The Valhalla Saga

by Snorri Kristjansson

  ‘What the fuck is he up to?’ Mouthpiece muttered. ‘He’s giving in!’

  Ulfar saw it first. ‘No, he isn’t,’ he said.

  Enveloped in the heat of the burning pyres, Jolawer was warming to his role. ‘Yes! We should! Prince Karle – stand up!’ In the front row, Karle rose to his feet and walked into the middle. His bow was slung so casually over his shoulder that it looked a part of him. A boy of no more than thirteen winters followed him. Jolawer turned to the tall prince, dressed all in white. ‘Karle – can you do that? Hit a target that small, only the size of a man’s head, from thirty yards? With an axe? THREE TIMES?’ Half of Forkbeard’s men cheered, but the other half had gone quiet.

  ‘No, my King. I cannot,’ Karle said, just as loudly.

  ‘Well, then – you are no use to me! You are banished to the shadows!’ Confusion set in on Forkbeard’s side, and there was a smattering of boos as Jolawer Scot thrust the stick into the boy’s arms. Karle turned and walked towards the far end, close to the other pyre. When they passed, the boy stuck the stick into the fire and it flared into light.

  ‘A torch?’ Mouthpiece said.

  ‘Yes,’ Ulfar said.

  Moments later, boy and prince had disappeared into the shadows and all that could be seen was a hazy outline in a ball of firelight.

  Fifty yards beyond the first pyre the torch stopped, and the audience could just make out the boy lifting it up high to illuminate Karle.

  The movement when he unslung his bow was smooth and silent. The audience could just about make out the twang as he released the bowstring.

  They all saw the arrow, flying through the flames.

  When it sank into the forehead of the target, Jolawer Scot’s men cheered loudly and looked out into the darkness – but the torch was already moving. Another ten, another twenty yards out. They could just about make out Karle’s face as he loosened the second arrow, slicing the night air in half.

  The cheers turned to roars as it found its target, precisely next to the first one – but then they turned to shouts of dismay as the torch kept moving, further still. ‘What’s he doing?’ Audun said. ‘That’s an impossible shot.’

  Ulfar just shook his head. ‘He’s enjoying himself. That’s what he’s doing.’

  The torch stopped, and from the darkness came a roar. ‘SVEAR!’ Prince Karle shouted. Jolawer Scot’s men roared and shook their fists in response, only to be met with shouts of incredulity from Forkbeard’s men.

  ‘Prince Karle! I will allow you to return to my realm!’ Jolawer Scot shouted over the noise. Five arrows were buried in the forehead of the target, on an area no bigger than two thumbs.

  Forkbeard’s axeman walked out into the performance area and waited. When Karle emerged from the shadows, the bearded man bowed his head. Forkbeard stepped out next to them and held up his hands to quieten the crowd. ‘We must concede, Danes, that the Svear have beaten us fairly. They are very good with a target . . . that doesn’t move! It’s time for the Svear to show us their wrestling champion!’

  At this, Forkbeard’s men roared again.

  In the front row, Jolawer Scot turned to Alfgeir Bjorne, who looked to Sigurd and Sven. After a short conference Jolawer Scot took to the floor.

  ‘They’re not going to . . .’ Ulfar’s voice trailed away.

  ‘What?’ Audun said.

  ‘He was a champion back home for a decade, but then he killed a man so he swore never to—’

  Jolawer Scot’s voice rose in volume. ‘We will give you Alfgeir Bjorne!’

  ‘Oh shit,’ Ulfar said.

  Alfgeir stepped into the centre, between the fires. Already there was something different about him. The years were dropping off the old man and revealing something quite terrifying. In the front row, Sven and Sigurd were grinning like boys sharing a joke. Alfgeir turned to Jolawer Scot’s men. ‘It’s hot down here!’ he roared. He peeled off his furs and his shirt and there was an audible, indrawn breath in the audience. The man in the light was built like a prize bull, with a layer of fat covering bunched-up muscle and long, strong arms.

  ‘This is our champion, King Forkbeard,’ Jolawer Scot said. ‘Alfgeir Bjorne, reigning wrestling champion of Uppsala, Gotland and nearby areas. Who have you got?’

  Forkbeard looked over the crowd, but no one moved.

  ‘Will the Jutes rise to the challenge?’ he shouted.

  ‘Against that?’ someone shouted from the crowd, to ripples of laughter.

  The king kept calm. ‘Will the Fynsmen step up?’

  A grey-haired chieftain rose, near the back. ‘I have no one who can compete with Alfgeir Bjorne, my king. His name alone weighs more than half my men.’

  ‘Well,’ Forkbeard said. ‘If that is how it is, then I suspect we’ll just have to yield—’ Under a rising chorus of boos, the gangly messenger strode up to him in the centre and whispered something in his ear. The king raised his arm and motioned for quiet.

  ‘We have a challenger!’ he said.

  A rousing cheer went up on the side of the Danes. Over on the side of the Svear, Audun leaned over to Ulfar. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Ulfar said. They both looked at Thormund, whose brow was knotted in concentration. ‘I heard some stories,’ he muttered, ‘but I don’t think . . .’ His voice trailed off as Forkbeard left the circle.

  ‘Where is the brave soul?’ Sven shouted.

  The tall, gangly messenger turned towards the Svear and bowed. The noise rolled over him in waves as grown, dangerous men almost cried laughing.

  To the side, Alfgeir Bjorne clapped his hands loudly. ‘Are you going to face me, boy?’ he roared.

  The messenger answered by shaking out of his shirt. His skin was so pale it almost shone.

  ‘Look at ’im! All skin and bones and no feathers! He’s a chicken!’ A chorus of clucking followed the voice from Jolawer’s camp.

  Then the messenger started to move.

  ‘Oh shit,’ Ulfar muttered.

  ‘What?’ Mouthpiece hissed.

  ‘This is not good. This is not good at all,’ Ulfar said, his eyes trained on the two men.

  Alfgeir Bjorne crouched down into a perfect wrestler’s stance, looking for all the world like he’d be the one better off in a collision with an ox. ‘Come on, then!’ he roared.

  Forkbeard’s messenger stepped closer, tentatively.

  ‘Look,’ Ulfar said, pointing to Forkbeard’s men. In the massed ranks of the Danes, eyes glittered with anticipation.

  ‘They’re not afraid,’ Audun said. ‘None of them.’

  At that moment, without warning, Alfgeir launched himself at the skinny messenger, huge arms spread wide like a killing beast swooping down. Nothing could escape that, surely? The fight, if you could call it that, would be over and he’d crush the messenger—

  —who was no longer there. Somehow the man had danced out of Alfgeir’s grasp and was now behind him.

  The big Swede growled, turned around with surprising speed and launched himself at his opponent, and this time, now they knew what to look for, they could actually see the tall man moving, spinning out of the way, grabbing Alfgeir’s outstretched hand and twisting and suddenly Alfgeir was crashing to the floor, brought down by his own force.

  The air went out of all of King Jolawer’s men at the same time.

  The messenger took three steps back and nodded at his prone opponent. ‘Yield?’ he said, loud and clear.

  ‘Like the seven tits of Hel I will,’ Alfgeir growled, clambering to his feet.

  In the front row, Sven turned to Sigurd with real concern in his eyes. Ulfar could make out the words break his neck and a bit tricky.

  This time Alfgeir didn’t rush but circled the messenger. ‘You’re fast, boy,’ he rumbled, ‘and clever. I like that: it’s fun. It’s different. But I’ve killed faster
and smarter men.’

  The messenger just smiled, and reached in. Alfgeir slapped away his hand, but, lightning-fast, the messenger’s other hand had latched on to his forearm and suddenly the gangly man had Alfgeir’s arm over his shoulder and was pushing up as the old wrestler lost his balance, then moving under the falling man and pushing, pushing, until Alfgeir’s own weight carried him over his crouching opponent and up in the air.

  When he landed this time he didn’t get up.

  ‘I’m having no part of that man, even with any kind of weapon,’ Ulfar stated, and around him, Audun, Thormund and Mouthpiece nodded.

  Forkbeard stepped into the ring and checked Alfgeir, but the old wrestler managed to raise his hand, then clambered to his feet, wincing. When he’d risen he turned to the Danes. ‘I have never in my whole life been beaten like that, especially by a twig of a boy. Hail the champion!’ He made his way over to the skinny man and clasped his hand in a warrior’s grip.

  The Danes screamed in approval, chanting, ‘Thorkell! Thorkell!’

  ‘Now that means the games are even,’ Forkbeard announced. ‘Your challenge,’ he said, bowing down to Jolawer Scot.

  The young king rose and met Forkbeard between the burning pyres. ‘The Swedes have bested you at targets.’ A cheer from his men. ‘But you’ve defeated us at wrestling.’ A louder cheer from the Danes. ‘These are all heroic efforts, and I believe they deserve telling – in verse!’

  All around Audun and Ulfar, men started clanging anything they could get their hands on together, slowly at first, then faster and faster.

  This clearly pleased Forkbeard. He waited until the noise had reached a peak, then held up his hand and immediately every man in the clearing stopped. ‘If the game is verse, there can be only one fair pairing. In the soft courts of the South and the West, the fat kings sit on cushions,’ he said, his voice rising, ‘and have painted lily-boys sing them songs. In the North I will hear of no king who is not a skald! And so I challenge you, Jolawer Scot, boy-king of the Swedes!’

  If the young king was concerned by the unexpected challenge, or by the roar of the crowd, he showed no sign. He stepped into the centre of the fires and looked at Forkbeard.

  Feared and fearsome

  Forkbeard, Dane-king

  Hides behind the

  hem of Sigrid!

  Catcalls and laughter washed over them from King Jolawer’s men.

  Forkbeard grinned and nodded appreciatively before speaking.

  Time will tell

  the un-tried king

  What joys be wrought

  by woman’s hem.

  Insults rained from the Danes, but Forkbeard silenced them with a raised arm.

  Lack-beard king

  Lost, no wedding

  Heirless half-man’s

  Hand’s for bedding!

  ‘Ouch,’ Audun muttered to Ulfar as the crowd went wild, adding hand-gestures and insults.

  In the circle, Jolawer laughed along with the others and waited. As the noise started to die down, he extended his arms to encourage silence. When the whoops and hollers had finally gone, Jolawer cleared his throat. Then, with impeccable timing, he bowed formally to Forkbeard and got a ripple of laughs for his trouble.

  Flatland ruler

  Fiercely yapping

  Li—

  ‘Hear my words, Kings of the South!’

  The voice rang out in the darkness, thick and gravelly, cutting Jolawer off. In the light of the fire, thousands of men sprang to their feet and a whole host of edged weapons were ready within moments.

  ‘Weapons DOWN!’ Forkbeard roared.

  ‘NOW!’ Jolawer Scot added.

  ‘Reveal yourself,’ Forkbeard said to the darkness. There was steel in his voice.

  A moment passed, and then another. The shadows shifted gently as a man rode into the half-light at the far edge of the fire. Behind him, a row of men rode – all battle-hardened, all equipped for war. Ten of them, armed like men of note.

  The rider in front, a big man with broad shoulders and a twice-broken nose, leapt off his horse and kept his hands well clear of the sword in his belt. He walked into the centre, between the fires, towards the two kings.

  An arrow whistled past his shin and thwacked into the ground behind him.

  ‘That’s close enough, stranger,’ Forkbeard said. Behind him, Karle nocked another arrow. ‘Who are you, and what are your words?’

  The stranger looked around at the assembled men and nodded appreciatively. ‘My name is Erik, son of Jarl Hakon the Great, ruler of Trondheim. I bring news from the North, and it is not good.’

  Chapter 5

  TRONDHEIM, NORTH NORWAY

  DECEMBER, AD 996

  ‘I thought it would never end, this one,’ Hjalti muttered as he pulled his jacket closer. Around him, men were grudgingly shovelling paths between houses and shaking off hangovers in the pale morning sun. The air was cold enough to leave a burning feeling in his lungs.

  ‘The locals say it’s been a while since it was this bad,’ Einar replied, ‘and they’re used to it,’ he added. They were standing outside the door to Hakon Jarl’s hall, which they’d just about managed to open. The snow had been wet and hard-packed, up to a grown man’s chest. Hjalti had tried curses and threats to get the men off their arses, but in the end it was King Olav who won through to them. He’d simply sat in the high seat and waited until they’d all fallen silent, then asked them to do it – for him and the Saviour. The oddest selection had stood up first – burly warriors, narrow-faced cut-throats, jesters, thieves and hard men – and soon enough they were all on their feet, ready to do their king’s bidding.

  ‘We’ll be getting visitors soon,’ Hjalti said.

  ‘So they say,’ Einar said.

  ‘Might be trouble,’ Hjalti said.

  Einar shrugged.

  They stood in silence for a spell, watching the men shovel and push the snow away, creating corridors for walking between houses. What children there were left in Trondheim were already out, hollering at each other, throwing snowballs and pushing each other off the emerging snow-hills.

  ‘Einar! Hey Einar!’ one of them yelled, a girl of maybe ten years, watching them from about fifty yards away. ‘Show us!’

  ‘Show you what?’ Einar yelled back.

  In response the girl started making a large snowball.

  Moving calmly and without taking his eyes off the little girl Einar reached for a handful of snow, forming it slowly in his hands, packing it firmly.

  Hjalti watched as kids all around stopped what they were doing to watch. The girl with the snowball checked Einar to confirm. The youth gave the smallest of nods.

  The girl launched the snowball high up in the air.

  Einar Tambarskelf’s arm whipped round. The small missile in his hands sliced the air with an audible whoosh. The big lump of snow burst in midair to wild cheers from the kids. Some of the men even shared amused glances.

  ‘If there’s trouble, there’s trouble,’ Einar said.

  A while later, Hjalti’s mouth closed.

  *

  Grey skies and heavy clouds heralded Storrek Jarl’s arrival, and Olav’s scouts had alerted him to the time. By the time the jarl had made it to the longhouse, fires had been stoked and food was ready. Hjalti waited by the entrance to the hall.

  ‘Storrek Jarl!’ he exclaimed. ‘Welcome to—’

  ‘Shut up, squeak,’ the chieftain snapped. ‘I’m cold and wet, and you’re not the king I came to see.’

  Hjalti’s words caught in his throat. ‘I – uh – the king—’

  ‘Af-af-af-af-af,’ the chieftain mimicked. ‘Shut the fuck up. Are you going to invite me in or will I have to carve my way through?’

  Defeated, Hjalti stepped aside just in time before Storrek barged through. ‘Storrek Ja
rl,’ he shouted into the hall. ‘Arriving before King—’

  ‘Shut up!’ Storrek yelled over his shoulder. ‘I would love to punch you right in the noise-hole. Hel’s teeth, but you are annoying.’ Behind him, his four long-suffering attendants fanned out and walked in procession towards the dais at the end of the hall.

  ‘King Olav?’ Storrek shouted. The king rose from the high seat, but did not reply. The fat chieftain looked him up and down, then waddled to the end of the long table at the foot of the dais and sat, wheezing with effort. King Olav walked down the steps and took a seat opposite him.

  ‘Here it is,’ Storrek Jarl said. ‘I don’t like you.’ He searched for a response in King Olav’s face, but got none. ‘I don’t like your god, and I don’t like the way you rule.’ Still the king did not respond, and behind Storrek, his followers shuffled nervously. ‘But,’ the fat chieftain said, louder, then, ‘but—’ he said again, voice more controlled this time, ‘I can also count.’

  King Olav looked him straight in the eyes and smiled.

  ‘So what do you want?’ Storrek Jarl said.

  King Olav leaned forward. ‘I would like to commend you on your honesty,’ he said.

  Storrek pulled back, confused.

  ‘Yes, I would,’ King Olav said. ‘You are precisely the kind of man I could do with more of. And I am sure’ – the king leaned forward further, lowering his voice – ‘I am sure you will absolutely observe the new rule and respect the word of the Lord when you go back to your home up in the Dales. Even though I have no way of keeping an eye on you,’ he added, lips pursed in a conspiratorial smile.

  Storrek looked suspiciously at the king. ‘You . . . could. Yes,’ he said. ‘And what do you want from me?’

  ‘From you?’ the king said, eyes wide open. ‘What could I want from you, Storrek Jarl? You’re here. Just by honouring me with your presence, you have given me assistance that is almost invaluable. Your name is your gift. The people trust you, Storrek. They trust you because you say what needs to be said. And if you trust me, the people will trust me. The Lord will take those he can reach, and he will deal with the others according to their conduct,’ King Olav said. Then, ‘And when I say invaluable, I tell a lie. I mean, of course, worth at least double the sacks of grain that Hakon Jarl would give you in times of trouble. I gather it wasn’t much to begin with,’ the king added as an afterthought.