‘I bet he did,’ Ulfar muttered. He glanced at Audun, who looked similarly suspicious. ‘Then what?’
‘We had some debts to pay,’ Sigurd said. Suddenly the silence in the glade deepened. ‘So we did. Then we left to find Forkbeard, and now we’re here.’
‘Forkbeard?’ Audun said. ‘Why?’
‘Because Olav has gone north,’ Sven said. ‘He’s in Trondheim now. If he digs in up there he’ll double his army in no time and then we’re stuck with him. Hakon was happy to sit on his peasants up north, but I doubt that the kinglet will be as pleasant. We need to convince Sweyn Forkbeard that he’ll be better off facing King Olav now, before he goes out west again to collect. If he doesn’t, he’ll be defending the shores of Denmark from cross-bearing Norse madmen in two years, maybe less.’
‘So all roads lead north, then,’ Ulfar said as another man handed him a chunk of roasted meat.
‘They always do, son,’ Sven said. ‘They always do.’
*
Morning brought thick grey skies and a bitter wind. Sigurd’s men kept talking to a minimum; they were up and ready at daybreak.
‘Here, take this,’ Sven said as Ulfar and Audun clambered to their feet. In the old man’s outstretched hand were thick-spun woollen trousers and tunics. ‘You look like the runts of a litter of runts.’
Looking at Audun and himself, Ulfar had to concede the point. Travelling had taken a lot out of the both of them; their clothes were torn and bloody, and they both looked years older than they had only four short months ago.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘It’s not for your benefit,’ Sven said. ‘You’re harder to fatten up if you’re cold, and we need something to throw at Forkbeard if he’s hungry.’
‘And your bony old arse won’t do,’ Ulfar replied as he struggled into the new clothes.
‘My bony old arse will do more than yours does,’ Sven batted back. ‘I’ve got a hundred hard bastards behind me. You’ve just got a mopey blacksmith.’
Ulfar smiled. ‘That’s about right. But don’t worry – you’ll pick up more men soon and then we’ll be even. I’d say about seventy more sounds fair.’
Sven chortled and grinned at Audun, who shrugged.
Soon enough they were dressed and ready, and Ulfar asked, ‘Where are you looking for Forkbeard?’
‘I reckon we’ll do what we’ve been doing: find the nearest burned-out farm and track him from there,’ Sven said. There was nothing more to say, so they headed off, threading their way through the tall birch trees.
The grey sky turned from wool to milk to dirty ice but the sun kept resolutely out of sight. When they cleared the forest they saw fields dusted with white stretching far into the distance, rising and rolling gently away from them. A single-track dirt road cut across the landscape like a scar.
The sun was straight above them when Ulfar spoke. ‘I don’t like this quiet.’
‘It was fine until you ruined it,’ Audun said.
‘Where there’s roads there’s people, but we haven’t seen a single soul all morning,’ Ulfar muttered. ‘We might as well be alone in the world.’
‘Don’t worry, son. Trouble will find us,’ Sven said from the front of the line. ‘It usually does.’ They walked on in silence as the clouds above thickened into a dark grey mass. ‘Any time now,’ the old rogue muttered darkly, and sure enough, the first flakes of snow soon fluttered down from above. ‘Bloody snow,’ he added. ‘Just like you, Ulfar: pretty but useless.’
‘You say that, but at least I can— No, you’re right. You forgot annoying, though,’ Ulfar said.
‘Sven,’ Sigurd said. The tone of his voice made the men around him snap to attention immediately.
Two hundred yards ahead of them a fox had wandered out of a thicket and was standing stock-still, sniffing at the air. It ignored the group of men and stared around; it looked almost as if it was listening to a silent tune.
The eagle struck almost too fast for the eye to see. The fox yelped and fought, but it was no use. Powerful wings beat about its head, a strong beak tore at its ears, finger-thick talons dug into its back and clamped down on its spine. The eagle strained, and slowly the fox’s paws lifted off the ground. A screech tore the air as another eagle approached and also latched on to the terrified fox.
The Stenvik raiders watched, stunned, blood dripping onto the snow from above as the two huge birds flew away, tearing at the screeching animal caught between them.
‘Get moving! Now!’ Sigurd shouted, and behind him the group of hardened warriors snapped to and trudged on. Around them, Ulfar could hear snatches of muttered conversation.
‘—never seen anything like that—’
‘—eagles hunting a fox? And two of them?’
‘—the stars ain’t right, I’m telling you—’
The talk died down as they walked, but Ulfar couldn’t help but notice that every one of the old warriors kept their guard up.
*
A while after midday they came to a farm. Fields stretched out in every direction but tucked in a copse of trees in the distance stood a building.
‘Go for it?’ Sven said.
Sigurd shrugged. ‘Might as well. See about news.’ A half-smile played on his lips as he glanced at Ulfar. ‘We’ll send in our local man.’
‘Told you he’d be useful,’ Sven said gleefully.
Ulfar rolled his eyes and started preparing to explain why he was showing up at someone’s doorstep with a hundred hardened Northmen at his back. When they’d halved the distance, Sigurd motioned for a halt. ‘We’ll stop here, I think,’ he said.
‘Right. In you go, son,’ Sven said. Around him, the men put down their bags and set about finding a place to rest comfortably, dusting the snow off the ground where possible. ‘Take the ox with you if you want. Try to look friendly, though.’
Ulfar unhooked his sword-belt and looked at Audun, who moved to his side without a word. They put the Northmen at their backs and walked down a worn road of sorts that was covered lightly with fresh snow.
It looked good from afar, but up close the farm was very quiet indeed. The barren branches of the trees cast long shadows and the fading light did nothing to make the surroundings more pleasant.
‘Not much going on, is there?’ Ulfar said.
‘No,’ Audun replied.
They looked around for evidence of battle but nothing was broken. The farm gate was open, but didn’t look like it had been moved for some time. The yard was empty, the stables to their left looked shadowy and lifeless and the barn door was slightly ajar. The house itself looked in reasonably good repair, but there was no flicker of flame anywhere to tell of life or warmth.
‘Hello?’ Ulfar shouted in a way that he hoped would communicate an absolute lack of intent to kill anyone. No one answered. He tried again, but again his voice echoed off the walls. He was about to move when Audun’s heavy hand landed on his forearm and held him back.
‘Wait and watch, Thormodsson,’ he mumbled. The hairs on Ulfar’s neck rose.
Something moved in the farmhouse. Sounds of scuffling, something toppling over and a muted curse drifted out into the yard. A shape appeared in the doorway.
‘Strangers,’ it said in a thick voice. ‘Greetings.’
‘Greetings!’ Ulfar replied. ‘We come in peace, and would like to—’
‘No, you don’t,’ a voice said from inside the cabin. The shape in the shadowy doorway was joined by another.
Wrong-footed, Ulfar stumbled on his words. ‘What do you mean? We wish you no harm.’
‘I know that,’ the second man said as he came out into the yard to meet them. He was Ulfar’s height and Audun’s width, but he looked oddly grey, like he’d been ill for some time. The first man followed him out into the yard: younger, maybe in his teens, sandy-haired and friendly, but with the same
big frame and square features. The men were clad in farmer’s clothes and unarmed, but they were a little . . . faded, somehow. ‘But you do not come in peace.’
Beside him Audun tensed, but Ulfar smiled his best and tried to relax. ‘I am afraid I do not follow, my friend.’
The big farmer’s eyes lit up. ‘This is not a time of peace. This is a time of war.’
Familiar territory. Ulfar smiled a rueful smile and shook his head. ‘I know. Forkbeard is running wild around these parts, I hear.’
Confusion flitted across their faces. ‘Forkbeard?’
‘Forkbeard. Danish King. Sweyn Forkbeard. Has a . . . big beard . . .’
‘. . . which he braids in a fork,’ Audun added.
The big farmer smiled. ‘Oh, him.’ Beside him, the boy laughed. Caught up, Audun and Ulfar both laughed with them. ‘He doesn’t matter,’ the big man said, dismissively.
‘. . . oh? I mean, I agree, Forkbeard is not as important as he thinks he is—’
‘You’re not wrong there!’ the youth chimed in, and the big farmer ruffled his hair like a father would.
‘—but as far as we know he’s been running around the countryside here, burning and killing,’ Ulfar added. This was not going the way he had expected.
The big farmer shrugged. ‘Way of the world. It all fits.’
‘All fits,’ the youth repeated.
‘How?’ Audun said, his face screwed up in concentration.
‘It’s the Rising,’ the youth said. His father nodded.
‘What is the Rising?’ Ulfar said.
The big man looked at him as if Ulfar had asked him to explain water. ‘What is the Rising? Did you hear that, boy?’
‘I did!’ the boy said.
‘The Rising!’ the big man said, face lit up in fervour, ‘the Rising is when – when he has . . . risen!’
‘And who is he?’ Ulfar asked.
‘The – the—’ He blinked and winced, as if to shake off a bad headache. ‘He is – um – he has risen! He has risen!’
‘All right, he has risen. I understand,’ Ulfar said, glancing at the gate.
‘I don’t think you do, traveller,’ the youth said. ‘I think you are one of his enemies, and I think you’ll do great harm.’
Audun rolled his shoulders.
‘We’re not your enemies,’ Ulfar said hurriedly. ‘We understand. We’ll just go now.’
‘You can still help him,’ the big farmer said. ‘You want to help, don’t you?’
Audun gestured for Ulfar to be calm. ‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘No, we don’t.’
The big farmer homed in on the blacksmith, his eyes ablaze, like someone hearing a familiar song. ‘You,’ he said. ‘There is something inside you . . . that he wants.’
‘Come and get it then,’ Audun said.
Without warning the big farmer went for Audun, growling, thick arms outstretched, aiming to catch him in a crunching bear-hug.
A moment later, Ulfar’s reflexes sent him spinning away from a vicious hook thrown by the youth, but three steps back was not enough; the boy was upon him, raining blows with glee. ‘He rises!’ he shrieked.
‘Who is “he”?’ Ulfar shouted back, blocking and retreating. He could just glimpse Audun and the big farmer locked in a wrestler’s hold, neither giving an inch.
‘He is the cold in the North! He is death in winter! He is the life-blood of the Viking! The path to Valhalla!’ the youth spat, kicking, gouging and clawing.
‘Where in the North?’ Ulfar shouted, landing a blow of his own, but the youth didn’t appear to feel it.
‘He rises!’ the youth screamed, pointing to the heavens.
‘So that’s all you know. Fine,’ Ulfar said. He stepped into the boy’s reach, swung his elbow as hard as he could and felt the nose give way. Blood welled out and as the boy fell to the ground, writhing in pain, Ulfar stepped over him and walked towards Audun, who was standing over the body of the big farmer.
‘Is he dead?’ Ulfar asked.
‘No,’ Audun said. ‘Knocked him out.’
‘Hm,’ Ulfar said. ‘So what do you make of this?’
‘I don’t know,’ Audun said. ‘I honestly don’t know.’
‘There’s more and more that we don’t know, my friend,’ Ulfar said. He turned to look at the two men on the ground. ‘But with what I’ve seen recently, I am pretty certain,’ he said, ‘that if we leave them like this they will not have a good life.’ He looked around until his eyes fastened on a wrist-thick wooden bar resting up against a wall.
*
‘What did they say?’ Sven asked as Audun and Ulfar returned to Sigurd’s camp. ‘We heard some screaming.’
‘They weren’t best pleased to see us,’ Ulfar said. ‘Two men, both absolutely mad. Thought we were Forkbeard’s men and attacked us on sight.’
‘Shame,’ Sven said. ‘So they didn’t even point you in the right direction?’
‘No,’ Audun said. ‘I don’t think they knew much.’
‘Well,’ Sven said, ‘worth a try. Do you think they’ll follow?’
Ulfar pushed aside the image of legs spasming as the wooden bar smashed the farmers’ skulls and ended their lives. It had felt uncomfortably like an act of kindness. ‘No, they won’t,’ he said.
Sven turned to the seated men. ‘Right. Come on, you old grannies! Up we get.’ The men protested as they rose, but within moments they were ready to move. The snow continued to fall around them as they marched on, following the road.
‘You ran with Forkbeard’s men,’ Sigurd said to Audun. ‘What do you know?’
‘Not much,’ Audun said. ‘He’s apparently eight foot tall, three arms and so on.’
‘How is he set up?’ Sven said.
‘Groups of twelve or so roam around, sacking and burning everything they can find,’ Ulfar chimed in.
‘See? Told you,’ Sven said, a glint in his eye.
‘What?’ Ulfar said.
‘Oh, nothing,’ Sven said. ‘Nothing at all. I’ve just been thinking, that’s all.’ There was a spring in the old man’s step as he bounded to Sigurd’s side. ‘Just thinking,’ he said, to no one in particular.
Behind them, an unnaturally large black fox slunk away from the farm and into the shadow of the nearby trees.
*
Feeling every one of his advanced years twice over, Thormund huddled further into his furs and wished, not for the first time, that he could go back to the simple joys of risking his life stealing horses. Since he’d been rounded up by Forkbeard’s army and grouped with the mad Norseman, his life had gone from bad to worse. After the berserker got injured and half his men disappeared in the middle of the night, his war-band had been down to himself, Mouthpiece and six others. They’d met another of Forkbeard’s groups, headed up by a big Eastman bastard called Oskarl; the mercenary, a full head taller than Thormund, had assumed command immediately. He walked with a limp, but the cane he used was as thick as a forearm and splattered with reddish-brown stains of many hues near the end. Thormund knew better than to question the authority of such men.
So now there were twenty of them, and they were all cold, wet and hungry. ‘Fuck this,’ he muttered. ‘All of it, twice, with a pine cone.’ He wasn’t in charge any more, though, so that was probably a good thing.
They’d made a camp of sorts when the sun set. Oskarl, optimistically, had sent out a couple of men to hunt, and against all odds they’d come back with a brace of pheasants. There wasn’t enough for everyone, of course, and the biggest fighters got to the meat first, but Thormund had got his long, bony fingers on two carcases and he shared them with Mouthpiece as they huddled on the far edge of the fire, behind Oskarl’s men.
‘War is not as heroic as I thought,’ Mouthpiece mumbled. His jaw had mostly healed now, but it had set a little off and the youn
g man now looked like his mouth was stuck in a sceptical scowl.
‘Most things aren’t,’ Thormund replied. ‘They really aren’t.’
They sat in silence for a while, listening to the conversation of the men around the campfire, until a deep, rasping voice cut through the night.
‘Good evening!’
Oskarl was up in a flash, moving remarkably quickly for a man of his size. ‘Who’s there?’ he shouted. He peered into the darkness, half-blinded by the firelight.
‘Relax, son,’ another voice said. ‘Don’t worry. Just two old men here, looking for some warmth.’ Two greybeards stepped into the very edge of the firelight, on Oskarl’s side, and Thormund’s heart stopped for a moment.
Mouthpiece was almost on his feet when the old horse thief caught the hem of his shirt and pulled him down. ‘No,’ he hissed, as quietly as he could.
‘Why?’ Mouthpiece said, but Thormund just shook his head.
‘Are you the leader?’ the first man asked.
‘Who’s asking?’ Oskarl said, taking a short step back.
‘I am Sigurd Aegisson,’ the old man said. ‘I am seeking Forkbeard, and you’re going to help me.’
‘Fuck you, old man,’ Oskarl said, smirking. ‘Are you going to make me?’
‘No,’ the old man said, ‘but they are.’
Almost too late, Thormund noticed movement right by him and looked up – into a familiar face: the Norse berserker, standing quietly beside a tall young man. The light from the fire danced on their faces. Very subtly, the Norseman motioned, palm flat to the ground: stay down, stay quiet. Thormund looked around. The campfire was surrounded by silent, still figures with a variety of unpleasant-looking weapons at the ready.
Oskarl turned to face the two old men. ‘What do you want?’
‘These are now my men. So are you. Understood?’ the man who called himself Sigurd said.
The Eastman moved incredibly fast, whipping up his cane and swinging it at the old man’s head. In a blur, the handle of a great-axe was up to meet it.
The Valhalla Saga Page 59