A slim, scarred man sidled up to him, apparently out of nowhere. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said.
‘Botolf.’ Runar said. ‘Well met. Are you r-ready for tomorrow?’
‘We are.’
‘On the boat, we want—’
‘I know what you want. But we haven’t talked about—’
‘R-r-reward?’ Runar said.
‘Correct,’ the slim man replied. There was a glint of greed in his eyes as he brushed thin strands of black hair from his face. ‘And the Prince of the Dales is ready to promise, is he?’
He might be the ruling lord of large parts of the southern coast and a powerful ally, but Botolf Ornsson thoroughly repulsed Runar. ‘Y-you will b-b—’ He fought back the fury, drew a deep breath and looked Botolf straight in the eye. ‘You will be rewarded.’
The chieftain smiled and nodded. ‘I just wanted to make sure we’re clear on this. I know the Dalefolk well, cousins on my mother’s side, but I know my men better. And I’ve never seen anyone block a dagger with a favour.’
Runar smiled back. ‘Acts of faith are rewarded, Botolf.’
Botolf’s scars danced on his face as he smiled. For a moment, Runar thought he saw something in them, some kind of emotion, but it was gone in an instant. ‘Let’s hope so, Runar,’ he said.
‘B-b-battle nerves,’ Runar muttered to himself as Botolf sauntered away without a care in the world. ‘Of c-course he’s concerned. After all, what we’re going to do …’ Thinking about the moment made him smile. The moment when King Olav would realise that he was not among his imagined true believers after all. The moment when the king’s men would become Jorn’s men, take up pikes and swords, spear the king like a pig, slit his throat and throw him overboard. The look on his face—
In the distance, he noted that Botolf had stopped by a house and appeared to be addressing someone out of sight within. Moments later Skeggi emerged, clasped Botolf’s arm in a warrior’s grip and turned towards Runar’s vantage point.
Runar watched him approach. Where Botolf was all slinking menace and fox-like grace, Skeggi was the bull in the field. The likes of him were precisely why King Olav had done what he did – small kings who ruled with an iron fist and a generous helping of dim-witted cruelty. It was only animal cunning that had landed Skeggi on King Olav’s side. He’d been quicker than the others to see which way the wind was turning. Runar raised a hand to the warrior.
‘Botolf tells me you’ve promised a reward,’ he said the moment he was in earshot.
Runar bit back a response and forced a nodding smile. ‘Th-th-that is t-true,’ he countered. ‘B-but we cannot go into detail right now.’
‘Right,’ Skeggi said. ‘Never know who’s listening, eh?’
‘Right. Well observed,’ Runar said and gave the big lump of a man a conspiratorial wink he suspected would largely go to waste. ‘W-we d-d-don’t need to say to Botolf, for example, that whoever takes c-care of getting one king out of the way can expect r-rewards from the n-next.’
Skeggi’s thick brow furrowed even further as he puzzled out the meaning of the words. When he finally arrived at the destination he wished to reach, his face lit up. ‘Right,’ he rumbled and tapped his thrice-broken nose. ‘Tomorrow morning. What happens?’
‘We will try to get lines going from the south gate,’ Runar said, pointing, ‘and divide the men down to the east and west. You and Botolf will provide us with ten men each; they’ll board the king’s ship. It’s the one over there with the dragon’s head.’
‘Mighty fine boat,’ Skeggi said. ‘I’ll be on that one, too. Just to make sure everything goes right.’
Runar’s mind raced. ‘Is … are you sure? It would p-possibly be b-better if, um—’
The big man fixed him with a stare that was neither dull nor slow. Thick bands of muscle flexed under his shift. ‘I’m going on that boat. As is Botolf. You can’t ask us just for our men. I want to be there when it goes down – to see the look on his face.’
‘Yes. Of course.’
‘And you want to be up close for that sort of thing,’ Skeggi added, ‘otherwise people will think you’re a coward.’ A bushy eyebrow crept skywards. ‘Or an archer.’ Runar’s cheeks burned. The look on the chieftain’s face said he’d noticed. ‘So I trust you’ll be there with us?’
‘Of course,’ Runar snapped. In his mind’s eye, he imagined putting three arrows through the big bully’s throat at a hundred paces, and his heart slowed down somewhat. ‘Wouldn’t m-miss it.’
Skeggi smiled, and Runar wished he hadn’t. ‘Very good. I like you, Squeak. You got it all figured out.’ With that, the broad-shouldered chieftain turned and stalked away.
Runar exhaled. ‘F-fucking sh-sheep-rapist p-pot face,’ he spat as he glared at Skeggi’s broad back. Next time he’d boot the prince himself into negotiating with his dear subjects-to-be. Turning his mind to the logistics of arming and readying three thousand men, he idly wondered whether they had any chance of making a few more corpses drop overboard tomorrow.
*
‘They’re ready,’ Finn said.
Valgard looked at his handiwork and allowed himself to feel a little bit of pride. The two bodies on his floor looked just like Sigurd and Sven would have in full armour. Only by taking off the chain-mail jerkins would you see that both of the dead men’s necks had been snapped. ‘It still feels wrong, though,’ the big man muttered.
‘I know, Finn. I know. But you understand, just like King Olav did, that it has to be done. We do the Lord’s work, though, because we’re not giving in to our enemy. We’re not giving the old gods two powerful souls for the afterlife. We’re just giving them – and all the men – a bit of a … a show.’
Finn nodded. With his sloped shoulders and hung head, he looked like a sulky child. He walked over to where Sven and Sigurd lay. ‘And what do we do with them?’
‘As King Olav said, remember?’
‘Uhm,’ Finn muttered. ‘Yes.’
Scale back further on the shadowroot, Valgard reminded himself. Pliant but useful was the desired result, not sleepwalking idiot bear. He reached inside and found all the command he could muster. ‘Get me a cart, four blankets and three horses. Now,’ he snapped.
Finn appeared to come alive. His chest puffed out and his back straightened. His eyes were still glazed, but there was more soldier to him.
‘Yes,’ he said and bowed out of the hut.
Valgard turned to the two greybeards. They looked oddly peaceful on his muddy floor, like they were just in a deep sleep. ‘Right, you two,’ Valgard said. ‘We’re nearly ready. I just have to fetch some things first. Don’t go anywhere.’ He slipped out of the hut, smiling to himself.
Finn was already waiting outside with the cart and three placid horses when Valgard returned. ‘What’s in there?’ the big soldier said, pointing to the large sack Valgard had slung over his back.
‘Never you mind. Help me load up,’ he snapped. Finn merely nodded and set to work. The two men in armour were soon up on the cart. Ducking into the hut, Valgard signalled for the big man to follow him. When they were out of sight, he fired off instructions to Finn. ‘Wrap them in the rugs – like that, good – and tie the ends. Good. Now let’s make packhorses out of the remaining two.’
When they were ready, Valgard soothed the two horses, but he didn’t need to; Finn had chosen well. The beasts were placid and took calmly to their new role. ‘You’ll drive the cart; I’ll ride out on the North Road when I see people moving south. Once the king has started talking, you make your way north and come find me. Understood?’
Finn nodded. As vacant as he looked at times, Valgard didn’t worry for a moment – the big man was good with instructions. Moving slowly but with focus, he soon had the horse before the cart trundling down towards the harbour.
Valgard stroked the two remaining horses and their cargo, wrapped in blankets and slung like sacks over the animals’ rumps. ‘It’s maybe not what you imagined, Father,’ he said, ‘but it’s what
you’re getting.’ He rubbed at his shoulders and tried his best to crack his joints. Now all he could do was wait.
*
No one called for quiet.
It just spread, like blood on stone, as the orders were given. A rowing crew moved the king’s longship out of the way. Another crew manoeuvred a big, stocky boat in; an ice-breaker from the far north. A line of workers formed – some carried logs, others hefted bundles of kindling. As the pyre rose, layer by layer, more and more men drifted to the edges of the half-circle of stone by the harbour. The sense of occasion spread but there were no shouts, no summons – all over Stenvik, men just laid down their tools and moved to the harbour.
Finn watched them. He saw wary eyes, distrust and worry. They could see what was happening and there was tension in them; tension that needed to be directed.
The slow clop-clop of metal on stone sounded ponderous, almost unreal in the silence – and then the crowds parted for King Olav Tryggvason.
He walked his horse into the half-circle and surveyed the assembled men, standing crammed in between Stenvik’s broken houses, in amongst shattered walkways and burned frames. Finn watched as a charge went through them – now they stared intently at the king, waiting for him to explain.
‘Today I have had to make a choice,’ King Olav said. His voice was soft but it carried far. ‘Two men I respected and hoped would be our allies, Sigurd Aegisson and Sven Kolfinnsson, today lost their fight with battle fever, caught after injuries sustained fighting Skargrim and his raiders. And I did not wish to give them a …’ The king swallowed, then continued, ‘a burial dedicated to the old gods.’ The men exchanged glances. ‘But,’ and the king’s voice grew in power, ‘I sought counsel!’ He looked to the skies and made the sign of the cross. Moving hands caught a soldier’s eye, and Finn noted several of the men reflexively signing themselves. ‘And the Lord told me that we could give back to the old gods what was always theirs.’
Finn didn’t need a signal. He led the wagon towards the funeral ship and motioned for two of his own men to follow. He could hear King Olav continuing behind him, ‘… has rejected them! Because the Lord does not accept just anyone! You have to be chosen to enter Jesus the White Christ’s halls! And the Lord chose you!’ A cheer went up from the crowd as Finn’s men clambered aboard, carrying the bodies. ‘The Lord chose you to fight for his realm on earth!’ Another cheer. ‘Hurry up!’ Finn hissed under his breath as one of the bodies was unceremoniously thrown on top of the pyre. The other soon followed and Finn’s men retreated, grabbing oars as they went. Behind them, King Olav’s voice was rising to a crescendo. Finn reached for his fire-steel.
‘The Lord will send you—’
Sparks flew and caught on broken twigs, crisp leaves, dried grass.
‘To do his bidding—’
Finn knelt and blew on the embers, gentle as a lover. A tiny flame rose to meet him.
‘He will send you across the sea—’
Finn moved away. Rejected, the flame sought food for its hunger.
‘With steel’ – a cheer – ‘and faith—’
Crackling and hissing, the yellow-white tendrils gusted through the grass, bit into the wood.
‘Push!’ Finn hissed. His helpers used the oars to push at the solid hulk of the ship; gradually it started inching along, picking up speed.
‘And he will send you to watch Trondheim burn!’
The old ship picked up momentum and floated clear of the harbour just as the first flame breached the barrier of wood, licked the cold, dead bodies and reached for the sky. An animal roar went up from the mass of men; the flame fed on it. Rising like dragon’s teeth, it fed on the air, on the wood, on itself, on the world. Finn and his helpers disappeared into the darkness created by the spectacle of moving flame; the men on the quayside stood transfixed by the gliding fire. Here and there in the crowd Finn saw men he didn’t recognise who stared at the flaming ship as if they were seeing ghosts – tough men, some of them older, one of them shading a single good eye to see better – but the vast majority of the crowd looked energised by the burning, heated by the flame, malleable as a blade in a smithy.
Slipping through the crowds, Finn hurried towards the north road.
*
The shadows of Stenvik Forest clawed at the North Road. Valgard led the horses at a walk, waiting for Finn to catch up. Convincing King Olav to use the deaths of Sigurd and Sven as a rallying display for the soldiers had been easier than he’d expected. Now he just needed to find the right place …
The forbidding barrier of trees appeared to open up to him and a path became visible. Valgard nodded, reached into his sack and withdrew a knife with a curved blade.
‘If you only knew what your favourite weapon was being used for, Father,’ Valgard muttered as he hacked a wound into a tree next to the trail. The horses followed him readily enough.
It didn’t take him long to find the glade. The green-black shadows of the towering pines dropped away in a soft curve around the pond, making a dark sickle on the surface of the water. The rest was dusted by the reflection of stars.
Valgard smiled.
When he’d found the right place, a little square of green just off the water’s edge, he tugged gently on the reins and dismounted when the horse stopped. Reaching for the sack, he pulled out a shovel and started marking out the holes.
The air was cold but not unpleasant; the forest enveloped him. Smell of bark, earth and rotting leaves mixed together to form autumn. The stillness was absolute – after the siege, no one had really gone into Stenvik Forest.
His back started aching very soon. He could feel the muscles locking up, feel the joints scraping against each other. His hips seized as well. Valgard leaned on the shovel, gritted his teeth, growled and kept on digging. The square shape started taking form.
He saw Finn before he heard him. Not for the first time, Valgard marvelled at how something so dull and clumsy-looking could still move that softly. The big soldier nodded at him from across the clearing. When he got there, Valgard’s tunic was soaked.
‘You’re late,’ Valgard said.
‘Hard to get out,’ Finn mumbled.
‘How did it go?’
‘As you thought it would.’
Valgard allowed himself a smile and handed Finn the shovel. ‘Well done. Now make yourself useful, big man. We only need about two, three feet – we’re not staying out here all night digging. Just enough to get them out of the way of the foxes and the locals, if they’ll ever dare to come out here again.’ Finn nodded and set to work with the shovel. In half the time it had taken Valgard to mark out and start on the graves, he had the job done. ‘Good. Now help me with—’ He didn’t need to finish the sentence. Working together, they laid Sigurd and Sven each in their separate graves. Finn reached for the shovel.
‘Hold on,’ Valgard said. He brought up the satchel and spilled its contents onto the forest floor. Finn’s eyebrows rose.
‘You’re gonna—’
‘Yes. These are dangerous weapons still. Remember, the men of Stenvik think Sigurd was on that boat. What happens if one of them walks into a storeroom a week after we’re gone and finds this?’ Moving towards the cold body of Sigurd Aegisson, Valgard laid the heavy, broad-bladed battleaxe on the chieftain’s chest. Behind him Finn nodded slowly, as if he was working something out. As Valgard bent to place the knife with the curved blade in Sven’s hand, something caught in his throat. His knuckles grew pale around the handle and his muscles seized up. Behind him ripples formed in the middle of the pond. Breathing rapidly, he bit down as hard as he could, forced the cramps back and laid the knife stiffly on the old man’s chest.
‘Cover them,’ he whispered and turned towards the forest.
He didn’t see the earth fall on Sven’s chest, on his legs, didn’t see it cover his face.
Instead he tried his very best to look north, focus on what he’d find and imagine life from above, rather than below.
When they mounted
up and turned back, the pond was still.
*
The first rays of the morning sun crept over the horizon and glanced off gleaming metal points.
A long line of soldiers had formed at first light, streaming out of the houses of the New Town and down through the south gate. Jorn was everywhere at once, exchanging information with chieftains, running numbers with the supply line and steering men in the right directions. Turning a corner, he almost ran into the bulk of Skeggi.
‘How’s it going, Prince?’ the burly man rumbled.
Jorn nodded. ‘A lot to do. Got to get it right,’ he mumbled and made to pass by. Skeggi shifted his weight and blocked Jorn’s path. ‘Where do you want my boys?’
‘Down at the harbour. Find Runar. He’ll direct you.’
‘And you’ll be next to your king, faithful as always?’
‘Of course,’ Jorn replied.
‘Good,’ Skeggi said. Although he might look fat, the big man moved with grace. Jorn’s path was clear. ‘See you then, Dale.’
‘Yes,’ Jorn said. ‘Amen,’ he added and winked at Skeggi.
The big man laughed at that and clapped him hard on the back. ‘Yeah. Amen.’ Jorn could hear him chuckling as he walked away.
*
Down at the harbour, Runar counted heads, muttering to himself and carving lines on a wooden slate. He didn’t notice Botolf approaching.
‘Runar,’ the skinny chieftain said.
‘Y-yes?’ Runar replied, his voice unsteady. The thumping heartbeats slowed quickly.
‘Here they are.’
Behind Botolf, a group of men stepped out from the shadows, all of them focusing intently on Runar.
The Valhalla Saga Page 37