The Valhalla Saga

by Snorri Kristjansson

  The men around the campfire shuffled into action. Within moments, Jomar had been stripped of his valuables. As an after-thought, a couple of scrawny greybeards dragged him a short distance from the camp, where they dumped him unceremoniously.

  Audun turned away from the fire. The old horse thief was looking him up and down from a safe distance. Satisfied, he shuffled a half-step closer and nodded at him. ‘Nice work. Now watch your back,’ he mumbled as he moved towards where Mouthpiece lay crumpled in a heap on the ground.

  *

  The other recruiters arrived over the next three days. They brought tales, furs and food, but few bodies. On the morning of the third day, Ustain gave the orders and King Forkbeard’s reserves moved out. There were forty of them in all, men between the ages of eighteen and fifty, sparsely armed and barely fed. Ustain had assumed command, mostly because Audun didn’t.

  Every single man in the party gave him a wide berth. In fact, he suspected that if he’d turned around and left, no one would have tried to stop him.

  But where would he go?

  In the days since he left Helga’s house, he’d been struggling to understand the world. There was something bigger at play here; a bigger purpose. When he and Ulfar had slain the woman on the boat they’d started something – something bigger than themselves. He was no longer the master of his own destiny, and in a way it felt oddly freeing. He didn’t need to decide any more. He could just go where the blood was.

  And following an army was as good a bet as any to do that.

  *

  Seagulls circled lazily in the distance.

  ‘Can you smell it?’ Mouthpiece mumbled. His face was still a fetching mix of purple and yellow, but the jaw was healing well. The old horse thief – Thormund, his name was – had put a brace on it and tied it in place with rags, then sat by his twitching, whimpering patient and held him down through the worst of the pain. Now Mouthpiece was slowly getting back the use of his jaw, which apparently wasn’t broken.

  ‘Of course we can,’ Thormund shot back. ‘We don’t have a nose full of blood after the welcoming committee.’ Mouthpiece glared at him, but the boy smiled. Once they’d accepted their fate, the three men very quickly started sounding like they’d always known each other.

  ‘Never liked the sea,’ the old horse thief muttered.

  Ustain was busy talking to their newest recruit, a rider on a dappled horse who’d caught up with them as they neared the coast. For a moment, Audun thought the man had been staring at him, but he’d dismissed the thought quickly. He was miles and miles away from anyone he’d ever known and he wanted to keep it that way. The new man was just one of those people who was … familiar; that was the word.

  ‘We can catch a boat,’ Ustain shouted over their heads. ‘Ivar here says there’s an old twenty-bencher just over the hill. Only a handful of sailors waiting with it. Follow me!’ he said, spurring his horse on. The new man turned and gave chase.

  Thormund glanced at Mouthpiece. ‘Lucky us, boat just sitting there,’ he said.

  ‘Happens,’ Mouthpiece mumbled. ‘Weather or something. One should always accept the gifts of God.’

  ‘Judging by your face, that’s probably more of a guess for you,’ Thormund said. ‘Ain’t that right, Boy?’

  Boy giggled. He’d warmed to the old man from the first and had stayed close ever since Jomar had clouted Mouthpiece, but he had still not said a word. They’d named him Boy – he reacted to it, so it’d do until something better came up. Sometimes Audun thought he felt Boy’s eyes on him, but he never caught him looking.

  So all he could do was march along next to the thief, the boy and the blabbermouth. He smirked to himself. ‘Should have stayed with the Swede,’ he said.

  ‘What Swede?’ Thormund said. Boy peered over his shoulder, eyes sparkling.

  Audun shot them a dirty look and said, ‘Nothing,’ with great finality, but the old man didn’t back down.

  He ran Audun over with an appraising eye. ‘Nothing seems to be on your mind,’ he said. ‘Care to tell us?’

  Audun shook his head and veered away from the group, keeping pace but staying out of conversation range. They’d get absolutely nothing out of him.

  The sea breeze hit them full in the face as they crested the hill. White-tipped waves crashed on the beach, where a worn-out old raiding boat had been dragged up onto the sand. The sad remains of the crew – Audun counted ten – huddled around a pathetic fire. Ustain and Ivar stood by, talking to a broad-shouldered man who was gesturing out to sea.

  ‘That’s our boat all right,’ said Thormund. ‘It’s a good thing we haven’t eaten much.’

  ‘Mmph,’ said Mouthpiece.

  They side-footed their way down the steep sandbanks and by the time they reached the fire, the men from the boat had made space for them and were sharing out dried beef. Ustain ambled towards them, chewing on a reddish-brown strip.

  ‘We’ll set sail at sunrise,’ he said, ‘so find cover somewhere and bed down. These men have been raiding, lost a lot of their crew. They’re signing on with us for the privilege of shipping us across the water,’ he said, grinning. He returned to the fire, still chewing on the beef.

  Around Audun, the men started talking.

  ‘Don’t like the look of this—’

  ‘—probably bloody Swedes. Should kill ’em in their sleep …’

  ‘Who’s got first watch?’ someone asked, and they bickered among themselves as they went about finding the right spot for their night camp. They finally settled on a hard, flat square in the lee of a big sandbank, in sight of the boat but a bit further up the beach. As the sun started its descent, tents rose and a fire-pit was dug. Mostly as a way to avoid their owners, Audun tended to the few horses they possessed.

  Silent as a ghost, Boy drifted into his field of vision. He acknowledged Audun, then picked up a brush and got to work tending horses. Audun looked him up and down, nodded back and continued brushing down a dappled mare.

  Behind them they heard Ustain and Ivar return to their muttered conversation. Boy’s brushstrokes lost their rhythm for a moment, but then he resumed as if nothing had happened.

  Audun’s mare snorted and tossed her head.

  ‘Ssh,’ Audun muttered in his best soothing voice. ‘You’re not going on the boat. We’re going to cut you open and eat you raw tomorrow morning for breakfast.’ Across from him, Boy snickered. Audun smiled at him. ‘If horses understood us we’d be in real trouble,’ he said. Boy nodded. ‘You understand me,’ Audun said. Boy nodded again. ‘But you can’t speak.’ Boy looked away and his horse whinnied in protest at his hardening strokes. ‘Don’t take it out on the beast,’ Audun snapped. ‘I asked the wrong thing. No need to get all angry,’ he added. Boy’s shoulders relaxed a little, but he didn’t look at Audun again, even as they put away the equipment.

  Darkness crept over the beach as Audun bedded down. Behind them, a cheer went up from the men as the flames took hold in the fire-pit.

  Eventually, Audun drifted into a dreamless sleep, not sensing he was being watched.

  EAST OF SKAER, JUTLAND. JOHAN AAGARD’S FARM NOVEMBER, AD 996

  Every morning of his life, Johan Aagard had woken up early, so it was quite a surprise to him that when he opened his eyes, the autumn sun, such as it was, was already high in the sky. A weak light seeped in through the gap in his curtains. ‘I must be ill,’ he mumbled. The shift clung to him as he struggled to push off the rough-spun woollen blanket, but eventually he managed to clamber out of bed.

  If he moved wrong, his arm hurt like hell. All he had to warm himself with was the thought that he’d turned Sweyn’s scabby recruiter on to that bitch Helga. She could rot for all he cared, and her freak Norseman with her. Or not, as it were … He had only wanted to give her some kind of future, free her from scratching a living alone on that big farm. Maybe he could go again in spring, see if the old bird had thawed out some. A rattling cough set him to grimacing in pain.

  ‘Boys!’ he shout
ed. ‘Why did no one wake me up?’

  It was oddly quiet for morning.

  He pulled aside the curtain that covered his sleeping alcove and froze. The bodies of three young men lay sprawled on the floor of his chamber, scattered like broken toys, with bloodied hands and torn faces. It hurt to look at them. Words gathered in his mouth, then tumbled out all at once, along with the remains of last night’s dinner. The bile heaved out of him, followed by sobbing gasps for air.

  Johan flailed around blindly for a moment, until he found what he was searching for – his axe. Clutching it in his left hand and wincing with every movement, he stepped out into the middle of the room. ‘Boys!’ he shouted, his voice breaking.

  Somewhere within the house, something clattered into furniture.

  ‘Who’s there?’ he shouted. ‘Boys!’

  The sound of breaking timber grew closer. A fine sprinkle of dust drifted down from above. ‘It’ll start to snow soon,’ Johan Aagard thought. ‘I must make sure we’re stocked with firewood.’

  Something huge crashed through into the next room and the light changed; as if someone had ripped a hole in the wall. A heavy, almost animal smell filled his nostrils.

  Johan gripped his axe as hard as he could. ‘Come on, then,’ he hissed between gritted teeth.

  *

  None of the farmhands had wanted to wake Johan up in the morning. Since he fell and broke his arm at Helga’s farm he’d been even more ornery than usual, and he was always first up anyway. However, when noon came and went without the old man rousing, they drew straws. The youngest of them pulled the shortest one. He inched into the bedchamber.

  Johan Aagard lay where he had gone to rest, his face contorted in pain, blood soaking his bed. He had gouged out his eyes with his fingers.

  After much discussion they called on the Elders at Skaer, who said Johan should be buried in a mound to fit a man of his stature, entombed in his bed so he had somewhere to rest in the afterlife. Besides, he’d clearly cared a lot for his bed, to commission such nice runework.

  The farmhands didn’t recognise the runes, but they all agreed that they were very new.

  When the day came, all of his neighbours showed up, except one.

  ‘Where’s Helga?’ Johan’s foreman asked the town blacksmith.

  ‘It’s the strangest thing,’ Skakki said. ‘We swung by Ovregard, but she’s not there. Must have been raiders or something. The whole place has been burned down – the horse has been stolen and something’s dug up in the shed. It’s almost as if she never existed.’

  From the cover of a stand of trees half a mile away, Helga stood and watched the ceremony, idly playing with a rune-carving knife. Beside her, Streak munched contentedly on some moss.

  ‘You weren’t to know, Johan Aagard,’ she said to the wind, ‘but I have seen a lot worse than you, and I’m still here.’ In two swift movements she mounted the protesting Streak and guided the mare north, away from Skaer, her farm and her former life.

  UPPSALA, EAST SWEDEN LATE NOVEMBER, AD 996

  A dull pain behind Ulfar’s eyes blurred his vision. The beams in the roof above his head felt miles away. His backache told him he’d been lying on the ground. Someone had placed him on furs just thick enough to take away the cold of the earth, and blankets had been draped over him, wrapped tight enough to make him uncomfortable and sweaty. His head throbbed and his stomach hurt.

  The blonde woman leaned into his field of vision.

  ‘You … you’re not my wife. Don’t have a wife.’ Claws of fear scratched at his spine. His voice was not his own. His words were slurred and all that came out was a quiet whisper.

  ‘I know,’ the woman whispered. ‘Drink this.’

  ‘No – hnnh—’ Ulfar struggled, but he was as weak as a newborn child. She held his head firmly and tipped a small water-skin to his lips. Drops of a liquid of some sort tipped out. Ulfar tried to clamp his mouth shut.

  ‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘Please don’t. You have to.’ She pinched his nose shut. ‘Just drink it. Everything will be fine.’

  He gave up long before he wanted to, swallowing, coughing and gasping. The mixture had a bitter taste, masked with sickly-sweet honey.

  She eased his head back onto the ground. ‘Now rest. I am sorry about last night, but you wouldn’t have come with me. I know how you loved her. Now we’ll be fine, though.’

  Poisoned.

  He’d been poisoned.

  Ulfar thrashed and tried to spit out the foul substance, but his body wouldn’t move. A cold chill went through him as he felt the liquid thicken his throat, seep into his blood and cool him down, down below life. His heart beat faster, fighting against the invader, but it was no good. A rattling breath escaped him.

  ‘What?’ she asked.

  ‘H-help …’ Ulfar hissed.

  She looked at him, confusion written all over her features. ‘You’ll just fall asleep. Then you’ll be weak for a little bit. He told me.’

  In a last act of defiance, Ulfar held her gaze until his heart stopped.

  The moment he fell off the precipice into death, pain drove through him from his cold, blackened core, slicing his flesh like shards of a breaking stone. Every muscle in his body tensed, wrenched and trembled. His jaw clamped shut and the veins in his forehead throbbed. For a moment he was suspended, half a step from the blissful black … and then he was dragged from the abyss. His heart started beating again, weakly.

  His captor stared at him in mute horror.

  ‘… help …’ he hissed. He could still feel the poison seeping through his veins.

  The woman looked at him, tears running down her face. ‘What … what can I do?’

  Ulfar tossed his head feebly. ‘… drink …’ he muttered, but it was too late; his heart had started slowing again. He gritted his teeth and waited for the pain.

  *

  The light had changed. Everything in his body ached, his eyes included. Straining them, he could just make out the edge of the roof. Night-time, then.

  With a mighty effort, he rolled his head to one side.

  He saw the woman, crouching by a fire-pit. A small pot was suspended above it; she was stirring with purpose. He couldn’t smell anything.

  The ground was packed dirt, but not covered. So: outhouse of some sort? His eyes travelled along the edge of the bubble of light around the cook-fire and shapes in the dusk slowly resolved into pens and a feeding trough.

  He was in the pig house.

  It would be easy enough to escape if he could only move. His heart felt a little stronger, but not much.

  He turned his head to get a better look at his captor.

  The woman was no longer stirring. Instead she sat still, watching him. Her eyes were puffy and her hair was unkempt. ‘I …’ Her voice trailed off.

  Something sparked in the back of Ulfar’s head.

  She looked … familiar.

  He tried as hard as he could to remember the Uppsala girls from all those years ago. Greta’s screaming face came first, unbidden, and vague forms followed, but he could find no match in his memory, no recognition. No one from his travels, either, unless—

  Another thought struck him.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she muttered. ‘I never thought you’d—’

  ‘Hurt so bad,’ Ulfar said.

  The small blonde woman cried then, silent tears. ‘I don’t understand. You were just supposed to … He told me you’d be confused, like you’d just woken up, and I could drag you with me on a horse. You’d be ill, but only pretend. Not real. Not … like that.’ The words tumbled out of her, faster and faster. ‘He gave me the powder and I poured it into your ale. He said to put just a little and I was careful. I was careful.’ She lapsed into silence and her lips trembled.

  ‘Inga,’ Ulfar wheezed.

  The woman’s eyes widened and the words ground to a halt. ‘How—?’

  ‘You’re her,’ Ulfar said. Every word hurt. ‘Stenvik.’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘Yo
u remember?’

  Ulfar nodded. The light from the cook-fire faded sharply at the edge of his vision, and he fainted.

  *

  When he came to again, the air smelled of morning. He felt like a dead fish that had been struck against a stone a couple of times, but he was alive.

  Inga sat and watched him. Her face was pale and drawn, her eyes ringed by exhaustion. ‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered again.

  Ulfar spoke before he thought. ‘Shhh,’ he said. ‘Don’t be afraid. I’m all right.’ He shuddered. ‘Well, maybe not quite bear-wrestling-ready yet,’ he said, grinning weakly. ‘But I’m very tired, and I haven’t seen you in a long time. How are things in Stenvik?’

  Inga just looked at him, trembling with a mixture of sadness, guilt and … what? Everything about her appeared to slow down. ‘Stenvik is – Stenvik has—’ She looked around the outhouse for the missing words. ‘Stenvik changed,’ she said finally.

  ‘Oh?’ Ulfar did his best to sound just curious enough. ‘How so?’

  ‘When King Olav … rescued us, we learned about the word of this One God, Christ. He’s very kind, and loving, and … and …’

  Mustering all his strength, Ulfar placed a hand on her knee and looked at her. ‘They’re not here, Inga. He’s useless and soft and Thor would smash his skinny little arse.’

  The smile that lit up Inga’s face was beautiful, radiant, guilty – and gone. She looked around, quickly, then turned a stern eye on Ulfar. ‘Sssh,’ she said, pursing her lips. ‘As I was saying—’ The ghost of a smile hovered at the corners of her mouth. ‘Everything changed. Olav imprisoned Sigurd and Sven for worshipping their own gods, but the rest of the raiders were allowed to go free.’

  Ulfar fought against a tide of emotion. He was still in danger, and he needed information. ‘Really? But what about Harald?’

  True fury flashed in Inga’s eyes. She spat, and suddenly looked neither frail nor feeble. ‘That bag of shit got what he deserved,’ she hissed. ‘Less, if you ask me. I’d happily have tied him down and cut his dick off, slice – by – slice.’