The Valhalla Saga

by Snorri Kristjansson

  ‘I don’t know,’ Inga said. ‘I hope I’m not right. I thought I should tell you about it.’

  ‘Good decision,’ Ulfar said. ‘Now get some sleep, if you can. You’ll be up and on guard in a while.’

  She looked on the verge of saying something, but held her tongue and lay down on her side. The dim glow from the fire caressed her curves as she drifted off to sleep. Moments after the tension left her body, the darkness near Ulfar shifted and Goran appeared at his side. The old man wouldn’t be too bad for blood-work, Ulfar mused.

  ‘She’s scared,’ Goran said. ‘Nothing out there – is there?’

  ‘Saw some trees earlier on,’ Ulfar said. ‘Oh, and a bush. Looked scary. Hold on a minute …’ Ulfar shaded his eyes with his hand. ‘Hm. Can’t see anything right now. Because there is no light,’ Ulfar muttered under his breath. ‘And because “out there” is a big place. Those three runts are out there. Definitely. But they’re not the only ones, and there’s not much we can do about it apart from staying awake and making sure we’re not gutted in our sleep.’

  ‘Hmph,’ Goran said. ‘Fine. I just didn’t like the look of them, is all.’

  ‘Well, if you’d have trusted your sense of whose looks you liked and didn’t like, you wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place,’ Ulfar said, grinning.

  Goran appeared to accept that and slunk off to his sitting place.

  Ulfar threw a handful of wrist-thick branches on the fire and turned his back to the flames as they crept around the wood. It was going to be a long night.

  *

  They hit the camp just as the first stripe of sunlight emerged in the east.

  Arnar’s life was saved by a carved stick. He threw himself forward off his makeshift tree-stump seat and felt the wind sweep the back of his head as the steel passed him by. ‘Up!’ he bellowed.

  Ulfar and Goran rolled over and sprang to their feet to find three shadowy figures among them, swinging axes.

  Inga got to her knees, then screamed as one of the figures hit her with a vicious kick in the back. Goran stepped into the breach and aimed a swipe at the man’s ribs, forcing him backwards to create space for Ulfar and Arnar.

  Arnar growled and swung at the bigger of the two black shadows remaining. The man just managed to block the blow, staggering backwards from the force of it. Arnar followed, pushing him away from Ulfar and Inga.

  The last man swung his axe wildly. Shadows and moonlight made his face look like a snarling skull.

  ‘Who sent you?’ Ulfar snapped.

  ‘You’re coming with us,’ the man said. His voice sounded hoarse, as if it was struggling with the words.

  ‘We can talk,’ Ulfar said, stepping back from the wild swings.

  ‘He said no talk,’ the man said, swinging at him. Ulfar blocked the swipe and felt his teeth jangling. They traded blows in the gloom, metal clanging against metal.

  A movement in the dark, a burst of sparks.

  Ulfar’s opponent screamed in pain and whirled around, holding his head and looking for his new attacker. Ulfar ran him through, put his boot in the man’s side, kicked him to the ground and yanked his sword free.

  The moonlight caught on Inga’s face, fingers splayed, a wrist-thick tree branch from the fire at her feet.

  A crunching sound came from their left. ‘Fucker,’ Arnar grunted.

  Moments later, Goran emerged from the shadows, bloodied and dazed but still standing.

  Ulfar knelt by the fire and blew gently on any embers he could still see. Slowly, reluctantly, the flames rose again. Arnar disappeared, only to return shortly after with three suitable sticks.

  ‘Here,’ he grunted at Ulfar.

  Goran sat silently and watched as Ulfar bound kindling around the tip of each branch and held them gently over the fire until they flared into life.

  The dancing tongues threw odd, shifting spheres of light on the ground. Thickening blood pooled underneath Ulfar’s attacker. A lump with a misshapen head lay where Arnar had been fighting.

  ‘Where’s your man, Goran?’ Ulfar asked.

  ‘Fell in the water,’ Goran said. ‘Sank like a stone.’

  ‘Was he dead?’

  ‘He’s not coming up anytime soon.’

  Ulfar rubbed his left eye with his free hand. ‘Inga?’ He gestured with his toe at the dead man.

  Inga knelt down and studied the dead body. ‘I know him,’ she said. ‘He was in Stenvik for the market when the raiders hit. Had a farm near Moster, I think. That one …’ She looked at Arnar’s fallen opponent. ‘I’m …’ Inga made to go over to the corpse, but Arnar reached out a hand to stop her.

  ‘Hit ’im in the face,’ he said, almost apologetically. ‘Won’t be much use.’

  ‘One’s enough,’ Ulfar said. ‘We’ll get going, I think. Never know if they have some friends coming.’

  The group of four broke camp without more words and were on their way with the rising sun.

  *

  The morning mist lingered, drawing a faint, grey veil over the ground. Goran grunted and cursed under his breath.

  ‘That’s the third time!’ Ulfar said.

  ‘Hmph,’ Arnar said. ‘Thought we’d cleared ’em.’

  The grey-haired guard mumbled something and pulled on the reins of his horse. With great effort, the animal dragged itself out of the knee-deep bog.

  ‘Not a step wrong yesterday, and now you’re practically ready to swim south, Goran. What’s up, old man?’ Ulfar said.

  Goran did not reply. Instead he mounted and rode on.

  Inga looked at Ulfar, who shrugged. ‘Leave him to it, I guess. Maybe this morning got to him.’

  The old scout rode ahead, silent and slump-shouldered.

  *

  At midday, Ulfar sat down on a roadside rock. They were mostly clear of the bogs and mires, but grey clouds bunched and roiled overhead, promising rain and misery. The mist had still not quite left them. Arnar and Inga sat by themselves, engaged in conversation. The woman appeared to be the only one of them the big, bearded man had more than four words to spare on.

  Goran was suddenly there beside him, unnervingly quiet. The old man looked more spirited now. There was a glint in his eye. ‘So. South, is it? Tell me again what for?’

  ‘We’re going to find a friend of mine – Norse bastard, thick as half an ox and twice as strong. Scary, too. And then he and I are going to go and find another man and take off his head.’

  ‘Up north, then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you’re sure that’s the best way to do it?’

  Ulfar looked at Goran and frowned. ‘Why? Got any other ideas?’

  There was something different about Goran this morning. He looked oddly sure of himself. ‘As a matter of fact, I have. I’ve been thinking about this.’

  ‘Oh, go on, then. I’m listening.’

  ‘Have you considered that Jolawer Scot might not be the best man to lead the Svear?’ Goran said.

  ‘What? Why not?’

  ‘He’s young. He’s green. He’ll have to rely on men who are old and cautious because they’ve learned to appreciate long life and soft furs. He’ll have neither the drive nor the fearlessness of someone a bit older. Someone proven in battle. A born leader.’

  ‘I don’t know – he’s untested, but he’s his father’s son. There’ll be some steel to him yet.’

  ‘Unless there’s steel in him,’ Goran said.

  Ulfar remembered moments later that his lower jaw belonged above his chest. ‘What … ?’

  Goran turned to Ulfar. ‘Think about it! You are a man of honour. You have seen battle, unlike that squeaky pip. You are a good man and true. You are just the right man to lead the Svear, proud and powerful, against that bastard King Olav! Turn around and take what you’re owed!’

  ‘Are you drunk? Alfgeir Bjorne would have my head off before I got close. And why should I? No one owes me anything.’

  The mist curled around his rock, around his legs. Ulfar glance
d down. Then he turned around.

  Arnar and Inga were nowhere to be seen. The landscape looked wrong somehow, like someone’s idea of a location more than an actual place.

  He turned to Goran.

  ‘What’s happening? Who … who are you?’

  Slowly, uncomfortably, Goran changed before his eyes. The man in the saddle was young, dark-haired and handsome. A sweep of black hair sat above a thin, sharp nose. Green eyes sparkled with mischief. When he smiled, Ulfar half-expected fangs.

  ‘Me? It is not important. I am a friend.’

  ‘I doubt it. Where’s Goran?’

  The stranger’s smile was tinged with sadness that looked almost genuine. ‘Poor Goran was not as young and fast as he thought he was. He killed the Norseman but he took a blade in the belly. We met last night and made a deal. Don’t worry about him. I am here to give you a great opportunity to join me and reap rewards you couldn’t dream of.’

  Ulfar looked at the man. ‘Last time I got fed horseshit like that, it was by an old scrawny fucker with one bad eye.’

  The stranger’s skin turned a dark shade of blue as he hissed and bared a row of big, sharp teeth. The next moment he was back to normal. ‘A misunderstanding. Ulfar Thormodsson, you are destined for great things. Surely you’ve been told this?’

  A smile spread over Ulfar’s face. ‘Yes. Yes I have.’

  ‘And—’

  ‘And if you want your belly opened up so you can see what you look like inside, do tell me again.’

  The stranger looked him up and down. ‘You don’t presume to refuse my offer, do you? I can make you rich beyond your—’ The breath stopped in his throat and he looked in astonishment at the hilt of Ulfar’s sword as it inched closer to his breastbone.

  ‘I just told you this would happen.’ Ulfar said. ‘I’ve had enough of being toyed with.’

  The stranger looked up at Ulfar – and smiled back at him. A thin line of blood leaked out of the corner of his mouth. Another line formed around the wound in his chest, blossoming out all too quickly. ‘We’re not done, you and I,’ he whispered. ‘Not done at all.’ The stranger’s face … withered, like a field in winter. The hair faded and turned grey at the temples, then at the top.

  And suddenly it was Goran staring at Ulfar in surprise. He tried to speak, but nothing happened. Only blood, pulsing faster and faster as his life faded away. The sword stuck obscenely out of the old guard’s back, caked in blackening, thickening blood. Ulfar dropped the hilt of the blade as if it was on fire and whirled around.

  Arnar stood beside Inga with his sword drawn. ‘Step closer, boy, and I’ll gut you twice over,’ he growled. ‘I don’t know what’s got into you but you’re not coming near us.’ He muttered something to Inga, who shook her head without looking at him.

  Ulfar opened his mouth, but nothing came out. All he could think of was that voice.

  Not done, you and I.

  Behind him, Goran coughed, twice. The sickly, faintly metallic smell of blood drifted past.

  Ulfar blinked – and Inga was there, right in front of him, thunder in her eyes.

  The slap was fast and hard enough to make him taste blood.

  ‘Remember who you are,’ she said, looking him straight in the eye. ‘And get your head right. When you can be trusted, come and find me.’

  She turned and walked towards Arnar; she mounted her horse with ease.

  Ulfar watched them ride away without a second glance. He heard Goran’s body fall to the ground, but he didn’t turn.

  The mist faded. The clouds disappeared. A bird even sang to him from a nearby tree, but Ulfar didn’t note it. Instead he methodically drew the sword from Goran’s body, ignored the smell of the dead man and set to cleaning the blade with long strokes of a rough rag.

  ‘It’s important to clean your blade, Ulfar. If you just bang it back in the scabbard, the blood will make it stick, and then you’re dead,’ he muttered. He wondered whether Uncle Hrothgar had sat like this, on a stone, when he’d taught him about blades for the first time. Whether he’d looked down and seen the spark of heroism in a child’s eye. Ulfar tried to remember how old his big uncle had been, and couldn’t. That was another life, another world.

  So what was this life, then?

  He looked at the sword he was stroking. It was clean, and had been for a while.

  Easing the blade into the scabbard and looking down at Goran’s corpse, he said, ‘I’m sorry, old man. If I find him again I’ll get him properly.’

  The horses had shied away from the blood, but they were old enough not to stray far. Ulfar sent a bundle of silent thanks to Alfgeir Bjorne as he saddled up and headed south. He looked over his shoulder at Goran’s corpse and urged his mare into a run.

  *

  ‘Can you smell it?’

  The horse didn’t reply, but Ulfar didn’t mind. Two days on the road and he was starting to think he was alone in the world. Now, however, there was something in the air: something fresh and cold to replace the smothering smell of dank pine and wet earth. He’d swapped horses once a day and kept up a good pace, but he still felt as if the forest would never end. Now the trees ahead were thinning out and there was something up ahead.

  The world of wood he’d been living in dropped away from his eyes and he gripped the reins so hard that the horse whinnied in protest as his vision filled with blue. The path inclined down to the sandy banks of the water and the fresh breeze made him sit up straight in the saddle. Ulfar shivered.

  It was the big lake. He’d heard of it, but never seen it before. A full morning’s crossing by boat, it sliced the country near in half, if the stories were true.

  But there was something else as well. His stomach detected it before his brain caught up.

  Somewhere close, someone was cooking fish.

  Under him, the horse tossed its head and snorted, bringing Ulfar back to his senses. ‘Easy,’ he muttered to the mare, ‘easy. Let’s … give you both a break.’

  He dismounted and led the horses into the forest, far enough so he couldn’t see the path any more. He tethered them to trees close enough to patches of brownish grass and they accepted their fate with resigned calm and set to eating what could be eaten.

  Ulfar was stiff and sore, but the walk back towards the path and the lake limbered him up. The smell was stronger now, and in the distance he could see tendrils of smoke rising lazily.

  A smart man would pick his way through the forest and observe from cover, he thought. A smart man would get a feel for whoever started that fire.

  But there was a familiar tingling sensation somewhere in the back of his head, so disobeying all his instincts, Ulfar strode out onto the lake-front and started walking very slowly towards the source of the smell. Soon enough he saw shapes huddled around a line of smoke just past the curve of the coastline. He glanced inland and noticed the two scouts he would have run straight into if he’d gone sneaking and smiled to himself.

  He inched closer, making sure his hands were visible at all times, but when he was within shouting range he wondered whether he needed to be so careful after all. The men huddled around the half-buried fire looked cold and weary. There were twelve of them. A particularly bony man sat by the fire, turning speared fish this way and that, flicking them onto the broken shields that appeared to be serving as plates.

  ‘Greetings to the fire,’ Ulfar shouted the moment he thought he could be heard.

  A couple of heads turned, but no one rose to greet him.

  Taking their silence as consent, Ulfar sidled closer. The smell of the roasting fish was almost too much to bear.

  He was within spear-throwing distance when he saw the injuries.

  Every man had them: heads wrapped in dirty, blood-caked cloth, broken forearms crudely splinted, a leg hacked off at the knee. The gaunt cook looked up at him. He flashed a quick signal to the scouts behind Ulfar’s back. The reply must have set his mind at ease. ‘Make way, fuckers,’ he growled at his fellow men. ‘Guest rights.’
To Ulfar, he said, ‘Welcome, traveller, to my court. I am Lord Alfrith. We’re a bit short on the furniture at the moment, but we’ve got fish.’

  ‘I haven’t found a bench that tastes better than a well-roasted trout,’ Ulfar replied. ‘I am honoured, Lord Alfrith.’ That raised a few smirks. The gaunt man nodded and gestured to a space that had appeared between two hunched and hairy fighters.

  ‘Where are you coming from, then?’ Alfrith said as he deftly speared another fish to go on the fire.

  ‘Uppsala,’ Ulfar said. On his left, someone hawked and spat into the fire, making a loud hiss.

  ‘Oh? And what did King Cushion say?’ Alfrith snarled. ‘Is he going to meet Forkbeard the day after he learns to wipe his own arse?’

  ‘He’s scared to,’ a man with a badly scarred face chimed in. ‘He might hurt himself. Wiping your own arse is plenty dangerous.’

  ‘You’d know, Uthgar!’ Alfrith said.

  ‘Besides, Alfgeir’s teats give mead these days, so he’s fine where he is,’ another with a broken arm added. There was laughter around the fire, but it wasn’t the happy kind.

  Ulfar chose his words with care. ‘Jolawer is young,’ he said, ‘and like with the wenches, you don’t necessarily want to let a young man at the fighting. He’d be over and done in three strokes.’ There was no laughter, but he saw the twinkle of amusement here and there. ‘No, just like the fucking, you want to leave the fighting to real men.’ Some of the wounded fighters were nodding now. ‘I think Alfgeir Bjorne will protect the boy, but I don’t believe he’ll hold him back when the time comes. And when it does, they’ll know that Forkbeard was held by Lord Alfrith and his men when they needed it the most. I knew King Erik, and he did not beget a fool.’ He had their undivided attention now. All he needed was to time it right. ‘The old goat could have fucking done it ten years earlier, though.’

  The laughter that ripped around the fire was genuine now, a release of anger and pressure. Not for the first time, Ulfar thought of old Sven. Make them like you, he’d said. Not bad advice, that.

  ‘And we do not need to establish the fact that Forkbeard was born from a thorny fart and a bad idea. So what is Old Shithead up to?’ Ulfar continued.