The Valhalla Saga

by Snorri Kristjansson

  ‘That’s enough, son,’ the other greybeard said. A bony hand was holding Oskarl’s belt and a dagger was pointing straight at his groin. The shorter man with the beard was standing really close to the Eastman. Looking up into his face, he said, ‘You’re a big lad, right enough, but you’ve left your weak side open and I’ve floored bigger. If I even cough now, you’re either dead or singing real pretty.’

  The big Eastman looked down. ‘Had to try,’ he said in his heavily accented Norse. ‘You understand.’

  ‘I do,’ the bushy-bearded man said.

  Audun knelt down. ‘That’s Sven,’ he whispered, ‘from my hometown. Sigurd’s the chieftain.’

  ‘I thought I’d seen them before,’ Thormund said. ‘This day just gets better and better.’

  ‘Stay down,’ Oskarl barked at his men. ‘Sigurd’s in charge now. Any problems?’ None of the men seemed inclined to disagree. Across the fire, Thormund watched the old chieftain quietly giving orders, then the fighters parted for him and the man with the bushy beard as they moved through them and sat down. Behind him, the standing men went to work dispensing the cooked meat.

  ‘So I’m guessing this is the Swede, then?’ Thormund said, pointing at Ulfar.

  ‘It is,’ Audun said.

  The tall man sat down next to them. ‘Ulfar,’ he said by way of greeting.

  ‘I’m Thormund, and this is—’

  Mouthpiece went to speak but Sven’s voice, loud and strong, rang out across the fire: ‘Now listen up, boys. Sigurd and I are searching for Forkbeard. When we’ve found him and told him what we need to, he’ll want to move north for some serious fighting. There will be blood, and it won’t get any warmer, but there will be food to eat and things to steal. I’m an old man with a failing memory and bad eyesight’ – Oskarl smirked next to him – ‘and I’ve not done a head-count yet. I figure I will, though, in the next little while. If you’re here when I do, you stay. Understood?’

  Two of Thormund’s party left the circle without words and disappeared into the shadows. Another two of Oskarl’s men walked off in a different direction. No one paid them any mind and no one else moved.

  ‘Right. So: sixteen, from the looks of it. Well met, boys. As I said, my name is Sven and this is Sigurd Aegisson. We’re from a town called Stenvik. Have any of you heard of it? No? Well, let me tell you a story.’

  The Swede sat down next to them. ‘We’ll do introductions later,’ he said to Mouthpiece. ‘Old Sven knows how to spin a tale.’

  Dots of light shone in the sky above them and Thormund wondered whether his life could get any worse.

  *

  In the next four days they rounded up another three of Forkbeard’s war bands. More than a hundred and fifty men now trailed Sigurd and Sven, kept in check by the men of Stenvik; just two days in and Ulfar found himself struggling to tell the newcomers apart. Sigurd’s raiders made it simple to follow and hard to step out of line. Cold and hunger helped the men to find the easiest path.

  Around them, winter was strengthening its grip. Snow fell in the morning and blew away in the afternoon, but there was always a little left the next day and gradually, the world turned white.

  At midday on the fourth day, Sven motioned to Sigurd, who brought the column to a halt. Plains stretched away on both sides, but a big forest of pine up ahead drew a black smudge across the shades of white and grey.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Thormund said.

  ‘I don’t know . . .’ Ulfar’s voice trailed off as he strained to see what Sven and Sigurd were looking at. Then, ‘. . . but I think it’s—’

  ‘Over there.’ Mouthpiece mumbled and pointed to the border of the forest up ahead. ‘Soldiers. Lots of ’em.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Thormund said, ‘more’n a few, that.’ Thick clouds in shades of greyish white were forming above them. The pine forest was maybe a mile away, and armed men just kept emerging. ‘Over a hundred, I’d say.’

  ‘Form up,’ Sven’s voice rasped over their heads, ‘ten abreast. If you’ve got a shield you’re up front.’ The men of Stenvik organised the newcomers and soon Sven and Sigurd were standing at the forefront of a shield square. ‘Audun! Ulfar!’ Sven barked. ‘Come here, you useless tits!’

  Audun sighed, reached for his pack, got out his hammers and hooked them on his belt. The weight felt reassuring on his hips. Ulfar, already up ahead of him, was conversing with Sigurd.

  ‘—no idea,’ he was saying. ‘I would think it highly unlikely.’

  ‘Well,’ Sven said, ‘you’re wrong. I’d smell Alfgeir Bjorne from much further away. We might have a use for you two. Audun: look scary.’

  Ulfar snorted. ‘He doesn’t need to try that hard.’

  Audun suddenly became aware of the sheer weight of souls that the men around him had sent to Valhalla, and he realised that now he was finally one of them. You can run all you want, Blacksmith, but you can’t run away from yourself, he thought. This is where you belong.

  ‘They’ve seen us,’ Sigurd said.

  ‘I should hope so,’ Sven said. ‘I wouldn’t give much for their future if a hundred men could sneak up on them.’

  Audun could hear the snickering among the soldiers. The old rogue had always had a knack for lifting men’s spirits.

  Sigurd gestured in the direction of the forest and started walking.

  ‘Come on,’ Sven barked, ‘hold your place. We want to talk, but we’re not rolling over for a belly-scratch.’

  Behind them, the square held nicely. Audun could hear Oskarl growling commands, stepping smoothly into the role of sheepdog.

  The group at the other end of the field had grown a lot bigger. The men in front were just about distinguishable: a slim, tall man next to a bear-like figure.

  ‘You’re right. That’s Jolawer and Alfgeir,’ Ulfar said. Next to them, standing out in a background of leather and wool, a tall man dressed head to toe in white. He swallowed and took a deep breath. ‘And . . . Karle. The king’s second cousin. Says that makes him a prince. He also tried to kill me on the way south.’

  ‘Noted,’ Sigurd said. ‘Keep it to yourself and don’t start anything for a couple of days.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Not up for a fucking vote,’ Sven snapped. ‘Sigurd, then me, then Oskarl. No one else makes any kind of decision on anything. We’re making friends now. Other things for later. Understood?’

  ‘Understood,’ Ulfar said.

  ‘On my command,’ Sigurd said, louder. ‘March.’

  *

  Audun felt the men behind him fall in step, moving with rhythm and purpose. Snow drifted gently down to the ground, settling in the footsteps of the hundred and fifty soldiers emboldened by common purpose and leadership.

  When they were no more than a hundred yards distant, Sigurd raised his arm and as one, the fighters stopped.

  Audun looked at the men facing them. There were maybe seven or eight hundred now, give or take. Thick woollen shifts down to mid-leg, glimpses of chain mail here and there, spears, axes, and the odd sword, big round shields and small bucklers. Some of the armour looked recently used; some of it looked like it had been sitting in a farmer’s shed for a while.

  The men up front looked different.

  Audun’s eye was drawn to the tall man in white. His face was narrow, framed by long blond hair. His clothes were the white of new-fallen snow: a thick, fur-lined coat that had to have been taken in Rus, and expensive-looking white boots. He carried a proper-sized longbow and looked like he knew how to use it.

  Next to him stood a bear of a man, nearly as tall and twice as wide. Audun had to assume this was Alfgeir Bjorne, father of Geiri.

  The thin, wiry youth by Alfgeir’s side looked like a twig next to a tree. Blond hair pulled back from the sides framed a birdlike face, an angular nose and quick, darting eyes. His slight shoulders held a bearskin
cape, fastened around the neck with a silver chain. He favoured simple travelling clothes in shades of brown and grey. On his head he bore a simple metal band, but despite looking like he could be swept off by a changing wind, he carried himself with the bearing of a king.

  ‘King Jolawer Scot of Svealand demands to know what you are doing on his land!’ Alfgeir boomed.

  Without a word, Sigurd knelt, and behind him a hundred men did the same. A half-step slow, Audun realised that they should also be kneeling.

  Head down, he muttered to Ulfar, ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Sigurd, doing it right,’ Ulfar muttered. ‘Follow his lead.’

  ‘We are travellers from the west, wishing an audience with the king,’ Sigurd said, eyes downcast.

  There was a long silence. Audun chanced a glance, and saw the three men conferring.

  A couple of moments later, Alfgeir’s voice boomed across the field. ‘Meet us in the middle.’

  Sigurd and Sven rose. ‘Audun, Ulfar, Oskarl. With us,’ Sven said. ‘The rest of you – stand up and try to look less frightening, lads. I can smell them pissing themselves from here.’

  A few of the men laughed, and chatter broke out.

  ‘Ulfar, anything you’ve forgotten to tell us?’ Sven said under his breath as they walked to the mid-point between the two groups.

  Ulfar chose his words. ‘He’s young, but don’t underestimate the king,’ he muttered at last.

  ‘Fine,’ Sven said, ‘so we’ll not stick our arm in Fenrir’s mouth.’

  ‘I thought he was older,’ Oskarl said.

  ‘That was Erik,’ Ulfar answered automatically. ‘His father.’

  ‘They’re often older. You’re right,’ Oskarl said.

  ‘That’s enough,’ Sven said under his breath. ‘From now on, you speak when spoken to.’

  Sigurd stopped; they stepped up and stood in line next to him.

  Alfgeir, Jolawer and Karle lined up in front of them.

  The big man clocked Ulfar, and Audun was sure he smiled.

  ‘Well met, travellers,’ Jolawer Scot said. ‘I see you walk with our cousin Ulfar.’

  ‘He honours us with his presence,’ Sigurd said.

  ‘Which is funny, considering you don’t have a skirt,’ Karle snapped.

  ‘Hah! Mouth on ’im!’ Sven barked, grinning. He nodded towards Sigurd. ‘I could see if Old Scruffy here will wear one, if you want.’

  Jolawer Scot looked flustered. ‘That will not be needed,’ he said.

  ‘Are you sure? Once in a lifetime offer. Some mighty fine legs under there,’ Sven cackled. Next to the king, Karle looked to be somewhere between amused and disgusted; Alfgeir Bjorne was grinning happily.

  ‘That’s enough,’ Sigurd said, almost gently. ‘I take it you know what happened in Stenvik.’ Suddenly Audun didn’t recognise his gruff, surly chieftain – this man knew how to talk to kings.

  ‘We do,’ the young king said.

  ‘We seek to raise or join an army to march on King Olav,’ Sigurd said. ‘We have rounded up some of Forkbeard’s war bands—’

  ‘—and we’re going to go give ’em back,’ Sven said, with ill-disguised glee.

  The king’s head snapped to the side and he muttered something to Alfgeir, who rumbled something in return.

  After a brief pause for thought, he turned back to Sigurd. ‘Who do you consider more dangerous – Forkbeard or Olav?’

  ‘Olav,’ Sigurd replied without hesitation. ‘Forkbeard bangs his shield louder, but there’s much more blood beneath the cross.’

  ‘Do you think Forkbeard will agree?’

  ‘Well,’ Sven said, all mirth vanished from his voice, ‘between us I think we can argue the case fairly well.’

  There was a silence then, broken only when Jolawer Scot took three steps forward and stuck out his hand to Sigurd. Behind him, Audun saw Alfgeir Bjorne tense up for just a blink of an eye, then breathe out.

  ‘Sigurd Aegisson of Stenvik, join us and we will go north to find King Olav.’

  Sigurd clasped the young man’s hand, and Audun was impressed to see that the king did not waver.

  ‘That’s that then,’ Sven said. ‘Good to see you again, old bear,’ he added as he saluted Alfgeir, who raised his hand in return.

  When Audun looked at the man called Karle, he had already turned and started walking towards the camp.

  ‘He’s a one, that one,’ Oskarl said.

  ‘Can’t argue there,’ Ulfar said.

  Sigurd and Sven were silent until they got back to their men, who fell quiet when Sigurd turned to them. ‘That is Jolawer Scot,’ he said. ‘He has around eight hundred men to his name, and he will make a fine king one day. I would suggest that whoever wants to have a future in this country joins us, because we are joining his army.’

  ‘What about Forkbeard?’ Thormund said.

  ‘We’re going to find Forkbeard,’ Sven said, ‘and then we’re joining up with him too.’ This set a number of the men to talking, until he said, ‘Oh shut up, you old chickens. We’re all fighting for the same thing, really.’

  ‘And what’s that?’ someone shouted.

  ‘We’re going north.’

  NORTH DENMARK

  EARLY DECEMBER, AD 996

  Far away, across hills, forest and blue-grey, white-capped ocean, Streak tossed her head and snorted. Helga from Ovregard pulled her thick travelling cloak closer and tightened her hood. Leaning over the horse’s neck, she muttered into her ear, ‘Come on now, girl. It’s going to be all right. I know you don’t like it, but we have to.’

  She spurred her horse on towards cold, death and danger.

  Chapter 2

  TRONDHEIM, NORTH NORWAY

  DECEMBER, AD 996

  Every last inch of the benches in Hakon Jarl’s great hall was filled. The fire roared and the fur-lined jackets had come off long ago. The best and bravest of King Olav’s holy army were busy making short work of their unwilling host’s winter supplies. Down by the end of the hall an old raider with a thin, wispy beard was leading a handful of his friends in an enthusiastically filthy song. The soft moans of creaking wood belied the strength of the wind outside.

  When the snowstorm hit, they’d barred the vents. A day later they’d barred the big doors and now the longhouse was almost completely sealed off, accessible only through thick skin flaps strung over a small door on the leeside of the building. King Olav’s men were trapped inside, snowed in like everyone else in Trondheim, warming their outsides with fire and their insides with mead.

  In the high seat, the king shifted and wiped the sweat off his brow. ‘Stop it,’ he muttered.

  Hjalti leaned in from the seat next to him. His new right-hand man was gaunt and scraggly-bearded, and he had a habit of rapid blinking that made him look like an anxious hawk. ‘What, my King? Stop what?’ he said.

  ‘No more peat on the fire,’ Olav said. ‘It’s too hot in here.’ He rose, grabbing the armrest for balance, then made his way down off the dais as Hjalti started to shout at the boy in charge of fanning the flames. ‘Too hot,’ he mumbled as he staggered out, picking his way past warm, sweaty bodies. The flap lifted before he touched it, and he sighed. One of his men was making himself useful in his mission to bring Christ to this God-forsaken place by standing by the furs and waiting until the king needed to take a piss.

  The cold blast of wind and snow hit him in the face and wiped away his problems. This was more like it: fresh air that didn’t smell of unwashed men and a hot fire under a sodden roof. He took a deep breath, filled his lungs with it and released it slowly, letting the worries escape at the same time. Before him was Trondheim, a spread-out collection of snow-covered houses that seemed to be huddling together for warmth under the dancing flurries. He could smell salt on the air and feel the tiny needles of frost on his face.

 
‘. . . my King?’ Hjalti had appeared by the door but was reluctant to go out into the cold. ‘You do remember Gunnthor, Jarl of the Deep Dales.’

  Silence.

  ‘He’ll be here by evening.’

  Olav sighed. ‘Of course he will. They’re all coming, every last one of them.’ He turned and walked reluctantly back into the longhouse, the wind roaring at his back.

  *

  ‘We need men. And corn. Our babes cry in the night,’ Gunnthor Jarl said, elbows on the table. Thick grey hair flowed over sloping shoulders, blue eyes sparkled in a face that was weathered but open and honest. Olav had to fight back a sneer. Why should he care? Last year every single one of the mighty Jarls of the North would have happily speared him for his beliefs. Now here was Gunnthor, begging in Hakon’s back room, and the rest of them would soon descend like bears on honey, rats on meat. Flies on a corpse . . .

  He pushed the thoughts away. This is not a time for making new enemies. He needed friends.

  ‘We’ll see what we can do. I cannot spare the men, but we might be able to help you with the corn. We can’t have the children crying,’ he said.

  Gunnthor Jarl smiled. ‘All hail King Olav! I knew I shouldn’t believe the stories.’

  Hjalti, on the king’s right, stiffened and frowned. ‘What stories?’ he snarled.

  The greybeard at least had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘Surely you’ve heard what they talk about? The burnings – the sacrifices. The king’s . . . appetite?’

  ‘What appetite? What are you talking about? I’ll—’ Hjalti sputtered and reached for the sword at his hip, but the king raised a hand to stop him. ‘No. Gunnthor, you were right: you shouldn’t believe the stories.’ He smiled at the old man. ‘I thank you for your wisdom.’

  ‘And I thank you for your generous spirit, in the name of the White Christ.’ The words sounded uncomfortable in the old chieftain’s mouth. ‘If there’s anything I can do . . .’

  ‘There is one thing,’ he said. ‘Talk to your people. Tell them what you’ve seen here. Do it when they hold the bread in their hands, not before, nor after. I know that what I am doing is not going to gain me the love of the people, but I don’t want to win their hearts.’ He leaned forward. ‘I want to win their immortal souls.’ He noted with some satisfaction that Gunnthor did not back down, nor did he wince this time.