As the men ascended, dragging the statues behind him, King Olav continued, ‘These are the gods from Hakon’s own godhouse. He has given them to us to help me show you what the old gods are capable of. These are the same gods you’ve placated with sacrifices and blood offerings.’ The king paced along the very edge of the platform. The burly sailors had by now raised four idols and placed them near the front, just behind King Olav, with a man taking up position behind each of them and holding on to them by the head. Even from a hundred yards away, Valgard could tell that these were exquisitely carved, their beauty tarnished only by the lids nailed over the open mouths, where normally they’d put in food during ceremonies. But he’d expected that, because he was the one who’d ordered those lids nailed in just before daybreak.
The sixth god was in place now. King Olav stood next to Freyr, Freyja, Loki, Thor, Njordur and Odin. ‘Your axe, Hakon,’ the king said, and the Jarl obliged and handed the king his weapon.
‘I am a warrior of the White Christ. He will stand in my defence as your old gods move to smite me. And they will try’ – the king set his feet – ‘because now we’ll see what your old gods are really’ – King Olav swung – ‘made of!’
The axe met the wood with a dull thwack, the lid flew off Frey-ja’s mouth and a big crack opened in the hollow statue. Moving with the swing, King Olav sidestepped and was on to the next one even as the sailor behind the statue tipped it out over the edge of the platform. The crack of the axe mixed with screams of horror from the crowd as rotting fruits, putrid meats, rats and mice and crawling insects of every kind tumbled out of the broken statue and fell down onto the heads of the six hundred bound men. The statues emptied one by one onto the crowd below as Hakon Jarl’s men tried to dodge the disgusting missiles, but they could do little with their hands bound and ended up pulling against each other as the vermin clawed, bit and scurried away; some met their end under stamping heels. Several of Hakon’s warriors ran head-first into King Olav’s men, but they’d been told what to expect and the shield wall held.
Up on the platform, the broken statues had been removed. King Olav stood at the edge, regarding the spectacle. When the turmoil finally subsided, he spread out his hands again, as if pleading for calm. Slowly the crowd fell quiet.
‘Did you see that?’ he shouted. ‘Did you?’ The silence did not deter him. ‘Your so-called gods are old, hollow and full of decay. Should they not have struck me down?’ He turned to Hakon. ‘Did you see them strike me down, Hakon Jarl?’
The old man stood at the back of the platform, immobile. ‘No,’ he said. Then he repeated, louder, ‘No, I did not.’
‘The White Christ protects me!’ King Olav shouted, ‘as he protected you from the wrath of the old gods! The White Christ stands by his people.’ On cue, one of the sailors carried a slim girl to the stairs and helped her up onto the platform. Standing behind the crowd, Valgard nodded. Dressing her in white had been a nice touch.
Two of Finn’s men moved towards the stairs with a bound and hooded fighter who was kicking and screaming, though to no avail. They half-pushed, half-dragged him up onto the platform.
‘This creature of the Lord,’ King Olav intoned, gesturing at the girl, ‘this creature was attacked tonight. She is one of yours, people of Trondheim. She is someone’s daughter, someone’s granddaughter. And the White Christ believes that the daughters of Norsemen deserve to live safely! He does not believe in the old ways. I told my soldiers that they could not claim their spoils here because the people of Trondheim are brave, they are our kin; they are Norsemen, just like I am. But she was attacked, three times, brutally, and the rule of our Lord is very specific.’
The bound man on the platform was unmasked. It was one of Orlygr’s men. Valgard hadn’t met him before; he’d asked around. Maybe he’d done it and maybe he hadn’t but it didn’t matter so much. What mattered was that the people of Trondheim were hanging on King Olav’s every word.
‘The rule says,’ King Olav continued, ‘that you should do unto others as you would have others do unto you.’ The other sailors moved up onto the platform. The last one held a foot-long belaying pin. ‘Do unto others as you would have others do unto you. And so I say to you, even though the White Christ is new and different, he is no more merciful or forgiving than Odin himself.’ Behind him, the bound man was thrown onto the platform, face-first. Two large men pinned down his upper body. ‘Like me, the White Christ is generous to his friends.’ A knife flashed. The bound man’s sliced breeches were thrown off the platform, fluttering in the morning breeze before they landed in the mud. His pale flesh almost shone in the morning light. The audience was very silent. ‘But to those who disobey, he gives no quarter.’ The thrashing man’s legs were spread and pinned down. Grim-faced, the sailor with the belaying pin knelt behind the fighter who was now obscured by bodies.
‘So I say to you, people of Trondheim!’ King Olav’s voice boomed out, strong and clear. ‘Follow me! Follow Hakon Jarl! Or—’
The scream was human, but only at first. It changed into something else, something animal and tortured, a wailing wave of pain that faded into crying whimpers. King Olav glanced at the sailor, who clenched his jaw and twisted.
Valgard could hear the man’s vocal cords breaking. It didn’t stop him from screaming: a garbled and teary string of invective, excuses and begging for forgiveness followed, but none of the big sailors moved an inch. The words drifted apart on the morning breeze. A faint smell of dying reached Valgard. It didn’t bother him any more; it hadn’t done for a long time.
The sailor twisted and pushed.
The warrior choked on his own spit. He tried to smash his head into the wood on the platform but the sailor sitting on his left arm grabbed him by the hair before he could knock himself out.
‘Thrice you attacked, thrice you’ve been attacked,’ King Olav intoned. ‘Stand him up!’ As one, the sailors rose and hauled the man to his feet. He could hardly support his own body weight. His face was ashen and blood flowed freely between his legs.
Valgard’s eyes were cold. That looked about right. Beside him, Finn had grown ghostly pale.
‘You have reaped what you have sown!’ King Olav shouted. ‘If you do unto others, others will do unto you.’ Some unspoken communication passed between the king and the sailors, who let go of the man. He dropped to his knees. ‘But you also betrayed me. You disobeyed me and therefore you cannot be trusted,’ King Olav said. Stepping behind the man, he moved fluently, took jaw in one hand, a fistful of hair in the other.
Twisted.
Snap.
The man’s lifeless body collapsed onto the platform.
King Olav looked up at the gathered mass of people. Calmly, he said, ‘Now that Hakon Jarl has bent the knee – this is what happens to the enemies of Trondheim.’
Cheers spread through the gathering and grew in volume as they bounced back across the cold, dirty bodies of the bound men. They grew louder still as King Olav gave commands and the shield wall dissolved. Soldiers moved among the captives, cutting bonds. The people of Trondheim turned around and gazed at the entrance to their town.
Some of Hargrim’s men, sent to raid local farms, appeared with freshly slaughtered sheep and cows. Fires were up and running, lining the road; cuts of prime, half-roasted, half-raw meat were offered around. From Hakon’s basement, Skeggi had conjured up several barrels of mead and King Olav’s men led the people of Trondheim back to their houses, making sure everyone got at least a bite to eat, a mouthful to drink. King Olav stood next to Hakon Jarl, watching them leave. Their faces were coloured as much with relief as with meat juices and mead.
From their vantage point, Valgard leaned over to Finn. ‘I’d say that worked, wouldn’t you?’
*
Valgard’s chance came three days later. The town had gone back to normal, more or less. In the end it didn’t matter much who waved the swords; fish still needed to be caught and crops had to be harvested. King Olav installed himself in Hakon�
�s hall but kept the Jarl close. Then news came to them of three families banding together up in the valleys and muscling in on their neighbours. King Olav sent Hakon Jarl to bring the farmers back in line.
Valgard watched the party as they left the town: Hakon, a smattering of the men from the Njordur’s Mercy and Botolf himself, seasoned fighters all, and used to wet-work.
The morning air was heavy with the promise of rain as he levered open the door to the hall. Much like Hakon, the wood was warped by north winds and sea-salt but gave way eventually.
‘Well met,’ the king said. Sitting on the dais, in that ridiculous high seat, King Olav looked small, inconsequential, almost mortal.
‘Your Majesty,’ Valgard said, bowing down.
‘Come on, Valgard,’ King Olav said. ‘You brought me here, you saved the lives of countless of my men with your advice and you delivered me Trondheim on a platter. I am in your debt.’
Valgard approached the dais. ‘Your Majesty is too kind.’
‘I am not,’ King Olav said. ‘Plenty of villagers in our wake can tell you that.’
‘True,’ Valgard said. ‘How is Hakon acting?’
‘Exactly as you said he would,’ King Olav said. ‘He has taken no better to giving up his place than anyone would, but treating him as a man of note and allowing him as much control as possible meant I could send him to the Dales, which shows that I trust him. Of course, Botolf goes with him.’
‘For his protection.’
‘Of course,’ King Olav agreed. Both men smirked. ‘Now. Why are you here, Valgard?’
‘I—’ The words caught in his throat at first. ‘Do you remember, my King, our time in Stenvik?’ King Olav raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes. Well … when I overheard Jorn and Runar talking and came to you, I asked … I asked for—’
‘You asked for men.’
‘Well – yes – cast-offs. Those you can spare.’
‘I know. I gave you the girl and the bastards. Why?’
‘I need more.’
The walls of Hakon’s hall appeared to be moving in, all of a sudden. Valgard became uncomfortably aware that the king was carrying his sword.
‘Why?’ The king’s voice was cold.
‘Because a small group of well-trained people working alone and reporting only to me can see and hear things that your men cannot, go where your men cannot and bring back information your men could never get close to. And that information saves lives – yours included.’
‘So you want me to spare you fighters?’
‘Not necessarily, no.’
King Olav’s eyebrow rose again.
‘They must be able to take care of themselves, but I don’t need all of them to be like Finn.’
‘Good,’ King Olav said.
Something in the finality of the king’s tone worried Valgard, but he ploughed on. ‘I have some people in mind; I have suggested something of the sort to a few of them. I thought we could go around saying we’re collecting taxes.’
King Olav looked at him for a long time. The silence was turning quite uncomfortable when the king finally spoke up. ‘Well. You have proven that you can be trusted. Take your people. Do what you think best. But you can’t have Finn.’
‘I understand,’ Valgard said quickly. ‘You will not live to regret this.’
‘Make sure I won’t. Now go and find Finn and tell him to come and see me.’ The king waved him away and Valgard walked to the door, heart hammering in his chest.
He’d got them. He’d really got them.
Now he just needed to decide on the best way to use them.
*
Most of the fighters who would walk again had already walked out of Valgard’s tent by now, so there was little to do. The girl had come to a day ago and cried since; the boy fussed over her, brought her broth and held her when she needed to be held. The old woman had just shrugged; like Valgard, she’d seen worse.
Finn came striding down the street from Hakon’s hall. When he reached the tent, he had to pause to get his breath back.
‘He’s – he’s— I’m going back.’
‘What?’ Valgard said.
‘Stenvik. I’m going back to Stenvik. Me and a third of the men. Not enough provisions here; not enough men there.’
Valgard frowned. On the surface it was a moderately sensible decision – but it wasn’t his decision, and it wasn’t convenient for him. ‘Hm. Well, you’ll be a fine chieftain,’ he said.
‘Don’t make fun of me,’ Finn said. The burly warrior looked almost frightened. ‘How am I to order men about? I am not a leader.’
‘Oh, but you are, Finn. Just imagine …’ Valgard drew a deep breath to still the laughter in his throat. When he’d found his serious voice, he tried again. ‘Just imagine that King Olav speaks to you: decide what needs to be done, say it to yourself in his voice and then tell others.’
Finn stared mutely at him, but then like clouds from the sun, confusion lifted and he understood. ‘Thank you!’ A bear-paw hand slammed down on Valgard’s shoulder, squeezing it. The large warrior beamed at him. ‘Thank you. You are a true friend. I will miss you.’
Valgard winced, expecting the snap of dry bone at any moment, but Finn eased off on the grip and started pacing. ‘I’ll have to make sure there are rotations and rations, put the south coast boys somewhere apart from the Dale boys, and—’
‘You’ll do fine,’ Valgard said between gritted teeth. ‘Now go and prepare. Be a leader. Be the best leader you can be – and remember the voice,’ he added.
Finn grinned, hailed him and strode off.
Valgard scowled at Finn’s back. Then he swivelled and walked into the tent, straight for the girl’s corner. ‘Up!’ he snapped. The boy, who had been lost in thought while combing the girl’s hair, almost jumped out of his skin. ‘What are you doing?’ The boy stammered and tried to start a sentence. ‘Shut up. Don’t speak unless you know some words, you witless annoyance. Go and fetch me herbs.’
‘W-w-which herbs?’
‘All of them,’ Valgard snarled. ‘And don’t come back until you’ve got a bagful.’
‘Eb-eb-but—’
‘Go. Now.’ The backs of Valgard’s eyes hurt. He wanted to hit something, bludgeon it, break something. The urge to cause pain was overwhelming him. There was a throbbing pressure in his brain. He just wanted to—
It came from behind. ‘Go easy on the boy, will you?’ The smirk never left Botolf’s voice. ‘He’s probably been boning the girl when you’ve not been looking. Best be careful,’ the lean man said to the petrified boy, who was frozen halfway between sitting and standing up. ‘Make sure she doesn’t tell, or King Olav might take his stick and—’ The gesture left little to the imagination and the boy’s face paled even more.
Valgard got control of his breathing and turned. ‘What can I help you with?’
‘Nothing,’ Botolf said. ‘Got something for you, though.’
‘And what might that be?’
‘You need to come with me. It’s in my hut.’
*
He’d seen his share of captives, but once his eyes had grown used to the dim light in the side room of Botolf’s house he wondered if he’d ever seen one treated like this. The scrawny woman was unconscious, her head a matted tangle of hair and dirt.
‘You’ve tied her ankles to her neck?’
‘Had to,’ Botolf said. ‘She took out two of Skeggi’s, bit the lip off one of mine and headbutted one of Hargrim’s – broke his eye socket. If that bitch moves now, she’ll strangle herself.’
‘And is that also why she is thrice gagged?’
‘Not really; you’ll find out soon enough. But she knows something about the north.’
Valgard swallowed. ‘What do you mean? I don’t know what you mean.’ The words tumbled out and he cursed himself.
‘Now now, Grass Man. There’s something up there and you’re planning to go looking for it.’
‘How—?’
‘Why else would you be in T
rondheim? And have gone to such great trouble to get here?’ When Valgard didn’t reply, he continued, ‘I won’t tell. I just want to know. I heard the stories about the woman on the ship. My mother was a Finn-witch, and if something is stirring up there I want to know. I want to be in on it. I won’t kill you in your sleep either, but you’ll need someone on your side who can fight.’
Valgard made a decision. It would be a long trip, with much food to prepare. Problems sometimes solved themselves. ‘Fine. Wake her up. Let’s hear what she has to say.’
Botolf approached the prone form with a measured caution that filled Valgard with unease. He’d not seen the knife-man scared of anything before, and while he didn’t look frightened, he was certainly … respectful.
Before he could reach down to touch the woman’s face, one of her eyes opened – then the other. She stared at Valgard, but did not move. It occurred to him that she had woken up rather easily.
‘Welcome back,’ Botolf said. ‘I have brought a friend. Now – I’m going to loosen your gags, because we’re going to talk. Do you understand?’
The woman nodded, very carefully. Botolf reached behind her head and untied the gags. He moved as carefully as a dog-handler.
When the cloth was out of her mouth, she coughed. ‘Water,’ she wheezed.
‘Of course,’ Botolf said, filling a leather cup from a flask in his belt. He knelt beside her and moved the cup towards her lips. Valgard expected her to bite his fingers off, but she didn’t. Instead she drank eagerly. When she’d finished the contents of the cup, she closed her eyes and appeared to relax. In the right light she’d have something of a harsh beauty about her, he thought. But then again, so did wolves.
She opened her eyes again.
‘Well, aren’t you a pair of brave little cockless shit-eating teatsucklers to have managed all by your twosome to tie up a little girl.’ She smiled sweetly at them, and Valgard was again reminded of a wolf.
‘Well met. I am Valgard,’ he found himself blurting out. ‘And that’s Botolf.’
‘Well, congratu-fucking-lations, Valgard. You know your name.’
The Valhalla Saga Page 43