The two tall men fell into an easy, mile-eating stride, the dog trotting alongside them, until he suddenly caught wind of something. There was a whimper, a soft-spoken command and he was off like a bolt into the fields.
Ulfar watched the big animal go and whistled appreciatively. ‘He’s quite a beast, that one,’ he said.
‘Name’s Geraz. Had him since he fitted in the palm of my hand,’ Gestumblindi said. ‘Love him like my sons – more than my sons, in fact. I have two – the other one, Frec, doesn’t care much for company, so I let him range. He’ll be back tonight. They’re good to have on the road.’
‘I can imagine. But what brings you to this corner of nowhere?’ Ulfar eventually ventured.
‘Hm,’ the old man said. ‘What brings me here?’ He looked Ulfar up and down. ‘I’m … how shall we say? I am on a mission.’
‘What kind of mission?’
‘I’m searching for something. Or someone, rather. I used to travel quite a lot, seen a lot of places – all of them, pretty much. I had some friends in Jomsborg,’ he added, winking at Ulfar. ‘Still have, in fact.’
Ulfar swallowed and fought hard to not feel for his sword. His breath caught in his throat. Suddenly the old man’s military bearing made sense. ‘That’s … good,’ he said. ‘So—’
‘Hold on.’ The old man turned away from Ulfar and appeared to be listening to something. ‘Good boy,’ he muttered. ‘Good boy.’ Moments later, Ulfar spotted a white speck in the distance. The dog was coming towards them at full speed. Gestumblindi stopped walking and focused intently on the dog, Ulfar forgotten.
As the big animal drew closer, Ulfar noted a brown stain near its jaws. A bit nearer, and he could see the stain was moving, bouncing in time with the bounding dog.
Closer yet, and now Ulfar could see that its jaws were wrapped around the neck of a hare.
It was only when the dog was skidding to a halt in front of them, the joy of speed and power shining in its eyes, that Ulfar saw the captured hare blink and continue to struggle. It was still alive.
‘Oh, good boy, Geraz!’ Gestumblindi said and scratched the big dog behind the ears. It thumped its tail in response, beaming with pride and gazing at its master.
Something in the tall man changed. ‘Now – kill.’
A wet crunch. The hare stopped moving.
A heartbeat, and Ulfar remembered to breathe again.
The hare fell from Geraz’ jaws to the old man’s feet with a thud. ‘That’s food for tonight, I think,’ Gestumblindi said with all the pride of a new parent. He scratched the big dog’s head, picked up the hare and started walking again. Ulfar had to shake himself – the sharp stench of the hare’s blood, shit and fear stung his nostrils and lingered where it had died.
‘Where was I? The Jomsvikings,’ Gestumblindi continued when Ulfar caught up. ‘That was an age ago, though,’ he added. ‘I’m long done with that life. I was a pup, like you.’ The dog at his side barked once and the tall man reached down to scratch its head. ‘Yes, yes. You were a pup, too, once. Way too long ago, you bucket of lard.’ Geraz appeared to be quite happy with the attention and the tone of his master’s voice, and less worried about the insults.
‘How did you manage to leave the Jomsvikings?’ Ulfar asked.
The tall man winked. ‘I had more important things to do.’
Ulfar’s mind raced. ‘How—?’
Gestumblindi smiled and took his time before replying. ‘It does sound improbable, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ Ulfar said. ‘I mean, the Jomsvikings never lose.’
‘We’re never on the losing side,’ the old man replied, grinning. ‘There is a subtle difference, but as the winning side tends to tell the tale, it’s one that is rarely thought about.’
Despite his concerns, Ulfar smirked. The old soldier had an instinct for putting people at ease. Much like Sven, Ulfar thought, and his smile faded. The greybeard from Stenvik had made him feel at home, for a while at least.
‘However, there is a need to … to find new blood. From what I heard about last night,’ Gestumblindi continued, ‘in the long-house, I’d say you can handle yourself.’
Ulfar frowned. ‘Not like one of the Jomsvikings.’
Gestumblindi turned towards him. ‘Don’t sell yourself short, Thormodsson. You have … you have something, I think.’
The day was mild, but Ulfar still felt as though the air around him had grown colder. The compliment left a bitter taste in his mouth.
‘I don’t—’
‘So I would like to extend you an offer. Join my side and you will get the fight of your life, with spoils unimaginable and—’
‘No.’
Gestumblindi stopped and turned to face him. Sensing a change in his master’s stance, Geraz growled low in his throat.
Ulfar took a measured step back.
‘No?’ The old man eyed him with something … intrigue? Anger?
‘I cannot,’ Ulfar said. He felt light-headed. The ground tilted around him.
‘Why not?’ Gestumblindi said. His grip on the staff tightened.
‘There is something I must do.’
‘What?’ the old man said.
A sudden flare of determination made Ulfar look the old man straight in the eyes. ‘I have to go to Uppsala. I have to find a man called Alfgeir Bjorne. And I have to tell him that his son is dead. I also have to tell him that it is my fault.’
The space between them appeared to stretch in all directions at once. Behind Gestumblindi the horizon warped, twisted in on itself and became its own mirror; above them the sky stretched so far as to become the ground they stood on. Suddenly Gestumblindi looked impossibly tall and Ulfar’s chest tightened; his breath came in ragged gulps. He staggered to keep his balance but it was too late – his head felt ever lighter, his eyes rolled up into his head and he crumpled to the ground.
He dreamed of spaces, of stars and cold black, and a big hall somewhere in a forest. He didn’t go in. The world spun around him, and he had to fight against the memories of Stenvik, the woman on the boat, the curse – the shock when Audun came back.
Later, Ulfar opened his eyes. There was nothing wrong with the sky above him. He moved his elbow to roll over – and something growled; something big and close. A base fear coursed through him and Ulfar shuddered. He shifted his elbow again; another growl, this time more insistent. Curled lips over sharp teeth. A warning.
Ulfar eased onto his back and lay absolutely still. Glancing to both sides without moving his head, he thought he saw the shadow of something, but it was too big to comprehend. His heart thumped in his chest and for a moment he thought he felt the fangs, the hot breath, the wet jaws clamped over his throat and shoulder.
But nothing happened, and Ulfar’s mind decided he was safer somewhere else.
When he opened his eyes again, the sun had travelled almost all the way across the sky and the smell of roasted hare made his stomach growl. The evening chill was just beginning to bite, but the soft warmth of a distant fire was creeping slowly from his feet towards his knees.
‘Welcome back,’ Gestumblindi said, somewhere out of sight. Ulfar’s reply was not much more than a mumble. ‘Shut up and lie still,’ the old man continued, not unkindly. ‘Have you been feeding yourself recently, brave wanderer?’
‘Not much,’ Ulfar managed.
‘You smell like you’ve watered yourself, though. Regularly,’ the old man added.
Ulfar did his best to shrug while lying down.
‘Here,’ the old man said as he entered Ulfar’s field of vision. He had a knife; speared on its point was a bit of lean hare meat. It was burned crisp on one side; the other was rosy pink. Ulfar’s mouth watered and he propped himself up. ‘Gently,’ the old man said. ‘You’ve been pushing hard, you’ve been drinking on a mostly empty stomach and you’ve not been eating right. You just fainted.’
‘Er … yeah,’ Ulfar mumbled. He took the proffered knife and pinched the piece of meat with his thumb and f
orefinger. ‘Been … been walking a while, I suppose.’
Gestumblindi had gone back to the fire and was busying himself turning two hares on a spit. Geraz, sitting close to the warmth, followed his master’s moves intently. Something in the dog’s shadow caught Ulfar’s eye, but it disappeared again almost immediately.
‘Here,’ Gestumblindi said, passing Ulfar a distinctive silver flask etched with a picture of a well. ‘Drink this. It’ll make you better.’
‘Thank—’ The words got stuck in his throat and he tasted bile. Swallowing it down, he raised the flask to his lips.
He could feel the water flowing through his body, tingling out into what felt like his fingertips, washing before it the dirt that was inside him. There were only a few drops in the flask, but it felt like a full flagon. Ulfar exhaled. His head cleared. The stars winked at him and told him exactly how to get to Uppsala. A weight lifted off his chest and he felt for the first time since the decision that he would be able to do it, be able to face Alfgeir Bjorne.
‘It’s what I keep telling them,’ Gestumblindi said. His hands appeared to function with a will of their own. He turned the spit, sliced off meat onto a bit of cloth next to Geraz and went back to the hares, working for every last scrap on the blackening bones. Ulfar noted that the dog didn’t consider going for the food, even though it was within reach. ‘A man is only as strong as the water he can get. So if you are besieging a town, go straight for their water supply.’
The burned meat suddenly tasted of ash.
They’d walked for four days to get away from the stench of the big pyre outside Stenvik; it had been in their clothes, in their hair, in their noses. Human fat dripping on the flames burned with an acrid, sour smoke; the delicious smell of roast meat sat alongside the knowledge that it was from the bodies of fallen comrades.
Ulfar drank more water but the taste of that bitter smoke was still in his mouth.
A howl broke the silence, the sound of something from the darkest recesses of the human mind, the tearing cry of nightmares. The hairs on Ulfar’s arms stood on end, but Gestumblindi and Geraz looked completely unfazed. ‘Did you—?’
‘That’s Frec,’ the old man said. ‘He likes the moon.’ At his feet, the big white hound worried at a bone. It looked almost comically small in his huge jaws.
‘Right,’ Ulfar said. He leaned back and watched night chase day across the sky. ‘Do you want me to take the first watch?’
Gestumblindi chuckled. ‘That won’t be necessary. Anyone and anything that heard the same thing you just did will have the sense to stay away. Nothing can touch us here. Now sleep, Ulfar Thormodsson.’
The heat of the fire, the meat in his belly and the stars overhead drained Ulfar and he fell into a deep sleep.
Gestumblindi turned slowly towards the sleeping form. Geraz cocked his head and looked at his master, who nodded once. The big white dog stood and sniffed the air.
A grey wolfhound padded into the circle of firelight. It walked straight up to the old man, nudged its head at his thigh and moved over to Geraz. They stood to attention, eyes trained on Gestumblindi.
‘You’re trouble. Both of you,’ the old man muttered. ‘But we’ll see what’s what.’ He reached for his satchel, grimaced and clutched his ribs. ‘Really didn’t need to take that much of a beating,’ he grumbled. ‘Let’s see if this one can do with less convincing.’ Rooting around, he found what he was looking for. ‘There we are,’ he said as his hand came out of the satchel holding a small vial. ‘Seems a waste … but the belt was always for the smith.’ Gestumblindi winced again as he reached for the silver flask, tipped the contents of the vial into it and sealed it again. When he rose, he looked older. ‘Right. Let’s go.’
The dogs fell in line as the old man walked away, leaning on his staff.
The moon shone on him, but he cast no shadow.
STENVIK, WEST NORWAY OCTOBER, AD 996
The chime of blacksmiths’ hammers on blades rang out across town as weapons were prepared, chain jerkins repaired and shields reinforced; raw voices of chieftains exploded in counterpoint, barking out orders. New Town’s square was full of people as Stenvik woke up to its purpose.
Just off the main south road, Jorn stepped closer to Runar. ‘Have you spoken to them?’ he hissed.
‘Y-yes. Botolf and Skeggi are in,’ Runar replied. ‘I am heading d-down to meet them and tell them who to p-p-put on the boat.’
‘Good. We’ll make sure …’ Jorn’s voice trailed off.
‘W-what?’
Jorn didn’t reply but stared at something over Runar’s shoulder. The archer turned to look. A group of Finn’s men were running away from the square and into the northern part of town. ‘Th-that doesn’t look—’
‘No. It doesn’t, does it?’ Jorn said. ‘Are they running towards—?’
‘Yes.’
‘Right. We won’t learn anything standing here. You head down to Old Town. Keep an eye on things, count the horses, divide stores and make sure we get it right. I’ll go and find out what’s happened.’
Runar was already moving.
*
‘And you’re sure about this?’ King Olav said. Since he received the news, he’d been walking aimlessly around the longhouse, as if he couldn’t bear the thought of stillness.
‘Quite sure, your Majesty,’ Valgard replied. Beside him, Finn watched the young king pace. His eyes were sleepy, the smell of the mixture heavy on his breath. Unlike Harald, the burly soldier turned sleepy, even gentle, when the herbs kicked in. The ghost of a smile passed across Valgard’s face. He’d still prove useful, if played right.
King Olav stopped in front of the fractured cross, looking at it as if he’d only just noticed it.
‘How … how will this play?’ he finally said.
‘With regard to the deaths, there will be anger,’ Valgard replied. He’d thought about how to reply to such a question, and the words rolled off his tongue with ease. ‘There will be men of the Westerdrake who’ll assume that you had them killed—’
‘Which I did not.’
‘Which you certainly did not. You gave no such order.’
‘Exactly.’
The chance was there. ‘Regardless of how convenient it is for you.’ He watched the king stiffen in front of the cross, but he said nothing. If anything, King Olav appeared to slump a little. ‘However, I have been taking care of them. So if it is to your Majesty’s taste—’
‘Nothing here is to my taste.’ The king’s voice was cold.
‘I could … I could tell the men about the wounds Sven and Sigurd suffered earlier, fighting the raiders. And how they got battle fever and there was nothing I could do for them.’
Silence. King Olav was still staring at the cross, craning his neck to take it all in. Like a boy seeking his father’s eyes, Valgard thought.
‘Do that,’ the king said. He did not look at them. ‘We still sail tomorrow.’
‘The men will expect full chieftain’s treatment, your Majesty: a burial to befit Sigurd’s standing. They’ll want a ship,’ Valgard offered.
‘Sigurd Aegisson does not get a fucking ship!’ The king spun around and glared at them. His face was flushed with anger. ‘They had the … the insolence to die now when they were not supposed to and they do not get a ship. No ship. You can have what you asked for with that other thing, but I will not give those two a heathen burial. No chance. Then they win.’
Valgard said, ‘It would be wrong.’
‘Heathen,’ Finn added. ‘Against the word of the Lord. No matter what the men may think.’
Taking his time to make it look like he was thinking, eventually Valgard said, ‘Might I suggest … ?’
*
The cordon around Sigurd and Sven’s hut was three men deep. They all looked the same – big, broad, and dully determined. None of them appeared inclined to move for or even acknowledge Jorn. He’d suggested bargaining, he’d tried veiled warnings and was about to escalate to very direct threats w
hen the men suddenly stepped aside.
‘Thank you,’ Jorn muttered and reached for the bar.
‘Hold it,’ Finn’s voice barked. ‘You wait for your king.’
Jorn rolled his eyes before he turned and stepped away from the door. ‘Of course. Your Majesty,’ he said as he bowed his head. The three of them – Olav, Finn and that slimy healer – looked oddly worried, which made little sense – they should have been at least content, if not singing in the street. This solved a lot of problems for the king and should strengthen his hold on Stenvik, but they still looked like they had a lot on their minds. Before Jorn could put a finger on what was bothering him about the scene, Finn barged past him and wrenched open the door. Valgard entered second and immediately went to the two bodies lying inside the hut, kneeling down to feel their throats.
Behind him, King Olav entered the hut.
‘Dead. Cold, no pulse, no breath,’ Valgard said.
‘Fine. Bring them to your hut, Valgard. Take Finn – prepare them for sea and fire. Quickly. They will meet their gods tonight.’ King Olav turned to face him. ‘Is my army prepared, Jorn?’
‘Almost, my Lord.’
‘Get to it,’ the king snapped. ‘We sail tomorrow morning.’
He only just managed to step out of King Olav’s way as the king stormed from the hut. The king’s fury was a tangible thing.
*
Runar weaved his way between skeletal huts and burned-down houses towards the harbour. The biggest ships had been moored at the docks, but to each side of the wooden structures beached boats were being inspected, repaired and even loaded. Experienced men helped the less proficient, barked on by veterans who in turn answered to their chieftains.
He found a vantage point just at the edge of the half-moon that had served as quayside and town square in the Old Town. A constant line of men carried supplies to the square in preparation for tomorrow morning. There were sacks of dried beef and barrels of drinking water – and large bundles of throwing spears, lest he forget the purpose of King Olav’s ‘delegation’. A group of men carrying firewood and kindling moved to the edge on the other side of the square and started stacking it haphazardly. In the oddly coordinated chaos of the harbour, the impossibility of mobilising an army struck Runar. How did it ever work? So many men working towards a common goal. The fact that there had been only four fights so far among the thousand men at work was nothing short of remarkable.
The Valhalla Saga Page 36