The Valhalla Saga

by Snorri Kristjansson

  The descent was much quicker than the early-morning climb up to the cave mouth. The little village looked peaceful, almost serene under the suddenly bright blue sky.

  ‘It’s quiet,’ Skapti said.

  ‘Mm,’ Bug-Eye mumbled.

  They saw the first bodies when they rounded the corner. The men had served Botolf and Hakon in real life. In death they were just meat in rags.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Skapti said, poking his toe at a dead man on the ground. He tipped the corpse over and a weathered, leathery face with glassy eyes stared back at them.

  ‘He wasn’t with us,’ Bug-Eye said. No one doubted the fat man.

  ‘Blades,’ Skapti said quietly.

  The soldiers picked up what weapons they could find on the ground – spears, swords, a hand-axe – and scouted around for enemies. The trampled snow was stained with reddish-white crystals, but nothing moved. The village was as dead as when they’d first arrived.

  Bug-Eye nudged Valgard and pointed silently. The door to the longhouse was slightly ajar.

  Skapti signalled to two of his men and walked towards the door, blade up and pointed at the darkness within, prepared for whatever might come bursting out. His companions flanked him. The silence went on for ever as the red-haired warrior crouched by the door and listened. He shot Valgard and Bug-Eye a sharp look and nudged the door open.

  Sweat, blood and fear leaked out of the room like pus from a wound. Valgard watched as those who entered first fought not to vomit.

  The longhouse was full of bodies. Their marching compatriots had been slaughtered, some where they lay sleeping, others fighting. The floor was sticky with hardening blood and the smell of it was everywhere – in the air, in the walls, on their tongues.

  A ray of light squeezed in through a rift in the airing flap and shone down on Egill Jotun’s throne. A familiar figure lay slumped on the steps before the massive chair, clutching his belly.

  Botolf.

  Despite his dislike and fear, Valgard hurried towards the throne.

  When he was a few feet away, he saw the chieftain’s arm move as harsh wet coughs shook his body. Botolf’s hand moved too slowly to catch the globs of blood he hawked up from his lungs. The pain scraped the glazed look off his eyes. As he recognised Valgard, he grinned. His teeth were coloured the sickly pink of blood mixed with saliva. He cradled something in his arms.

  ‘… never saw it …’ he wheezed.

  ‘What?’ Valgard asked.

  ‘The bitch,’ Botolf muttered, still smiling. ‘She had me from day one. She just wanted to get up here to meet with them.’ Skapti, Bug-Eye and the others hung back, not sure what to do with the idea of Botolf being injured.

  ‘Who? Meet with who?’

  ‘Big fucker. Two thick scars on his neck. Axe. Stay the fuck away,’ Botolf said. He moved his arm and guts spilled out. Valgard could smell death on him; he could feel the heat seeping out of his stomach. The chieftain winced. ‘Raiding party walked through us. Hardest bastards I’ve ever seen. Somehow … the kid … the kid from the path … was with them. She must have planned it.’ His eyes grew bigger and his face softened. ‘Can you do anything? Am I gone? I don’t want to meet the gods just yet.’

  Valgard looked at the fearsome killer and smiled. ‘You will meet the gods when the time is right.’ Botolf tried to say something that drowned in a bubble of blood, but Valgard was already moving. He stepped up onto the dais, put his shoulder against the throne and pushed.

  The block of wood shifted only slightly.

  His thighs felt like they were on fire, but Valgard pushed harder, the wood creaked, and slowly the throne of Egill Jotun gave way and toppled over, revealing a hollow space underneath.

  Within it was a knee-high chest.

  His heart thundering, Valgard flipped open the lid of the chest.

  A cylinder lay within, wrapped in calfskin.

  He bent over and retrieved it, then unravelled the package with trembling fingers.

  ‘What’s that?’ Skapti called from the middle of the longhouse, curious but unwilling to come closer.

  Valgard didn’t answer. His shaking fingers revealed strings of runes, charts, shapes. His trembling lips muttered words that had not been uttered for a long time.

  Behind him, Botolf screamed. It was not a human scream.

  When he finished the spell, he turned around to look at what he had created – and smiled.

  Epilogue

  SKANE, SOUTHWEST SWEDEN DECEMBER, AD 996

  The burning twigs crackled and snapped in the centre of a faint circle of light and heat. Cold mist drifted in over freezing ground and over the piles of leaves that had drifted against thick tree trunks. Above the treetops the vast black winter night stretched endlessly, dotted by white points, snowflakes that would never fall.

  Audun sat on a rock, wrapped in an assortment of rags. ‘Did you do that thing? Home?’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ Ulfar said. Leaning up against a big trunk, he was almost invisible in the shadows.

  ‘How did it go?’

  ‘I’m alive,’ Ulfar said.

  ‘So not too bad,’ Audun said after a moment’s pause.

  ‘Not too bad,’ Ulfar agreed.

  Audun sat still for a while, looking into the fire. ‘What now, then?’ he said.

  ‘Valgard killed Geiri. He’s with King Olav’s army. We’re going up north to kill him.’

  Another pause. ‘Oh.’ Then, after a while, ‘Where, exactly? And how many men does he have? And how are we going to do it?’

  Ulfar emerged from the shadows and came to sit down by the fire. ‘No idea,’ he said.

  Audun noticed the shift in the darkness; Ulfar smelled the blood. They both jumped when the dead deer landed with a thud at the edge of the light.

  A familiar voice spoke from the darkness. ‘The bony bit on your arm’s your elbow. The one you were sitting on is your arse.’ The glade was suddenly alive with quiet, soft movement. Silent, hardened, grey-haired men emerged from the trees all around them. Five, ten, twenty, thirty. They made no move, drew no weapons.

  Two men walked through the group. One of them held a big axe.

  The other one grinned at Ulfar through a thick white beard and stuck a curved dagger in his belt. ‘Sounds to me like you’re going to need some help, son.’

  THE END

  Blood Will Follow

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  VALGARD’S STORY

  Valgard

  Deceptive herbalist.

  Finn

  Loyal lieutenant.

  Hakon

  Troublesome Trondheim tyrant.

  King Olav

  His Kingliness.

  Jorn

  Prince of the Dales, King Olav’s right-hand man.

  Runar

  Jorn’s stuttering helper.

  Botolf

  Tall, dark and deadly, Chieftain of the South.

  Skeggi

  Brawny bundle of sadism.

  Sigurd

  Chieftain of Stenvik, imprisoned.

  Sven

  Advisor to Sigurd, imprisoned.

  Gunnar

  Commander of Stenvik in Finn’s absence.

  Ormslev Bug-Eye

  Botolf’s stoic and lardy trek-master.

  Kverulf

  Botolf’s man; not too sharp on judgement.

  Skapti

  Botolf’s lieutenant.

  AUDUN’S STORY

  Audun

  Cursed blacksmith berserker.

  Fjölnir

  Ageing farmer with one bad eye.

  Breki

  Caravan leader.

  Bjorn

  Breki’s brother.

  Ivar

  Man in charge at the Sands.

  Hrutur

  Rugged sea captain.

  Skakki

  Useless blacksmith.

  Johan Aagard

  Bulky bothersome beau.

  Helga of Ovregard

  Handsome woman with a dark
past.

  Streak

  Her horse.

  Ustain

  Forkbeard’s recruiter.

  Jomar

  Forkbeard’s man.

  Thormund

  Ageing horse thief, reluctant soldier.

  Mouthpiece

  Nervous, verbose, all-too-keen and would-be honourable soldier.

  Boy

  Mute boy.

  Olgeir

  Sea captain and commander of ten, suspiciously familiar accent.

  ULFAR’S STORY

  Ulfar

  Dashing hero, leading man and potentially cursed warrior.

  Anneli

  Just a small-town girl.

  Torulf

  Young gallant.

  Jaki and Jarli

  Torulf’s brothers, older and less gallant.

  Gestumblindi

  Wandering mercenary recruiter with one bad eye.

  Gisli

  Turnip farmer, not overly wise.

  Helgi

  His idiot cousin.

  Hedin

  Greedy merchant and boat-owner.

  Goran

  Grizzled caravan guard.

  Heidrek

  Young, cheerful caravan guard.

  Regin

  Surly caravan guard.

  Ingimar

  Caravan owner and merchant.

  Arnar

  Burly man of huge beard and few words.

  Prince Karle

  White on the outside, black on the inside. Owes Ulfar for a broken arm. Cousin to King Jolawer.

  Galti

  His henchman.

  Hrodgeir

  Galti’s servant.

  Alfgeir Bjorne

  King Jolawer’s right-hand man, Geiri’s father, Ulfar’s uncle.

  King Jolawer Scot

  Son of Erik the Victorious, king before his time.

  Greta

  Former flame of Ulfar’s; not happy to see him.

  Ivar

  Greta’s brother; even less happy to see Ulfar.

  Lord Alfrith

  A chieftain in the field.

  His Merry Men

  Not merry at all.

  Acknowledgements

  As usual, this has not been a solitary enterprise. If it weren’t for super-agent Geraldine Cooke, it wouldn’t even be an ‘enterprise’. This doubly counts for Editor, Publisher and all-round wonder-woman Jo Fletcher, who not only publishes my merry Vikings but also makes my writing look approximately 93% better (numbers = truth = science). My fledgling writer’s soul would be crushed but for the tender ministrations of Nicola Budd, Tim Kershaw and Andrew Turner, key cogs in the lean, mean publishing machine that is Jo Fletcher Books.

  I owe thanks to the good people of Southbank International School – first and foremost librarians extraordinaire Christine Joshi and Ian Herne, who have given me enough encouragement and research for a football team’s worth of writers – but also every single student who has stopped me in the corridors, asked ‘how the book is going’, read the thing and complimented me on the horrifically inappropriate swearing. You know who you are. I sincerely hope that none of you are actually intending to read this one, because it’s a fair bit worse.

  To my dearest friends who read and even liked the first one – I am still stunned, frankly, by the reception. Thank you for putting up with me before, during and after. I would promise to make more sense and tell shorter stories in the future, but we all know that’s not happening.

  To Dagbjört at Nexus Books in Reykjavík for giving me my first-ever book launch – thank you. To kings of Viking Metal Skálmöld for the credits and the music.

  To Nick Bain, who taught me to write. Technically, all of this is your fault.

  To my Mother, Father and Brother – you are still the most terrifying readers I’ve ever met. Without you, this wolf would be a poodle.

  And finally, most and always – to my wife, Morag. You are probably the most patient woman in the world, and I love you dearly.

  Snorri Kristjansson

  Hitchin, Hertfordshire

  March 2014

  Title

  Dedication

  For Geraldine Cooke.

  Defender, believer, campaigner.

  Map

  Prologue

  The clouds parted, and just for a moment, the winter sun shone down on the smooth snow. What might have been tracks were now no more than ridges on a blue-white surface. A depression suggested that there might be a cave in the hillside, but it had long since been snowed in. The hills, solid and silent, looked down on houses that had once stood in defiance of nature; havens of warmth and safety in the unforgiving land.

  Now they were just empty.

  A strong gust rolled down into the valley, lifting white flakes from the ground and up, up, into whirling clouds of crisp, sparkling specks.

  They settled on roofs already covered in sheets of ice.

  They danced around black, barren branches.

  They covered frozen purple and grey fingers of dead men strewn about between the houses with arms stuck out at odd angles. Severed limbs draped in tendrils of black, frozen blood poked out of drifts. Where there were faces, they were carved in frost and horror.

  The silence was broken by a sharp, painful creak as the door to the longhouse inched open, screaming on bent hinges.

  A tall man stepped out onto the front step. His grey robes swirled about him, but he did not look touched by the cold. A wide-brimmed hat hung down to cover his right eye, but the left one gleamed as he took in the surroundings. Under a scraggly white beard, dried and cracked skin moved as his stony face broke into a smile.

  ‘So that’s how you want it to be,’ he said to the wind.

  High up in the sky to the south, two black dots appeared, growing bigger by the moment, spreading their wings and swooping down towards the man on the steps. Cawing loudly, the ravens landed with smooth grace at the man’s feet. He looked at them and raised an eyebrow. The big birds hopped towards him then flapped their wings and rose until they had settled, one on each shoulder. Behind him, the door creaked again as two big dogs padded out of the longhouse.

  ‘Then that’s how it is,’ the old man said, and started walking, following six pairs of footprints, heading to the South.

  Chapter 1

  SOUTH SWEDEN

  DECEMBER, AD 996

  For a moment everything stood still, etched in grey on black: dark forms looming in the shadows, hovering on the edge between moonlight and darkness. At the head of the half-visible army Sven and Sigurd Aegisson stood over the deer carcase, looking at the two travellers. The chieftain and his right-hand man looked leaner, somehow, and older, but more alive.

  Frozen halfway through drawing his sword, Ulfar could do nothing but stare. As his brain caught up, he started recognising other faces from Stenvik. He could see at least fifty of them, and there were obviously more in the shadows. Sven, front and centre, turned to Sigurd. ‘See? I told you the boy would turn out well. That’s the best impression of an idiot I’ve seen in a long time.’

  Sigurd spared him a faint smile, then, nodding to Audun, he walked towards the fire and sat down. Behind him, the silent warriors started moving with purpose. A handful, still eerily quiet, drifted back into the forest. Sven directed two men towards the deer. Knives flashed, and the scent of blood soon drifted towards the fire.

  Easing as gracefully as he could out of his fighting stance, Ulfar finally managed, ‘What – what news of Stenvik?’ Sliding his blade back into the scabbard, he sat down by the fire.

  ‘King Olav took the town as his own,’ Sven said as he sat down too. ‘He spared our lives, no thanks to Harald, but he demanded that we bend the knee to him and the White Christ. The boys were all smart enough to nod and smile.’

  ‘He couldn’t let us walk around because he thought we’d stir up trouble,’ Sigurd said.

  ‘Which, to be fair, was
correct,’ Sven added.

  ‘And he didn’t have the stomach for the work. So he kept us locked up,’ Sigurd said.

  ‘And great fun it was, too,’ Sven said. ‘If I get the choice next time and the other option is a cage with a wolf, I’m taking the wolf.’ He gestured to another silent, bearded man who stepped into the circle, added some more kindling and blew gently until he was rewarded with a small but sturdy flame. As he moved away the flame disappeared for a moment, then the glow returned and quickly doubled in size, growing even more as warriors continued bringing firewood from the forest.

  ‘Then why are you here?’ Audun said.

  ‘Valgard poisoned us,’ Sigurd said.

  Audun and Ulfar exchanged glances, then looked at Sven. The old man’s eyes told them all they needed to know.

  ‘How—?’ Audun asked. By the other fire in the clearing, something sizzled and soon the smell of roast meat filled Ulfar’s nostrils.

  ‘He brought us our food. We ate it. Laced with shadowroot – well masked, too. I did taste it, but too late. The next we knew, we were being dug up.’

  Audun shivered and looked over his shoulder. ‘Who dug you up?’

  ‘A traveller,’ Sigurd said, and Ulfar mouthed the words as they came out of the old chieftain’s mouth: ‘Tall, grey hair, beard. Big hat.’ He had to stop as he was handed a dagger with a chunk of roast deer on the point. Sven continued, ‘He said he’d been passing through when he heard these two men talk about getting rid of some bodies. I’m not clear on the details, but there’s no doubt in my mind that he saved our lives.’