour of an autumn field. Callused rower’s hands and a broad chest suggested he’d spent his life sailing; weatherworn and salt-burned skin confirmed it. He’d probably killed a lot of people, Valgard mused. This wolf of the North Sea who now lay trussed up on the floor of Harald’s old house had most likely raped, terrorised and tortured with his group of stinking, bearded brothers, like all raiders. Apparently he’d followed someone called Thrainn, who’d been a brave and noble chieftain. But most of the brave and noble people Valgard had ever heard of shared the same trait – they were dead.
He knelt back down beside the man on the floor and waited, listening to his captive’s ragged breathing.
‘She’ll … kill me,’ the bound man whispered.
Valgard’s scalp tingled and the breath caught in his throat. Was this it? He fought hard to keep his composure. ‘Who?’ he asked.
‘She is … she is the night …’
Working carefully, Valgard eased the bound sailor up into a sitting position. Heart thumping in his chest, he chose his words carefully. ‘She was … with Skargrim, wasn’t she?’ The sailor shuddered and nodded. ‘And she would kill you.’ Again, the sailor nodded and when he tried to look around, Valgard said, ‘There’s no one here. You are safe. Five thousand of the king’s soldiers are camped around Stenvik. No one will attack us.’
The Valhalla Saga Page 31