Botolf sidled up to them, quiet as usual. He raised an eyebrow and looked to the coast. ‘Interesting …’
Finn tried to follow his gaze. The mass of blue-grey and dark green on their right had long since blended and blurred into one big slab of country; the islets and holms on his left had given way to endless open sea. When he finally saw what the slender man was looking at, his breath caught in his throat. ‘Signal fires! A chain! We must—’
‘All to plan, Finn. All to plan.’ King Olav stood in the bow, unmovable. His voice carried on the headwind; the king did not turn. ‘The Lord sails with us and we will not come to harm. Hakon does not have the strength. All we know will work in our favour. The signal fires just mean that a small number of men will have the time to wonder what it will be like when an undefeatable force arrives.’
‘If Valgard is right,’ Botolf muttered under his breath.
Finn crossed himself again and looked down at the white-tipped waves. Turning, he noticed that Valgard had managed to rise. The skinny healer leaned against the mast, grey-faced and shivering.
‘Are you well?’ Finn muttered.
Valgard glared at him. ‘I hate ships. How many fires have you seen?’
‘Three … ?’
‘Seven,’ Botolf said, just by his ear and Finn almost jumped. The dark-haired southerner made his skin crawl. On their right-hand side peaked hills rolled past, dotted with fire and smoke; on their left the sea stretched as far as the eye could see.
‘Thank you,’ Valgard said. ‘That should mean we have no more than half a day’s sailing left.’
‘About right,’ Botolf replied. ‘Are you aiming for Thor-grimsstrand?’ Finn could hear the smirk in his voice and suddenly wanted to plant a fist in it. He turned so he could see the southern chieftain’s face. It was skinny, stretched and shaded. It was not an honest Christian’s face.
Valgard smiled and shook his head. ‘Bjornevik. And Loki’s Tooth.’
‘Very good. That’ll keep—’
‘And Trondheim pier.’
Finn had never heard Botolf laugh before. It was the sound of a wolf growling before its kill. ‘If I ever fight you, Grass Man, I’d like to do it at sea. At sea, and man to man,’ he said, smiling.
‘Let’s try to make sure that doesn’t happen, then. Talent like yours is hard to find. And while we’re on the subject – those men you said you could spare?’
‘I’ve talked to them. They’re yours.’
‘Thank you. Now if you want to take a seat – we’re about to start the dance.’
‘As you command,’ Botolf replied, still smirking as the man appeared to float along the deck to his post at the back next to Skeggi.
A whole host of questions thundered through Finn’s head. ‘What—? How are we—? But—’ he stuttered.
Valgard silenced him with a hand movement and muttered, ‘Just watch. We should be rounding soon now.’
‘When was this—?’
‘You were busy making sure everything was going to plan with the two rats. I was talking to our friends at the back. The king’ – Valgard crossed himself and inclined his head towards the bow – ‘the king went to a couple of chieftains we knew he could trust and divulged the plan. Listen—’
Valgard cocked his head. The ghost of a smile played on his lips as shouted commands began to drift across the water. Their own rowers lifted their oars, tucked them to the side and just sat, allowing the rest of the fleet to catch up.
‘That’s where we turn,’ Valgard said, pointing to a large mountain jutting out into the water maybe three miles ahead of them. ‘After that it’s straight sailing into Hakon’s hole.’ He looked both worse for wear and more alive than Finn could remember.
Around and now in front of them, ships were moving into groups. The first ships were powering ahead, foaming sea around their oars; the group behind them kept pace but stayed back. Soon both groups of ships disappeared around the horn.
King Olav raised his hand, palm flat.
Silent expectation spread like rings in a pond.
The moment seemed to stretch out for ever – but then the king’s hand turned into a fist. Lowering his arm, he pointed forward.
As one, the oars hit the water and the men pulled with renewed vigour. The Njordur’s Mercy leapt forward, the sail billowed and behind them, another twenty ships fell in line.
When they rounded the horn, Finn watched a rare smile light up Valgard’s face. At the first available landing beach, a very handy stretch of soft sand, hastily erected fortifications had been equally hastily abandoned. About four miles further along, a third of their ships had beached with ease and overwhelmed a token force; the bulk of the defenders were rushing back to meet the enemy. Sparse reinforcements from Trondheim were stuck battling the men from the second wave, who had cut them off just outside the city by running their ships aground and wading ashore on the rocky promontory of Loki’s Tooth. Sounds of battle were turning into sounds of murder.
Finn caught Botolf and Skeggi exchanging approving glances.
King Olav’s chosen warriors sailed on, straight into the heart of Trondheim.
TRONDHEIM, NORTH NORWAY EARLY NOVEMBER, AD 996
Hakon had sent his strongest fighters out to meet the invaders; greybeards and fuzzcheeks remained and it did not take Skeggi and Botolf’s men long to clear the pier. They flowed ashore like murderous waves before King Olav, who walked into Trondheim slaying anyone and anything in his path. Drifting in his wake, Finn looked around. The smell of blood was rising in the air and he could see it in the eyes of the fighters. Around him boys and old men were being hacked to death – quickly by Botolf, brutally by Skeggi.
At the very moment when the spirit of Trondheim broke, King Olav bellowed for his men to stop in the name of the White Christ. The order spread quickly and within a couple of breaths, swords had been stilled. The fighters took up their positions behind King Olav. The sounds of battle died down, to be replaced by the fading moans and cries of the wounded.
On instinct, Finn commanded four of his warriors to clear a space in front of the king, who turned around and shouted, ‘Hakon!’ over the assembled mix of houses as the warriors dragged badly mangled bodies from beneath his feet.
There was no answer.
‘Hakon!’
The people of Trondheim formed a shapeless, dull-eyed wall that stared at them, hostile and silent.
‘Hakon Jarl – come out or I shall proclaim you a coward and put your kin to the sword!’ King Olav bellowed.
Heads turned, bodies shifted and a path opened up. A large man with thick grey hair and a greying beard walked slowly through the crowd and stepped into the square. He wore a mail shirt covered with a long, flowing white bear pelt and carried a sturdy-looking helmet under his arm; a long axe hung from his belt. The blade had not been bloodied yet, but Finn reached for his sword all the same.
There was a cruel twist to the man’s mouth as he sneered at King Olav and gestured towards the bodies of the dead and dying. ‘Is this what your so-called God commands you to do? Slaughter boys and old hands?’ he growled.
‘I will deal with them according to your conduct, and by your own standard will I judge them,’ King Olav replied. His voice bounced off the mud-padded and wood-clad walls.
‘I don’t care about your words,’ Hakon said. ‘But you’ve made your point. Now what happens?’
‘You bend the knee,’ King Olav said.
Hakon swallowed, hawked and spat. He reached for his axe and metal rippled behind King Olav as four hundred seasoned warriors showed steel. With great effort, the old chieftain stayed his hand and stepped into the cleared square. King Olav did the same.
Finn thought he saw flashes of disgust in the faces of the northerners when their chieftain chose life over death and knelt before his king – their king.
*
Valgard found the healers in the town without too much trouble. One was a green-faced apprentice boy who would be useful for nothing
but clearing shit; the other was an old crone who knew her work but was painfully slow at even the simplest jobs. It was clear that it had been a while since Trondheim had seen any kind of scrap. He’d asked for the town’s master healer, but apparently the man had been unable to put his own head back on his shoulders. Valgard sighed, ordered them both to work making poultices and supplying water and then set about healing the wounded.
He worked without pause until sundown, then had someone fetch a light. The stink of the big seal-fat candle was rank at first, but it did help mask the blood. Valgard kept his mind on the work, bandaging the wounds of friend and foe alike, sending them away better than they came. He couldn’t help but note that there were significantly more foes to bandage. Some of them were mean-spirited and required special attention – if he disliked them enough, he asked Skeggi’s men to look after them for a little while. Most of the fighting men accepted their fate wearily – they’d been in scraps before, on both sides. Some were even grateful for his skill, and Valgard made a point of noting their faces.
King Olav had forbidden the taking of spoils and for the most part the men adhered to this command. After dark, however, a few women showed up with familiar wounds, and Valgard could not help but think of Harald. He would have been worth any five of these men but he would also be out now, delighting in causing pain and fear, sowing the seeds of hate and leaving before they sprouted. That was the old way.
The boy drifted nervously into his field of vision and Valgard squeezed out a smile. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s … it’s …’ The boy turned beetroot-red.
‘Bring her,’ Valgard said.
The boy darted out and returned with a slim young girl hanging off his shoulder, only barely supporting her own weight. Her clothes were in tatters and lank, dark hair hung in front of her face. Valgard didn’t need to look in her eyes to tell how much she was hurting – her legs shook, she twisted her upper body as if trying to relieve something in her shoulders and blood dripped on the floor where she stood. Two of her fingers on each hand were pointing in the wrong directions.
‘Get hot water,’ Valgard snapped. The boy looked at the girl, then him, then sprinted off. The girl almost fell and Valgard took three quick steps towards her. His back flared, but he didn’t care. Gently brushing her hair away from her face, he tilted her head up.
Both her eyes were blackened and a tooth had been knocked out. Her hair had been pulled so hard that her scalp had torn, and thin, pinkish blood seeped out past a crusting scab.
Her eyes were open but vacant.
Valgard frowned. He’d never understood why big, strong men needed to hit girls to get their cocks hard. He’d seen quite enough to know what had happened here: the screaming might start at some point but not just yet, so it would be good to get the work done first. Putting his hand on the girl’s good shoulder, he guided her gently to a table, laid her down and started tending her wounds.
As he worked, an idea came to him and he smiled even as his hands continued working gently to ease the girl’s pains. Maybe there was some light in the darkness, even this far north.
*
Hakon Jarl’s hall was as big as the hovels in his town were pitiful. Rich furs covered every inch of the benches and polished silver overlapped copper and gold on the walls. A tapestry from Ireland depicting a thin man being attacked by flying beasts held pride of place on one long wall; the other had a picture of an impossibly long raiding ship; at the bow end was a broad-chested figure wearing a white bear cape.
The dais at the end of the room was easily the height of a man. Steps were set into one side and there was a chamber off to the back. In front of it stood three chairs, positioned to be at the chieftain’s feet. King Olav sat in the high seat and looked down on the hall with disdain. ‘Savages,’ he muttered. ‘Magpies and savages, stealing and murdering. Treasures gained by wickedness are worth nothing.’ He made the sign of the cross as he cast a lingering glance towards the tapestry of the ship.
Finn entered at the far end. The size of the hall and its furnishings made the warrior look almost small. He saluted from the doorway and bowed his head.
‘Come, Finn,’ King Olav called. ‘Bring a chair.’ He gestured to the space beside him.
Finn approached the dais and looked up. ‘Are you sure, my King?’
‘It is clear to me that Hakon wanted to place himself above all others and closer to his …’ The king’s face curled in distaste. ‘Closer to his gods. But I shall not be found guilty of such vanity.’ He rose from the high seat and looked down on Finn. ‘If we had the time I’d level it all. Pass it here.’ Finn lifted the chair up and the king grabbed it without any visible effort. ‘Good. Now come up and have a seat.’ As the big man made his way around to the stairs, King Olav sat down again. ‘You are my right hand in war and peace, and I need you to tell me what you’ve seen and heard. How many dead?’
Finn manoeuvred his large frame into the chair. ‘As far as I can gather we lost six men. Hargrim’s men on Loki’s Tooth lost twelve and seventeen of Orlygr’s at Bjornevik.’
‘Hm,’ King Olav said. ‘It pains me, but they shall walk with Christ. What of Hakon’s men?’
‘Somewhere around three to four hundred dead.’
The king’s eyebrow rose. ‘Which leaves him with—?’
‘About six hundred able-bodied men.’
‘And we have?’
‘Two thousand eight hundred.’
‘Hah!’ King Olav leaned back. ‘That sly healer of ours, he got this one right. But there is more we can do.’
‘More, my Lord?’
‘Yes, there is. Christ’s will must be done.’
*
Valgard stared at Finn and pulled back. ‘He wants to do what?’
‘Round them up and kill them all,’ Finn replied. ‘By the morning. Says we need to make sure.’
‘Make sure,’ Valgard repeated. His shoulders slumped. ‘But Hakon has already bent the knee, hasn’t he? Well … thank you for telling me, Finn. You are right – it will be difficult. Do you think I could maybe come with you?’
‘That would be good,’ Finn said.
Valgard looked over his shoulder at the far end of the tent, where the crone and the boy were faffing around looking equally inept. He rolled his eyes, sighed and approached them. ‘You two. I need to go off now. You’re in charge,’ he said, pointing at the crone. ‘You—’ He pointed at the boy, who just gazed at him. ‘Never mind. Do your best. Oh – and no one touches the girl but me,’ he added, glaring at the boy. ‘No one. Understood?’ They both nodded, wide-eyed.
As he walked away, he braced himself against the cold. ‘Try not to kill anyone,’ he muttered.
*
Over in the east a milky-grey stripe of dawn could be seen. With Botolf and Skeggi’s help, they’d rounded up Hakon’s soldiers and tied them up in groups of ten or so, and set a handful of armed guards to watch over them.
Finn and Valgard found the king lying on a pile of furs in the chamber behind the dais, fast asleep. Finn cleared his throat.
‘Your Majesty …’ he mumbled and cleared his throat again.
Valgard stepped forward and put a hand on the king’s shoulder. ‘Your Maj—’
King Olav’s left hand shot out and closed around Valgard’s throat. Eyes flashing, the king twisted off the piles and rose, bent Valgard to the ground and raised a mailed fist, ready to smash his attacker’s face.
‘My Lord!’ Finn shouted and grabbed King Olav’s right arm.
Through the fog of suffocation, Valgard thought he saw the king blink, blink again and shake the confusion out of his face. Then when Olav looked down and saw his own left hand crushing his healer’s windpipe, he recoiled and stepped backwards.
‘Valgard! I – I—’
Racked by coughing, Valgard raised a hand to stop the king from saying any more. When he’d regained his voice, he croaked, ‘Don’t worry, my King. Anyone would be happy to follow a man who is twice
the warrior asleep than I am even fully awake.’ He added what he hoped would be read as a smile.
The king was visibly shaken, but recovered quickly. ‘You are most kind. What brings you here?’
‘Well,’ Valgard said, rubbing his neck. ‘I wanted to tell you something. It’s about a girl.’
*
King Olav’s men walked around Trondheim in the morning, banging their shields and forcing every man, woman and child out onto the walkways, roads and streets. Slowly the crowd gathered in the largest field outside the town in front of a hastily erected platform, surrounded by a ring of the king’s soldiers.
There were mutters of unease when Botolf and Skeggi led in the remaining six hundred of Hakon’s soldiers, bound and disarmed, and positioned them in rows below the platform, then surrounded them with a shield wall.
The mass of people didn’t notice Hakon Jarl until he was halfway up the steep steps to the platform. A smattering of cheers was heard, but died quickly. King Olav followed in his footsteps. No one celebrated.
Standing some distance away in the shadow of an old barn, Finn leaned over to Valgard. ‘I really hope this works,’ he muttered.
‘It’ll work,’ Valgard said. ‘It’ll definitely work.’
Finn drew a deep breath, turned around and signalled to his chosen men.
On the platform, King Olav raised his arms. Below him, the crowd fell silent. There were about two and a half thousand townspeople in there, Valgard estimated. Maybe not enough to overwhelm the invaders, but if it went wrong … This was a good time to find out whether King Olav deserved all the admiration Finn appeared to give him. If the king didn’t sweep them along this could turn very ugly indeed. They’d only be able to withstand a—
‘People of Trondheim!’ King Olav exclaimed, and Valgard could not help but be drawn to him. ‘Hakon Jarl’ – he gestured – ‘has made a very difficult but important decision. He has looked into your future and done what is best for Trondheim – and for all of you.’ Hakon Jarl looked even angrier than usual.
Behind the platform, six burly sailors walked towards the steps carrying carven idols of the old gods.
The Valhalla Saga Page 42