‘Stew and roots,’ Galti said. ‘The old Stenvik bastards always seem to have extra. The men love them for it.’
Karle looked to the skies, took a deep breath and eased his clenched fist open. ‘I suppose,’ he said, ‘that that is a good thing.’
‘Only if you allow them to do it,’ Galti said, a glint in his eye.
‘What?’ Karle said.
Galti smiled. ‘You could suggest to Jolawer that all food should be shared equally, by his decree. That way the men of Stenvik cannot argue and cannot use their surplus to buy the men’s affections, everyone loves Jolawer and you look good.’
Karle looked at Galti. ‘That’s . . . a very good idea,’ he said. ‘What’s got into you?’
‘I’ve been watching you lead,’ Galti said. ‘It’s . . . inspiring.’
Karle couldn’t help but grin. ‘I’m impressed. Now leave. I’ll have to find some humility to approach his baby-faced Majesty.’
‘As you wish,’ Galti said, walking away. Karle watched him pick his way towards the camp. When his assistant was halfway there he stopped, looked back and scratched his head. Karle waved him on, and the angular young man turned again, heading in the direction of Jolawer’s tent.
‘Weakling,’ Karle spat. ‘One good idea and he thinks he can speak to me like an equal.’ He’d have to watch the boy, see if his new-found confidence and flair for mischief was there to stay. Karle walked on, further away from the camp, dropping the sneer and trying on a bashful face. ‘Your Majesty, it occurred to me . . . no. What do you think about . . .’ He walked further into the forest, looking for game and muttering deference, trying to get used to the taste.
A while after he’d spoken to Galti he saw a big black fox in the forest, but his arrow missed its mark and the fox was gone.
*
‘Oh, you absolute cock,’ Sven said, pulling his herb-pouch shut, then grabbing a nearby branch and rising to his feet with some difficulty.
Behind him, Ulfar shuffled nervously. ‘I didn’t know what to do,’ he said. ‘She’s very . . .’
‘Terrifying?’ Sven offered. They could just hear the sound of the camp in the distance. Further into the woods the hunters were doing their work and the sounds of animals dying regularly rang through the trees.
‘Yes,’ Ulfar muttered. ‘She’s . . .’
‘One of the most dangerous people you’ll ever meet and no mistake,’ Sven said. ‘Our boy Jolawer has done well diverting Forkbeard, who has never and will never be stopped. And for all of his power, old Hair-face does what she tells him to.’
‘He didn’t when we met him,’ Ulfar said.
‘Oh, but that’s not the only place a husband and wife negotiate,’ Sven said, a twinkle in his eye. ‘She’ll run him from pillar to post if she feels like it. If he looks like he is in command, it is because she allows him to be.’
Ulfar frowned. ‘Why does he?’
‘Because she’s captured his heart,’ Sven said, ‘with silk and steel. Now tell me what happened.’
‘She came up to me,’ Ulfar said. ‘She surprised me – I almost pulled a blade on her.’
‘Hah!’ Sven said. ‘You’d be fantastically dead if you had – little Canute would have gutted you, if no one else.’
‘Canute?’ Ulfar said.
‘Her son. They say he’s theirs, but I think she birthed him on the world by herself out of spite. They left him at home, watched over by a great wyrm. He’s only small now, but he’ll be a proper menace when he grows up, you mark my words.’
‘Well, she made me feel like I was a pig at a market. She looked me up and down. I had to check if my clothes were still on.’
‘Maybe she was just looking for a little fun,’ Sven said. He bent down again and started clawing with bony fingers at the dirt by the roots of the pine. ‘So were they?’ he added.
‘What?’
‘Your clothes,’ Sven said.
‘Yes,’ Ulfar said tersely. ‘We were outside. It was cold, okay? I don’t run around like I used to. But she looked at me like she was wondering whether I’d be . . . useful. I get the feeling that I might be her midnight snack in a couple of days’ time.’
‘Hah,’ Sven snorted, crouched on the ground. ‘That’s my Sigrid, all right.’
‘How do you know her?’ Ulfar said.
‘Oh, back in the day,’ Sven said, waving a hand at nothing in particular. ‘We all knew each other. The young royals wanted to go and claim glory, and for that it made sense to hire the hardest crew around. Which was us,’ he added with a hint of pride in his voice.
‘You, Sigurd, Skargrim . . .’
‘Old Thormund as well, whiny little bitch that he was,’ Sven said. ‘And there were others, too. Most of them are dead now. Being hard doesn’t make you immortal, sadly.’
Ulfar swallowed. ‘There’s . . . there’s something I need to tell you,’ he said.
Sven moved towards the next tree and crouched down, again sweeping away snow and rooting around in the damp earth. ‘Apart from you almost stumbling into Sigrid’s arms? This morning round is turning out to be quite eventful,’ he said over his shoulder.
Ulfar followed at a distance. ‘We – me and Audun – think King Olav may not be the most dangerous thing in the North.’
Sven’s hands slowed down, then stopped. For a moment the old man didn’t move. ‘What do you mean?’ he said quietly.
Ulfar was sweating, despite the cold. This was it. ‘We think Valgard may be stirring up some stuff.’ Silence. ‘And we fear the gods might be helping him. Well, one god.’
‘Which one?’
‘Loki,’ Ulfar whispered.
‘Oh fuck,’ Sven said. Slowly, his hands started moving again, rooting mechanically through the dirt, pulling up fledgling green shoots.
Ulfar hovered behind him, waiting for more. ‘Is that all you have to say?’ he eventually stammered.
‘What – do you want more swearing?’ Sven said.
‘No – I, um—’
Sven still didn’t look at Ulfar. ‘If you’re wrong, it doesn’t matter. If you’re right and that weak boy I took on and saved from certain death many years back – my son - has turned into something else, then that’ll need to be dealt with. And regardless of whether you’re wrong or right, everything suggests that we’re going to need more herbs for poultices. So if I were you I’d stop talking and get digging.’
Ulfar’s words caught in his mouth.
Sven turned and looked up at him. His voice was cracked around the edges, but surprisingly gentle. ‘Now would be as good a time as any,’ he said.
Within moments, Ulfar was down on his knees and rooting around under Sven’s direction.
Later, when they returned, the camp had been packed up and only the cook-pots remained, surrounded by cold, hungry people awaiting their turn.
‘Something’s different,’ Sven said under his breath.
‘What?’
‘I suspect we’re about to find out.’
They marched to the Stenvik camp, only to be met by a fuming Oskarl. ‘They took our food,’ the big Eastman grumbled.
‘Who did?’ Sven said.
‘Alfgeir. Said the king had decided all food should be shared equally. But we were sharing plenty,’ Oskarl said. ‘Maybe we should share something else.’ He cracked his knuckles absent-mindedly.
Sven’s grin was cold and unpleasant. ‘That’s not old Alfgeir’s decision, and your type of sharing won’t be necessary. We will all get what we deserve in the end.’ Around them, pots clanged as the armies of Jolawer Scot and King Forkbeard fed for the march.
THE FAR NORTH
DECEMBER, AD 996
Night fell. The whipping wind was a freezing fire on his face, drying out his eyes and cracking his lips. Valgard could taste salt and water, blood and iron: the flavo
ur of frost. Of course they didn’t feel it. His army. His men – could he even call them men any more? He glanced at Botolf, striding through the snow like a plough horse. There was something relentless about him, something indomitable: the river in spring and the wind in autumn. He was walking towards Trondheim and when he got there he’d destroy everything.
Valgard smiled. That would do nicely. He turned to Skeggi. ‘What is it like, in there?’
‘In where?’ the big troll rumbled.
‘Inside you, I guess,’ Valgard said. He had briefly considered having one of the big brutes carry him, but in the end he’d decided there was something fundamentally undignified about that. He was no one’s potato sack.
Skeggi wrestled with the question. ‘Me?’ he said. ‘I do not understand.’
‘I suppose something has to give way,’ Valgard mused. ‘What do you remember?’
‘Cold,’ Skeggi said. ‘The cold that lives in the Halls of Hel. A cold embrace, a cold pain, a cold suffering.’
‘Mm,’ Valgard said. His own dull and predictable aches suddenly felt much more manageable. ‘And nothing else?’
‘Your voice,’ the troll muttered. He sounded even less happy about that than the cold.
‘That’s right,’ Valgard said, ‘my voice. And what did I tell you to do?’
‘Go to Trondheim. Kill King Olav,’ the trolls around him chanted in unison, their voices almost too deep for hearing.
‘Well done. Now keep going,’ Valgard said. ‘I worry that you’ll scare away any chance of a decent conversation.’ He scanned the wasteland around them. The snow coated everything in the same bluish-white sheen. Trees in the distance looked like dark scratches through cloth. Far away he could see clouds; he knew they would be over the sea. They would be louring over Trondheim. They would be sitting on top of King Olav, who’d allowed others to insult and sneer at him, who’d been all too happy to listen to every single word of slobbering praise and who would, with his wild-eyed fervour, definitely make an awful king.
Valgard’s eyes twinkled as he looked up. He liked those clouds.
*
It was Ormslev who found the stag. Well, maybe ‘found’ was a bit generous. Valgard winced at the snap as the troll, who could not weigh less than half an ox by now, stepped on the snow-covered antlers and broke them. They hadn’t seen a single animal in days, so this one had to have been old, Valgard reasoned. Maybe its heart had given out as it was running away from the scent of the walking six leaving it here, sprawled and half-frozen.
Valgard looked down at the animal and tried to think back. When had he last eaten? He couldn’t remember. Did he need to eat now?
Not really.
‘Move on,’ he said. The words almost caught in his throat.
As the blue-skinned giants set off, Jori caught a root with his toe and went toppling over and crashing into Skeggi who snarled and pushed him away. Jori flailed back at him, swung off-balance, missed and connected squarely with Ormslev’s face. A meaty forearm swung back and hit Jori in the chest, sending him crashing back towards Botolf.
The words were out of Valgard’s mouth before he could think. ‘NO!’
All five trolls stopped on the spot.
‘Now stand back,’ Valgard growled, buzzing with anger. He walked towards Skeggi and looked up. ‘You. Don’t do that.’ The big troll looked at him with undisguised hatred, but did not move. Valgard turned to Ormslev. He was aware that his back was exposed, but he didn’t care. Fury was his shield. ‘And you. Don’t hit other trolls. Understood?’ The pot-bellied troll looked at him dully and shrugged. ‘Good. Now let’s get moving. I’ll tell you who to hit and when. Try to stay on your feet,’ he said to Jori.
Before long they’d fallen into rhythm, the brief flare-up forgotten. They’re like children, Valgard thought. Massive, scary children. He thought of Harald, and how he would have fitted right in. Only these ones do exactly what I tell them to. There was a pleasant buzz in the core of him, almost like he was drunk on summer wine. So this was what real power tasted like.
The snow didn’t bother him so much any more.
THE SOUTH OF SWEDEN
DECEMBER, AD 996
White and grey, cold and wet.
The army marched north, then north-by-northwest. Forests of snow-covered pine gave way to white fields, sinking ever deeper into winter. They marched as far as they could in the dusk, but when the dark crept over them the cry went out and the army made camp in a big field close to the woods.
The men of Stenvik stood by their own camp and watched as Jolawer Scot’s men assembled theirs quickly and effectively.
‘Look at that!’ Sven said.
‘Told you,’ Sigurd muttered.
‘They’re getting better,’ Oskarl said. He thought for a moment. ‘If we can challenge King Olav to a camp-making contest, we should be fine,’ he continued.
‘Who’s that?’ Ulfar said. A stick of a man was striding across from Forkbeard’s camp, heading towards Jolawer’s tent.
Sigurd and Sven shared a glance. ‘Some business happening, no doubt,’ Sven said. ‘Probably nothing to worry us.’
Forkbeard’s messenger ducked into Jolawer’s tent. A very short while later, Alfgeir Bjorne came out with him. They shook hands and the messenger returned to the other camp.
‘Or maybe I’m wrong,’ Sven muttered. ‘Maybe I’m very wrong indeed.’
Alfgeir turned towards them and walked with a purpose. ‘Good evening, men of Stenvik,’ he said. ‘Sigurd, I need a handful of yours to go help me. They need to be strong and handy with an axe.’
‘Of course,’ Sigurd said. ‘I’ll do what I can. Might I ask what we’re doing?’
‘We’re going to start a fire,’ Alfgeir said as he walked off.
*
The dark shapes of log stacks were surrounded by flickering flames of white-gold set to dancing by gusts of wind. Built a hundred yards apart, the pyres had been raised in a race between the two camps. Jolawer’s men had won, after a fashion, but Forkbeard’s stack was neater and better crafted. The result was that the space between the two camps was now illuminated by two burning wooden towers. Forkbeard’s men sat on one side, Jolawer’s on the other.
Alfgeir Bjorne stepped into the light. ‘Men of the North!’ he shouted. Slowly the murmur died down and he had the eyes and ears of every man and woman around the two fires. ‘We live in dangerous times. This is an age for the brave!’ A cheer rang out. ‘And before we march to the North, to show King Olav who owns these northern lands, your kings – Forkbeard and Jolawer’ – the cheers turned to roars and water-skins full of sour, strong mead were passed around – ‘have decided that we should have a contest!’
Sitting far enough back so that the heat from the fires was comfortable, Ulfar glanced at Audun and Thormund, then pointed at Sven and Sigurd, who were deep in conversation.
Alfgeir Bjorne, standing between the two armies, continued, ‘The King of the Danes and Scourge of the Seas, Sweyn Forkbeard!’
Half of the assembled fighters roared their approval as Forkbeard stepped out into the circle. Dressed in a simple warrior’s garb, he still radiated enough authority to turn thousands of men silent. ‘In the world, we are known!’ he began, with a voice that had clearly carried across a battlefield or two. ‘They fear us for we come in the night with fire and sword. They fear us for we come in the day with powerful sails and death on the edge of an axe.’ Behind him, Alfgeir and the tall messenger were commanding a handful of men, who were erecting two logs, hastily cut to resemble the shape of a man. ‘So the first test shall be – targets!’
The crowd roared, and started chanting names. Unmoved, Forkbeard pointed to a man on his left. He had a thick red beard to go with the broad, powerful shoulders of a lumberjack, and three hand-axes in his belt. The axeman took his place twenty yards from the wooden targets. Then he loo
ked to the crowd, spread his arms and waved to encourage applause. Forkbeard’s men were only too happy to oblige, and the axeman slowly started stepping backwards. Twenty-two – twenty-five – twenty-eight . . .
‘Too far,’ Thormund muttered. ‘Cocky bastard.’
With a roar, the bearded man whipped an axe out of his belt and launched it at the target. The audience fell silent immediately as the axe sailed through the night and hit the target with an audible thunk. The point was buried in the top of the figure, where its head would be.
The crowd erupted.
The axeman took two quick steps back. Metal flashed in the firelight and the flying axe sunk into the wood next to its sister, with only a thumb’s width between them. The crowd roared its approval, but the axeman did not move. Instead he just stood there, soaking in the sound, rolling his shoulders and limbering up. As the crowd grew quiet, he looked at them, surveying them as a king would his lands. Then he reached for the third axe, hefted it and without warning flung it towards the wooden figure.
Sparks flew as the blade squeezed in between the two axes already there.
Even Jolawer’s men could not stay quiet.
‘Did you see that?’ Mouthpiece hissed. ‘Did you fucking see that? One in each eye, and then one in the nose! I’ve never seen anything like it!’
‘Bastard has a good hand on ’im,’ Thormund muttered. ‘I’m glad they’re on our side now.’
‘Shh,’ Ulfar said. ‘Our turn.’
Jolawer Scot had walked into the circle. His shadow danced behind him, stretching into the darkness. In his hand he held a stick with a thickly swaddled end. ‘Give cheer to the Dane’s hand!’ he shouted.
‘Give cheer to the king’s voice,’ Audun muttered. ‘Where does he keep all the noise?’ Beside him, Ulfar shook his head.
‘We could never hope to present anyone of the Svear who could throw an axe like that. In fact, standing here, I’m not sure I’d reach halfway to the target!’ Jolawer said, grinning at the laughs from the audience. ‘No, we Svear should probably hang our heads in shame!’
Cries of outrage from his own men mingled with the delighted whoops of Forkbeard’s soldiers.
The Valhalla Saga Page 64