The Valhalla Saga

by Snorri Kristjansson

  A little later, the door creaked. He felt like he could smell her behind him, but that was probably just his imagination. Streak protested at the interruption and he had to drag his mind back to the task at hand.

  ‘So, I thought … I—’ she stammered from the doorway. The years of living alone had probably made her just as bad at communicating as he was, he thought. ‘What do you think we should do when you’re finished with Streak?’

  ‘The roof needs fixing,’ he said.

  ‘Yes … On the shed—’

  ‘Yes. That one.’

  ‘It does. I’ll get the ladder and the nails.’ With that, she turned and was gone. Audun just caught a glimpse of her raven-black hair swishing around the corner.

  Streak reminded him that there was still brushing to be done and Audun resumed, not entirely sure about what had just happened.

  *

  ‘So is tonight going to be the night?’ Helga asked, reclining on her furs. The embers glowed in the fire-bowl and the room smelled pleasantly of woodsmoke.

  Audun blinked. He’d been half-asleep in his corner of the main house after his stew. ‘For what?’ Audun asked. When they settled on the terms of his stay, she’d told him that he’d be cooking for her half the time and sharing a meal in the main house. They got on fine now, and he found he really enjoyed listening to her tales. Sometimes it was more difficult than he wanted it to be to go back out to sleep in the stables.

  She leaned forward. The soft glow from the fire caught her cheeks and caressed her face; her hair flowed into the shadows. ‘For you to yield the mystery of where you came from, Audun Horse-charmer.’ Her eyes sparkled.

  ‘Oh, I don’t—’

  ‘Come on! Didn’t you ever play “you show me yours” when you were a kid?’ She smirked altogether too much when he blushed.

  ‘I … no.’

  ‘Well – it goes like this. You tell me your mysterious and horrible past – and I’ll tell you mine.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ No answer. ‘What’s in … how … what do you mean?’

  ‘I mean exactly what I say – if you tell me about yourself, I’ll tell you about that time when I …’ Helga’s eyebrows arched in recollection. A faraway smile softened her face. Then her eyes trained on him, polished amber across the fire. ‘Unless you’re scared?’

  ‘No,’ Audun said. ‘It’s not that.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘It’s just that in my past there are …’ He looked away and wanted to mumble into his chest, but forced himself to say it out loud. ‘There are some bad things in my past.’

  Her laughter exploded out of her, short and sweet. ‘Oh, boy. You lovely, lovely boy.’ He shot her a glance, but she stared straight back at him. ‘I am nearly old enough to be your mother.’ The way she looked at him suggested otherwise. ‘And I am willing to give you one thing for free – unless I’ve really not been keeping up with the news, you’ve got nothing on my past when it comes to bad things. So you tell me yours tonight … and then I’ll tell you mine.’

  The swirling chaos within Audun was too much to bear – so he decided to trust his instincts.

  He started talking.

  *

  They’d rekindled the fire twice. He’d been warm, his stomach full and, fuelled by her rapt attention, he had given her his life’s story. Well, almost. His father, life on the road, things he thought he’d forgotten about. Some things had been on the tip of his tongue when he realised that they would just sound like the lies of a madman. And he’d not shared what happened on the wall at Stenvik. But apart from that he’d spoken more this night than he could ever remember doing.

  Helga leaned forwards and rested her head on her folded hands. ‘Let me see if I got this right. This man, this—’

  ‘Fjolnir.’

  ‘—he knew your name and what had happened where you came from?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And then he took a beating from several men, after which he couldn’t see out of one eye? After he’d said wise things to you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Audun frowned.

  Yawning, she smiled at him. ‘Let me guess. Did he give you a gift?’ Audun hesitated and she nodded. ‘What was it? No, wait.’ She reached down and picked up a slate of wood. Then she drew a knife from under her pillow and started scratching on the slate.

  Audun watched her, brow furrowed in concentration. When she finished, she put the slate face down on her lap and slid the knife back under her pillow.

  ‘Tell me what he gave you.’ The look in her eyes was even more intense.

  ‘It was … a belt. Broad, with a big buckle.’

  The house was so silent that all he could hear was his heart beating. Helga was no longer smiling. She sat across from him and would not look him in the eye. Instead she handed over the slate. On it were three hastily carved pictures. One looked like a flask. Another was passably close to a hammer.

  The third was, unmistakably, a belt with a buckle of hands.

  Audun looked at her, dumbstruck. He knew exactly where the belt was: hidden in his pack under his straw pallet. He felt for it every morning and every night. It had not been moved. His stomach turned at the thought of wearing it.

  ‘How—?’

  ‘The belt. Wearing it makes you sick, doesn’t it?’

  Audun nodded dumbly.

  She looked at him with something approaching sadness. ‘You still don’t know, do you?’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘The man you spoke to. His name is not Fjolnir.’

  Audun looked at her. ‘Oh? What is it, then?’

  ‘His name …’ She took a deep breath. ‘His name … Well, he has no name. Who he is, is Odin. The all-father. Wotan, Wodin, Valtam, Gestumblindi. A hundred others. He has come to us, and for some reason he has given you Megingjardir, the belt that holds the strength of Thor. But you are not a god, so it will tear your insides apart. You know it will, don’t you? I can see it in your eyes. You’ve felt it. You must choose wisely when you want to use it.’

  Audun stood up. His head was spinning. ‘I … have to go. I’m sorry. I … I have to go.’ He could feel her eyes on him as he stumbled out into the dark, starry night.

  *

  She did not sleep much. When she walked out into the milky grey morning there was no sign of Audun. He might be out, she thought, possibly started early, gone to chop some wood. She thought back on the previous evening. ‘Are you ever going to learn to keep your mouth shut, woman?’ she snapped and glanced over at Audun’s corner in the stables.

  He had not slept there last night.

  Streak snorted, swished her tail and moved to nuzzle her. She had been groomed and seen to. Helga relaxed into the familiar movements, saddling and leading the horse into the pale light.

  When she returned from her morning rounds he was waiting in the yard. She noticed that he was wearing a fine suit of clothes, cut from very good material, but the wrong fit for a working man.

  ‘Hello, Johan,’ she said, biting off every syllable.

  ‘Helga,’ the big farmer said. ‘I have come to see you.’

  ‘I can tell, because you are in my yard.’

  If he understood that she was mocking him, Johan gave no sign. ‘I will court you. I have talked about this with the chieftain, and he agrees that we would make a fine pair.’

  She wanted to be angry. She thought idly that once upon a time he’d have got a lot more than he bargained for, but now she just wanted him to go. She dismounted and led Streak towards her tethering post. ‘Look, Johan,’ she said, ‘no. I’ve already said so. No, I do not want to marry you and I am not going to marry you and there is nothing in the law or otherwise that says I have to, regardless of what that pumped-up windbag chieftain says.’

  ‘But you can’t live alone,’ Johan said.

  He almost looked hurt, but she was beyond caring. ‘I have, I can and I will,’ Helga said and continued brushing down Streak. ‘If there is nothing else—’

  �
�Don’t turn your back on me, woman,’ Johan said. An edge had crept into his voice.

  Helga spun around. ‘Do not presume to tell me what to do or say when you are on my land, Johan Aagard! I would like you to leave!’

  She took two steps towards him and wished she hadn’t. Johan was a farmer and had been working the land for the best part of forty years. He was a good head and a half taller than her, barrel-chested and solid.

  He did not move but looked down at her. ‘I have told you: I will court you, and you will be my wife.’

  ‘Loki’s balls I will,’ she snapped. ‘Now leave.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Go away!’ she screamed in his face and crumpled as he struck her in the chest. Blinking and gasping for breath, she thought she saw something—

  ‘She told you to leave.’

  Audun. Standing by the fence, completely still.

  ‘Oh? So that’s it, then?’ Johan stood over her, impossibly big. ‘Someone got there before me?’ He chewed this over for a couple of moments. ‘It’s all right. You’re a woman. It was to be expected.’ He turned towards Audun. ‘Now you, on the other hand, can fuck right off.’

  Audun said nothing, but there was a faint … change in him. Helga felt her insides go cold.

  ‘I said, you can fuck right off.’ Johan took a step towards the blond man by the fence and Helga felt a sharp stab of fear. ‘You deaf? Fucking traveller scum. Norse? Probably.’

  Two more steps.

  ‘She would like you to leave,’ Audun said. He didn’t raise his voice, but the statement was loud enough for those who wanted to hear.

  Johan was not one of them.

  ‘You fucking—’ He stepped in strong, ready to bash, grapple and twist the smaller man to the ground.

  Audun broke his arm.

  Johan screamed and fell to his knees.

  ‘Audun!’ The word escaped her lips and she watched him deflate. He stepped away from the screaming man and took a few deep breaths. Incredibly, Johan staggered to his feet spewing a stream of curse-words, red-faced and drooling. He clambered up onto his horse and rode off, clutching his arm.

  Helga clambered to her feet before Audun got to her.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ he asked.

  She dusted herself off. ‘You’re going to have to get used to sleeping with a blade,’ she said. ‘He’ll be back.’

  Audun sighed and shook his head.

  She was about to insist when he walked away.

  When he came back out of the tool shed he was carrying a hammer.

  ON THE ROAD, NORTH OF LAKE VANERN CENTRAL SWEDEN, EARLY NOVEMBER, AD 996

  Ulfar woke to drops of cold water on his lips. He tried to speak, but all that escaped was a moan.

  ‘Easy. Easy, now,’ a man’s voice said behind his head.

  His eyes adjusted to the light: late evening; sky fading from purple to black. The soft orange glow of a campfire somewhere a bit off. His shoulders were stiff, his back worse. He tried to move his hands, but couldn’t. Rope burns tickled and itched. A thick, numb feeling in his stomach slowly dissolved into white-hot pain and his breath caught in his throat.

  ‘You’ve been badly hurt, friend,’ the man said.

  Wincing, Ulfar turned to look, but his captor remained out of his field of vision. All he could see was a strong arm holding a water bottle. Now his neck hurt as well.

  ‘Do you remember anything?’

  ‘N-nuh,’ Ulfar muttered. He tried to concentrate. A wagon. He’d been trussed up and thrown onto a wagon.

  ‘Thought so,’ the man rumbled. He moved to stand in front of Ulfar. He was of medium height, greying at the temples. ‘I am Goran. I look after a couple of fur-pushers. You are in our caravan.’

  ‘Where—?’

  ‘We’re going to Uppsala,’ Goran said. ‘And you’re coming with us.’

  The words caught in Ulfar’s throat. He leaned back, closed his eyes and waited for sleep.

  *

  When he woke again, it was to the merciless bump and jostle of the road. He was still wedged in the back of the wagon; his hands were still bound. The sky was the blue of mid-morning. The chatter of the men washed over him.

  ‘—but where will he go?’

  ‘Forkbeard is heading for the south. We are well north of anything he wants. He’ll just take the flat and easy, as usual.’

  ‘Strange choice for a wife, then.’

  As the men chuckled Ulfar twisted into a better position for listening. Behind him, someone drew a sharp breath and squealed, ‘He’s moving! Quick!’ The wagon slowed, then stopped and commands were shouted up and down what sounded like a short line.

  Someone carrying a staff stepped into view. ‘Good morning, friend,’ said the man who’d introduced himself as Goran the night before.

  ‘Morning,’ Ulfar muttered. His wagon shuddered as the owner of the voice clambered down, out of sight.

  ‘Look! It speaks!’ a tall, sleepy-eyed young man said.

  ‘Shut up, Regin,’ Goran snapped.

  ‘Calm down, old man. Just saying—’

  ‘Say less.’

  Regin huffed and moved away, towards the front end of the caravan, and Goran turned back to Ulfar. ‘So. Tell us about yourself,’ he said.

  Ulfar blinked and stuttered. ‘Tell you … what? Me? I … I was attacked in the forest. Bastard stuck me in the gut and ran away with my gold. I chased him – and next thing I know I’m trussed up on a wagon.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said another voice and the owner followed shortly, waddling into view: a squat man with a squashed nose and ill-fitting merchant’s clothes. He stared at Ulfar. ‘And you want us to believe that? Where are your friends?’ He looked comical, but the glint in his eyes suggested he’d be an unpleasant opponent in a game of wits.

  Ulfar closed his eyes and thought. Friends? ‘One of them went … south, I think. The other is dead.’

  ‘Sounds like you’re bad company,’ Goran said, not unkindly.

  ‘Maybe I am,’ Ulfar said. ‘But I was making for Uppsala, just like you.’

  ‘Hmpfh,’ the short merchant said. ‘And who are you going to see there, man of no friends?’

  ‘My uncle. His name is Alfgeir Bjorne.’

  Goran glanced at the merchant, who nodded. Ulfar saw the flash of the blade and tried to move, but he was too weak. A strong hand grabbed his arm and with a deft flick his ropes fell away.

  ‘You will forgive the caution,’ the merchant said. ‘You came stumbling out of a bush, wielding a sword. Heidrek!’ He snapped his fingers and another guard, young and bright-faced, stepped into view, holding Ulfar’s sword.

  ‘Fancied it myself,’ he said as he handed it to Ulfar. The smile on the young man’s face was genuine. ‘Where’d you get it?’

  ‘A friend made it for me,’ Ulfar said.

  ‘I hope he’s not the dead one,’ Heidrek said.

  ‘I doubt it,’ Ulfar said, and he felt a hint of a smile creep onto his face as he stumbled off the wagon and strapped on his sword-belt. ‘I seriously doubt it.’ It felt good to have the blade back at his side again.

  The merchant eyed him. Either he had some serious doubts about Ulfar or he had a naturally suspicious face. Ulfar put on his most winsome smile and hoped for the latter. ‘I am Ingimar,’ the merchant said, ‘and this is my caravan. We’ll take you on as a guard – there’s no space for passengers. You walk.’

  At the front of the line, the first wagon rumbled into motion.

  *

  Days passed and as Ulfar fell into the rhythm of the caravan he slowly got the measure of his fellow travellers. The merchants mostly kept to themselves, save for Ingimar, who checked in with Goran three times a day, at morning, noon and camp-time. There were three younger guards: sullen Regin, cheerful Heidrek and Arnar, a quiet, serious man with a big rumbling voice and a big, black beard who’d barely grunted a greeting when Ulfar came to and had not uttered a word since; they answered to Goran, the grey-haired man.

  The
forest gradually thinned out around them and the land started taking on a curve that looked familiar to Ulfar. There were still a couple of days to go; still a couple of days to make a run for it. The west was behind him and north was nothing but frozen death. He could go south – but that was where Forkbeard was reputed to be. Ulfar pushed the worries out of his mind and concentrated on what he could do. At the moment, that meant putting one foot in front of the other.

  The sun crept towards the midday mark. Regular as night, Ingimar scrabbled from the seat of his carriage and headed towards Goran. ‘Anything?’

  ‘Nothing to worry about,’ the guard replied. ‘We’re fine. Couple of days to go.’

  ‘I know the route as well as you do,’ Ingimar snapped, but Goran just nodded and kept walking.

  The moment Ingimar returned to his seat, Heidrek started. His favourite pastime was to wind up Regin, and it looked like today’s entertainment was just about to begin.

  ‘Regin?’ Heidrek said.

  ‘What?’ Regin said with a sigh from the other side of a caravan. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘You are so much wiser than me,’ Heidrek said, and Regin just rolled his eyes and waited. ‘If you split a lamb in half, lengthwise, how many legs do you get?’

  ‘Two,’ Regin said.

  ‘So if I had a lamb and sold you half, you’d pay me for two legs?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Regin snapped.

  ‘But you just said! Two legs! Would you swindle me out of a leg just because you’re smarter?’ Heidrek asked, a wounded expression on his face. ‘I thought you were my friend.’

  Ulfar ambled along, listening to the regular plod of the horses and the rattle of the carts.

  Regin, smelling a rat, took his time before answering, ‘There’s no meat on the other leg.’

  ‘But why then does it have the front legs?’ Heidrek said.

  ‘If it had big muscles at the front it would run forward and back at the same time,’ Ulfar said.

  There was a brief silence, and then from the rear of the caravan Arnar roared with laughter so loud it nearly spooked the horses. ‘Hah! Forward and back at the same time!’ He slapped his thigh. ‘If that’s not the funniest thing I’ve ever heard,’ he muttered. ‘Forward and back.’