‘Settle down, stranger. Settle down. Do you have a name?’ The man led Audun to one of the unused beds and nudged him to sit. Then he reached into the pouch hanging off his belt and pulled out something wrapped in linen cloth, along with a small paring knife.
‘Audun,’ he mumbled, settling down with his back to the wall. Looking around, he noted the carvings on the walls. Most appeared to have something to do with battle. He tried to focus, but his head felt fuzzy.
‘Audun.’ The old man mouthed it, as if it was something he’d never heard before. ‘Audun. Welcome to my home, Audun. My name is Fjolnir.’ He unravelled the linen cloth, revealing a joint of meat. The weary blacksmith’s mouth watered and he swallowed.
Fjolnir saw it and smiled. ‘Don’t get your hopes up. It’s goat, and a tough old one at that. What brings you to Setr Valley?’ he asked.
Audun couldn’t think of any reason, so he remained silent.
The old man looked at him, smiled, nodded and handed him a slice of meat. ‘Help yourself,’ he said. Setting the joint down on the table next to Audun along with the paring knife, Fjolnir reached into the folds of his tunic and another, bigger whittling blade appeared in his hand. He reached for a stick from the basket underneath his chair and started gently carving.
They sat like that for a while, listening to the soft crackling of the fire. Audun chewed on the meat, savouring every bite. The steady movement of Fjolnir’s hand was mesmerising as it flicked away the bits of wood that weren’t supposed to be there, carving out what looked to be a head on broad shoulders. Despite the aches and pains, Audun felt the weight of the last two weeks slowly ease off his chest.
After a while, Fjolnir put down the knife, reached out and stirred the embers with a poker. He glanced at Audun as he said, ‘Fire … It’s a strange thing. It’s almost like an animal. If you treat it well it does you good. But feed it too much and it burns down your house; put it out and you’re cold and miserable. It’s a strange thing, fire.’ He looked at Audun again. One of the old man’s eyes, the right one, didn’t appear to be working properly, but the left eye sparkled and a faint smile played on his lips. He looked about to say something, then he checked himself and went back to the whittling.
Audun frowned, but he was too tired to think. Fire … He remembered the flames on the wall, the heat in the forge. A short while later, he fell asleep to the sound of Fjolnir humming parts of an old tune.
*
He woke to the sound of hammering. Shutters had been opened, admitting the feeble rays of the sun, and Audun could smell the mist on the morning air. Still half-asleep, he got out of bed and stood up, putting all his weight on the bad leg. His brain caught up with him and the shock of impending pain made him draw his breath – but there was none. He pulled the string on his worn, dirty trousers very carefully and checked his hip. All that was left of yesterday’s fall was a fading yellow and purple bruise. The injury in his side already looked days old. He reached to scratch the phantom wound in his chest. His thick, callused finger pushed through the hole in the tunic, searching for an itch, but all he found was scar tissue. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the memory of the wall, the wound and the darkness howled and strained against its chains.
Unforgiving pressure from his bladder brought him back and told him in no uncertain terms what needed to be done. ‘Fine, fine,’ he muttered. There were no things to gather; he’d say goodbye to Fjolnir, thank him and be on his way, then take a piss in the woods when he was clear of the farmstead.
The old man had been busy in the yard. He’d set up a workbench and was chiselling something that might become a statue of some sort. He looked up, smiled and nodded, then went back to work. After a moment, he looked back up and grinned. ‘Want to earn yourself a bowl of broth? There’s an axe in the shed. If a man were to need to go to the woods for whatever reason, he could do worse than bring back a bit of lumber. Half again a man’s height, about as thick as yourself. Like the piece I have here.’
‘That’s a tree,’ Audun blurted out.
‘See? Sharp as a blade, and this early in the morning, too. Pine, if you please.’ There was a definite glint in Fjolnir’s eye and Audun was sure he saw a smirk as the old man went back to the carving.
Audun stood in the doorway for a moment. Then, cursing inwardly, he went to the shed.
For a farm that looked to be in the winter of its life, old Fjolnir kept some pretty sharp tools. Audun hefted the wood axe. The weight of it was satisfying. The handle was worn smooth.
When he came out again, Fjolnir caught his eye and smiled. He gestured to the east and Audun, following his directions, was soon walking in a sparse forest. Birches stretched their slim branches towards him, but he ignored them. A couple of days ago he might have seen the claws of cold death in the shapes of the soggy trees, but things were easier now. He had work to do.
When he found the tree he was looking for, Audun smiled for the first time in a long while. The bark felt rough under his hand. ‘I’ll give you a head start,’ he said, patting it like a skittish horse. ‘Go on.’
The tree didn’t move.
‘All right, then. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’ He flexed his muscles, cracked his neck and swung.
The axe vibrated with the force of the blow. He strained to free the blade from the trunk and struck again. His aim was true and a sliver of wood fell out of the wound. The cold, damp air was delicious in his lungs. He could feel his strength flooding back with every vicious swing of the heavy axe. His shirt soon clung to his back, and Audun gave himself up to the work. Before long, the tree trembled with every stroke. A push, a crash and it was down.
Working without thinking, he removed the branches methodically and cut the tree down to the requested size. When he was done, Audun stepped back, put down the axe and scratched his head.
‘How—?’ There was no horse on Fjolnir’s farm, so there could be only one answer. Audun bent down and wrapped his arms around the log. Straining, he managed to shift it up onto the stump of the tree. ‘How in Hel’s name did he—?’ Audun reached around the log again. Frowning, he let go, picked up the axe and cut a handhold on each side. Then he drew back and buried the axe in the wood, well past the midway point.
Audun bent his knees, growled low and hoisted the log onto his shoulder, grabbing the axe for support with his free hand. Turning carefully, he marched back to the farm.
When he got there, Fjolnir was waiting for him next to a big pile of wood-cuttings. ‘Very good!’ the old man shouted. ‘Need any help with that?’
‘Not from you, old man,’ Audun shot back. Normally he wouldn’t have said anything, but something about the greybeard set him at ease.
‘Thank you,’ Fjolnir said. ‘Could you put it over there?’ He pointed towards a shed half-hidden behind the house; Audun hadn’t noticed it the night before. Fjolnir’s farm was definitely in better shape than he’d first thought.
When he came back, the old man had brought out a battered old handcart filled with lumber. He turned to Audun. ‘If you’re not in a hurry to leave, stranger, I could use some help with these fence-posts.’
Audun shrugged. ‘Sure,’ he said. To his surprise, he found that he rather liked Fjolnir’s company.
The day fell into a steady rhythm: heave rough wood, hammer, nails, move on. Audun had to admit that the old man was an excellent worker. There was no fuss, minimal talking and no stupidity. The old man did what needed to be done and never got in his way. Thank the gods for every man who isn’t an idiot, Audun thought. Then he grinned. That would be the kind of thing he’d have muttered under his breath crossing the square in Stenvik, before …
‘What happened?’
The question came out of nowhere and broke the quiet.
‘I … What?’
‘Tell me.’
Audun looked at the old man, who just looked levelly back at him with his one good eye. ‘There … um … there was a siege. Around Stenvik. Someone called Skargrim surrounded the
city.’ Fjolnir nodded at the mention of the name. ‘A lot of good men died.’ Audun found he was grasping the handle of the sledgehammer. His knuckles were white. With great effort, he managed to relax his fingers and put it down.
‘And?’
‘And … we defeated him. Them. There were more.’
‘And was that it?’
‘No. King Olav came and took over.’
Fjolnir frowned. ‘And how did you survive?’
Audun’s throat was suddenly dry. His chest itched something fierce, but the words caught in his throat. It felt like Fjolnir was looking through him now. His face flushed and he reached for the sledgehammer.
‘I just did,’ he growled.
The hammer blow split the fence-post in two.
Fjolnir handed him another without a word and Audun drove it into the ground.
They continued working as their shadows grew longer. Finally, Fjolnir spoke. ‘Time for home and food.’
Audun threw the sledgehammer on the cart. He could feel his muscles, but in a pleasant way; it was an ache that said he’d put in a day’s work. The pain from his back was gone and the wound in his side had all but disappeared. After he had smashed the fence-post, Fjolnir had not brought up Stenvik again. Audun frowned. Part of his mind sought to understand his current situation, but another part of him remembered all too well. He did not want to think about how the cold steel had pierced his skin, ripped through his muscles and punctured his heart as it tore through his back when Harald had skewered him on the wall.
The thought came like a bucket of cold water. Injured. He’d been injured, badly. But it had been all right because Ulfar had jumped and they’d escaped.
Injured. He’d just been injured.
‘What do you want to eat?’ Fjolnir asked as they headed back home, following the line of the fence they’d erected.
‘Food would do,’ Audun mumbled.
‘Oh. So you can still talk,’ the old man said. ‘Good. I was beginning to worry that I’d shut you up. So Stenvik was bad, was it?’
‘It was,’ Audun said.
‘You saw things you wish you hadn’t seen,’ Fjolnir said.
‘I did,’ Audun muttered.
‘And did things you didn’t want to,’ Fjolnir said. Audun stopped, turned and looked at the old man, who stood his ground and returned the gaze. ‘And now it’s eating you up and you’re afraid that if you talk about it – if you even think about it – it’ll come back and you’ll do it again.’ Audun felt his breath quicken, felt his hands clench into fists and still the old man did not move. ‘And you’re always angry.’
Fjolnir turned and walked towards home. ‘I know how it is. Come on, old bull,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘You’ll tell me when we get home.’
*
Nothing more passed between them until the sun had set and they were back at the farmstead. Fjolnir busied himself getting a fire going, then disappeared for a moment and returned with a basket full of food. Audun saw turnips, roots and a handful of green things, along with meat. ‘You’ve been working hard; you’ll need this,’ he said as he gestured for Audun to remain seated. ‘You’re a big lad,’ he added.
Soon something was bubbling in the pot and a fat chunk of pork was roasting on the fire. Audun tried to speak up, but he was too tired.
‘Right. That’s everything. I’ll just go and …’ Fjolnir’s voice trailed off and he stepped out again. When he came back, he was carrying a travel chest, which he put down by the door.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘we talk. First I’ll tell you of my son. He was like you, a big strong lad. Not too sharp. He meant well, but there was always something in him. Pride, anger, I don’t know. I could talk to him, teach him, but only up to a point. The thing – the fire in him – it always took over.’ The fire in the hearth crackled in agreement and the room twisted and warped with the dancing shadows. ‘He left to go and find things – adventure, maybe, or honour, I guess. His place in the world. I used to be … I wasn’t always a gentle father.’ The old man was miles away now. ‘So he needed to go away.’
‘Do you know where he is now?’
Fjolnir blinked, and for a moment Audun was sure the old man didn’t recognise him. Then he smiled. ‘Oh yes. I do know. See, I had another son by another woman. Wish I never had. Nasty piece of work, just like his mother. He was smart, too. Had a real knack for letting other people do his dirty work. And he … poisoned the mind of my son, turned him against me. He told him I was weak, old and feeble.’ The shadows behind Fjolnir were moving more than Audun thought they should. ‘I had to … I had to discipline them. But they’re out there. They’re out there waiting to come for me, to claim what’s theirs.’
The old man stopped talking and a silence spread in the hut, only occasionally broken by the crackling of the fire.
‘Food,’ Fjolnir finally said. ‘We should eat.’ He reached down and produced two mugs of mead from somewhere. ‘Drink this,’ he said to Audun, who did not need to be told twice.
It was the sweetest, most delicious thing he’d ever tasted.
‘Eat,’ Fjolnir commanded. He’d carved off a chunk of glistening roast pork. The smell alone was enough to make Audun’s stomach lurch with hunger.
They ate and drank.
After a while, Fjolnir said, ‘I will guess that you didn’t have a good time with your father.’
‘You’d guess right,’ Audun said.
‘What happened?’
‘I killed him.’
Fjolnir sat in silence for a little while. ‘And was that when it happened?’
The tone – the understanding in the old man’s voice – sent a wave of sensation up Audun’s arms. ‘Yes,’ was all he could say.
‘Tell me,’ Fjolnir said.
‘He was … I know now what he was. He was a coward and a bully, and he had no interest in a fair fight. I think he might have been good to my mother at the start, but as long as I could remember he’d beaten her. And me, if I made any noise.’ The words that had been kept down for so long tumbled out of him. ‘And he beat us thoroughly. Mother didn’t go out for days on end. Fucking bastard,’ Audun snarled. ‘He didn’t care about anyone but himself, so I started trying to find a place to work. There was a blacksmith in my village; I began doing odd jobs for him, sneaking out when the old man was drunk. For some reason I grew up quick, and was soon doing hammer work. In my twelfth summer, I packed on some muscle, but my father didn’t notice. Then once, he came home from drinking and I was standing too close to the door, so he punched me, sent me flying across the room. Then he grabbed Mother. He was rough with her, so I stood up, told him to let her go. ‘He laughed at me. I told him again. He said, “Or what?” I said I’d make him.’
Audun took a sip of mead. ‘That was one step too far. I got his attention. He went for me with his belt, tanned me, then grabbed me around the neck. He was going to strangle me, and I …’
‘You felt the fire,’ Fjolnir said. ‘There was a fire inside you. Something that burned. Some kind of beast that needed to get out.’
‘Yes.’
There was a long pause as the two men eyed each other up.
‘How did he die?’ Fjolnir finally asked.
‘I knocked him to the floor and broke his face,’ Audun said. ‘I smashed it. I couldn’t stop hitting him.’
‘And then … ?’
‘My mother – she put a hand on my shoulder. I turned around and the look on her face made … It made the fire go away.’ Audun took another, deeper, swig of mead. The sweetness was cloying. ‘I couldn’t stay. His friends would have rounded us up and killed us. My mother pleaded with me, insisted I take all she owned, which turned out to be three pieces of silver. She cried so much that I took them, then I broke into the forge and took a hammer. I left the silver. I have been running since.’
Fjolnir nodded. ‘Thank you for telling me your story.’ They sat quietly for some time until the old man rose, picked up a poker and moved to the fire. ‘Look,�
�� he said, and blew on the embers. Flames danced towards the ceiling, tendrils stretching like flowers to the sun. ‘The flame is dangerous. It burns. But you decide how bad it gets.’ He looked at Audun. ‘It does not own us. It does not decide who we are. We do.’ He walked over to the chest by the door, picked it up and placed it in front of Audun. ‘I want you to have this,’ he said. ‘It belonged to my son, but he has no claim to it now.’
‘I can’t take it,’ Audun said. ‘Whatever it is.’
‘I would ask you to do it for me, as a favour. There will be a lot of trouble on your path before your journey is done, Audun Arngrimsson.’
Grinning, the old man reached into the apparently bottomless food basket. ‘Now we eat till we’re fat and drink till we’re drunk, and I’ll tell you a story of what happens if you spend a night in the forest when the moon is full!’
Audun accepted the refilled mug Fjolnir thrust at him and took another deep, long swig. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Thank you for my food. Thank you for—’ His words failed him. ‘Thank you.’
The old man smiled. ‘Shut up and drink. Now, there are many places you can go when the moon is round as a whore’s teat, but my forest is not one of them. Let me tell you a story …’
*
The hammer-blows from outside reverberated around the inside of Audun’s sore head. His mouth felt like an old sock and his bladder was full to bursting point. He rolled out of bed and banged his knee on the chest. Muttering a curse, he stumbled to his feet and noticed that the hammering had stopped.
Fjolnir’s voice rang out across the farmstead. ‘Well met, strangers! What brings riders to my end of Setr Valley?’
VALLE, WEST NORWAY OCTOBER, AD 996
The air in the barn stank of mouldering hay and horse sweat. Ulfar’s stomach turned. His skin was clammy, intermittently cold and hot, and he could feel the sheen of dirty sweat on his forehead under the greasy strands of long, black hair.
She was writhing under him, trying to make a good show of it, whoever she was. ‘Come on,’ she whispered. ‘Come on, stranger. Come on.’ There was an odd sort of desperation in her urging, he thought. She groped for him, with little luck. He tried to focus on her face. Sparkling blue eyes, blonde hair, tiny upturned nose. Freckles. She was pretty, in a country sort of way. He reached for her name but got lost in a fog of mead. Nothing was right. All he could feel were his breeches rubbing against the underside of his deflating cock.
The Valhalla Saga Page 34