The Valhalla Saga

by Snorri Kristjansson

  His three kinsmen shared a glance.

  ‘But we are, though?’ Heimir said.

  Udal did not reply.

  Around and behind him his men started preparing their weapons.

  THE FAR NORTH

  DECEMBER, AD 996

  The voice whispered to Valgard, insinuated its way into his mind like smoke from a secret fire. The cold in his feet faded from memory and he was soaring, hunting.

  Call him

  Call him to you, reach out to him with your mind

  Like that. Yes

  He will do your bidding

  He will obey as long as you can hold your thoughts

  Yellow eyes. Hot breath. Fangs.

  Wolf.

  TRONDHEIM, NORTH NORWAY

  DECEMBER, AD 996

  ‘There’s no one here,’ Heimir muttered. ‘They must all be out hunting or something.’

  Udal Jarl looked around for the sixth time since they’d stepped out of their hut. The shovelled paths were empty and Trondheim felt lifeless. Above, the sun was a dull orb of light behind a thick layer of milky-white cloud.

  ‘Don’t fucking chatter,’ he hissed. ‘We’ve got work to do. Remember, it was like this when we got here too, and the bastard was just sitting in his longhouse, waiting for us.’ They picked a path that took them around the backs of a long row of houses and suddenly the great hall loomed over them. ‘There,’ Udal said. ‘Back door.’ A modest door was set into the wall, almost tucked in beside a beam half again as thick as a man. Udal looked at his men. ‘Here we go.’

  The door swung open without a sound and the five men stepped into the great hall.

  ‘Look!’ Heimir whispered. On the dais, King Olav’s chair was overturned, and someone had tipped over three long tables and more chairs at the far wall. A scream broke the silence, and sounds of clashing blades carried from the back room.

  ‘Quick!’ Udal said, running towards the noise, his men following at a sprint, blades drawn. ‘He’s mine, the fucker!’ He leapt up onto the platform, strode to the back room door, gave it a good solid kick and stepped in.

  He didn’t see the spears hurtling towards his men from the shadows.

  He didn’t see the warriors rising from behind the overturned tables in the great hall and advancing from the sides.

  He did see Storrek Jarl standing calmly at the back of King Olav’s back room, holding two swords. The fat man looked him square in the eye, smacked the blades together twice and shrieked, ‘Help me!’ in an exaggerated voice.

  ‘Father . . .’ Heimir staggered into the room as screams echoed throughout the hall, ‘they’re behind us – they were waiting – it’s . . .’ Heimir’s voice grew faint, and he coughed up blood as he fell to the floor.

  Udal stared at his dying son, then at Storrek. ‘You—’

  The hand-axe took Udal in the back of the head, split his skull and ended his life. Gunnthor stepped out from the shadow behind the door. ‘It was his time,’ he said, kneeling down and pulling hard to dislodge the axe.

  ‘It was indeed,’ Storrek said. Outside the hall, the sound of slaughter was dying down. ‘And the best thing is that the cocky little bastard king will think he paid for this – for my loyalty – with a couple of sacks of grain.’

  ‘Which suits us just fine,’ Gunnthor said. ‘And as we agreed, we split Udal’s lands down the middle. Now that the king thinks we’re obedient we’ll get all the time we need to handle him by ourselves.’

  ‘It’s good to be working with an old hand,’ Storrek said, grinning. ‘You’re making this look easy.’

  They left King Olav’s back room together.

  OUTSIDE TRONDHEIM, NORTH NORWAY

  DECEMBER, AD 996

  The crisp snow crunched under the hooves of eight horses. King Olav rode up front with Hjalti to his right and Einar to his left. Five men, hand-picked by the king, rode behind them.

  ‘Is that the last one?’ the king asked Hjalti.

  ‘Last one, yes,’ Hjalti replied. ‘We’ve delivered all the sacks we had. A good day’s work.’

  ‘Good,’ Einar said. ‘It’ll be good to get to some food and some warmth.’ Hjalti scowled at him, but Einar shrugged. ‘What? I can stay out here all day and all night if the king commands, but now my feet are wet and my arse is sore and there is no harm in wishing to be indoors for a spell.’

  Hjalti snorted and they rode on without speaking, the rhythmic crunch of frozen snow rocking them into a cold half-sleep until suddenly King Olav’s mare reared its head and whinnied in alarm, her nostrils flaring.

  ‘Easy, girl. Easy,’ the king whispered, but to no avail; the mare started stamping and dancing to the side, all the while twisting to get out of the snow, out of the reins, out of her skin. Within moments the other horses had caught whatever it was that King Olav’s horse had sensed.

  ‘WOLF!’ Einar’s voice rang out loud and clear over the protesting horses and King Olav looked up from struggling with the reins and sure enough, there it was, a hundred yards up ahead: grey, with bluish-white flecks in its fur. Narrowing, yellow eyes seemed to home in on the king.

  Time slowed down for King Olav as the horse, frantic with fear, bucked under him. He adjusted his weight, but the horse kept tossing and kicking, all the while pulling at the reins. When drops of blood from the animal’s mouth landed in the snow he did the only thing he could do: he stood in the saddle, bunched up the reins and threw them to Hjalti, then swung his leg over and jumped off, landing in the knee-deep snow in front of the men and the panicking horses.

  The wolf saw him and kicked off, pushing itself through the white powder. It is everything, the king thought: the wolf is the world, bearing down on me with teeth and eyes and darkness in its jaws.

  Though he was struggling to control the rampaging horses, Hjalti still couldn’t stop staring at the king, who just . . . stood there, in the path of the onrushing wolf.

  ‘Einar!’ He turned to the youth, who was struggling to keep himself in the saddle while getting his bow ready.

  Ten yards.

  ‘I can’t!’ Einar shouted back.

  The horses reared wildly as the scent of the wolf hit them full-blast.

  Five yards.

  The wolf leaped and the king swung his sword, but the weight of the animal bowled him over, sending his sword spinning to the ground. The wolf, furious, went straight for the king’s throat, and only King Olav’s mailed glove saved him as slavering jaws clamped down on the armoured hand. The beast growled as it pulled and worried at the metal. The king screamed as he fumbled for his sword. The wild-eyed animal let go of the metal glove and lunged for the king’s face—

  —and suddenly the head was pulled to the side, hard, like someone had yanked on a dog’s leash, and blood was gushing over Olav’s eyes from the hole that the arrow had punched in its throat. The noise of scrambling men reached him.

  ‘The king!’

  ‘Speak, your Majesty! Speak!’

  A push, and he was free of the animal. ‘I’m fine,’ he growled. ‘I’m fine.’

  Einar Tambarskelf stood beside the skittish horses, breathing heavily and holding his bow, another arrow already nocked. ‘That’s the biggest bastard wolf I’ve ever seen,’ he panted.

  Olav was reaching for his sword when one of the riders shouted, ‘Beware!’ and he whirled around and watched in astonishment as the wolf clambered to its feet, growling.

  This time, the king did not miss.

  Hot, dark blood sprayed the snow and the wolf’s head fell away from its body.

  ‘Look!’ Hjalti said, pointing to the exposed neck wound.

  The men came closer – cautiously, still – to see what he was pointing at.

  A strange bluish tinge ran through the flesh of the wolf.

  ‘It’s dead. Move on,’ King Olav snapped.
>
  The men mounted up only too quickly and were soon back on track. Trondheim’s houses were about the size of a thumb when they saw the boy.

  ‘The king! The king returns!’ he shouted, turning and sprinting towards the town.

  ‘Home at last,’ Hjalti said. ‘It’ll be good to get back to the fire and the pots, eh?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Einar said. ‘Shouldn’t you be praising the snow? Out riding in nature? Taking the word of the White Christ to the people?’

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ Hjalti said.

  ‘Both of you,’ Olav snapped, ‘hush up. Something’s wrong.’

  A group of men was assembling rapidly in the open space before Hakon Jarl’s great hall. Gunnthor Jarl was there, looking concerned, and flanked by his two grey-haired men, as was Storrek Jarl. Their numbers swelled as the king’s party drew closer – even Hakon Jarl ventured outside.

  As he got close enough, Olav pulled on the reins. ‘What’s going on?’ he said.

  ‘We’ve had great troubles in your absence, your Majesty,’ Gunnthor said.

  ‘Where’s Udal?’

  Gunnthor wrung his hands. ‘Ah – see, the—’

  ‘The bastard was going to kill you,’ Storrek Jarl snapped. ‘Him and his rat-faced shit-for-brains son were going to wait in your back room and cut your throat.’

  ‘Is this true?’ King Olav scanned the faces before him. They were familiar, but not known. Suddenly he missed Finn’s quiet, stolid presence. He’d hoped Udal would misjudge, but not like this. He’d wanted to be there himself, to see it and make a show of it.

  ‘Some of your men overheard them and came to me,’ Gunnthor said. A handful of Hjalti’s warriors nodded. ‘We went to Storrek, who was more than ready to help.’

  ‘Never liked the fucker,’ Storrek growled. ‘No honour in an ambush.’ Beside him, Gunnthor looked grave.

  King Olav dismounted swiftly and stormed into the great hall without a word. Einar looked at Hjalti, who shook his head. No one else volunteered to follow the king.

  Chapter 6

  NORTH OF TRONDHEIM, NORTH NORWAY

  DECEMBER, AD 996

  Valgard coughed and stumbled, sending pain shooting up his spine as he pushed the animal out of his mind. The hunger had been explosive, consuming and terrifying, borne on a tidal wave of smells and sounds, and the raw power of it had exhilarated and terrified in equal measure. ‘Fucking hell,’ Valgard muttered through the sour spit, ‘that was . . .’ He looked at the trolls, but none of them were registering any sympathy. ‘Yes, well,’ he continued, coughing again to clear his throat. Somewhere in the back of his mind he could feel the beast powering through the snow, seeking out its target, keeping the scent of King Olav in its nostrils. It felt good to think of the so-called king as the hunted rather than the hunter. He scooped up a handful of snow, put it in his mouth to rid himself of the taste of bile and walked on. He could feel the cold flowing into him, replenishing what the wolf had taken. It was happening quickly, too. His body felt better every day. There were many things to be happy about these days.

  He didn’t allow himself to think about the voice he’d heard, or the cave where he’d heard it last.

  *

  Twenty miles north of Trondheim, Valgard found himself once again considering his options as he trudged in front of his silent companions. Behind them lay the Northern Wastes, but they held nothing but reindeer and Finn-witches.

  To the east was the land of the Svear – a possibility, sure, but the time felt wrong, somehow.

  No, there was only one way to go: Trondheim.

  The experiment with the wolf had been partly successful – mostly because it was such a strong animal; it had broken free of his command. But he’d get stronger. He’d get better.

  Valgard smiled.

  He’d get a lot better.

  *

  Fifteen miles north of Trondheim, Valgard tasted the air. He could feel his tongue flicking at the cold, darting in between points of frost and bringing back sensations – smell, touch, presence. He could sense the bodies of the creatures behind him, standing still, looking ahead. They did not question his leadership; they followed, stolid and slow, like a glacier wall. He could feel his own power rising. Like the glacier, he’d crush everything in his path. He would be the walking frost. He would draw the veil of cold over the land so it could rise again.

  The only warm thing in the world was the bag resting against his chest, underneath his layered clothes and furs. The runes within felt as heavy as the world. He couldn’t remember much of Loki and the cave, but he remembered what happened afterwards well enough: Botolf, dying on the steps; the weight of Egill Jotun’s throne and the crash as it toppled over; the ornate box that just sat there, innocent and quiet. And when he’d opened it, time had slowed to a trickle around him, flowing around his legs like a lazy river. The squares of calfskin had spoken to him – the ancient runes had leapt off the pages and into his head, whispering the unfamiliar sounds as he opened his mouth. Unbidden, the image of Botolf’s flesh came into his mind as he mispronounced the first words. The way it had warped and spun and turned on itself had almost made him throw up, but something Loki had said made him stick with it.

  They never respected you because they never feared you.

  A slow smile broke out on Valgard’s face as his nose and his tongue found what he was looking for.

  Well. We’ll see what they think now.

  His mouth moved, and old words snuck back into the world on a whisper.

  TRONDHEIM HARBOUR, NORTH NORWAY

  DECEMBER, AD 996

  ‘Here?’ the raider grunted at Hjalti.

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Just throw it in already,’ Hjalti snapped. ‘It’s freezing out here, if you hadn’t noticed.’ Stars twinkled overhead.

  ‘Fuck off, goat-boy – you’re not carrying anything,’ the raider said. ‘Heave!’

  Beside him, eleven men moved in concert and six bundled corpses flew off the pier, hit the water with a deep splash and sank almost immediately. The men on the docks stood quietly and watched as Udal’s men faded out of view.

  ‘Njordur keep them,’ someone muttered.

  Hjalti turned away from the men. ‘Shut it,’ he snarled. ‘Whoever said that – shut it. I didn’t see who spoke, but if he hears you, you’re next.’

  ‘Calm d—’

  ‘Finish that sentence’ – Hjalti turned around, looked at the raiders and put a hand on his sword-hilt – ‘and I will personally end your life, right here.’

  The raiders exchanged looks and then backed away, silently. Hjalti watched them leave. When the last man had disappeared he exhaled and turned to look at the water.

  The waves glistened, raven-black, reflecting the stars overhead. There were no signs of bodies anywhere.

  ‘Njordur takes what Njordur wants,’ Hjalti muttered.

  He walked off the docks and turned north. When he saw the great hall he turned east, towards the outskirts of Trondheim. He had just a handful of moments to think, to imagine questions and plan answers, and then he was there.

  The house looked nothing out of the ordinary – just a regular northern warrior’s home – but it still filled him with unease.

  ‘Honour demands,’ he muttered. Four steps took him to the door. His knock felt feeble.

  Moments later, light spilled out and one of Gunnthor’s grey-haired men stood in the entrance. He looked Hjalti up and down, then ushered him in.

  Hjalti felt the walls closing in on him almost immediately. The house was lit by two tallow candles set in metal that bounced the light around, but it stayed away from the corners. He could just make out the shape of Storrek sitting by the wall, looking serious. Next to him were two of his men, who in the half-light looked nothing like bullied and whipped followers. Everyone was quiet; everyone was looking at him.

&nbs
p; His eyes met Gunnthor’s.

  ‘Cousin! Welcome to our little gathering.’

  Feeling the drops of sweat slide down his back under the furs, Hjalti inched into the house and closed the door behind him.

  Gunnthor had folded his arms and was leaning back in his seat, smiling. ‘Repeat what you told me. He can be caught alone when . . .’

  ‘. . . he prays,’ Hjalti said. ‘Every night at midnight.’

  ‘We’ll nail him then,’ Storrek growled from the corner. ‘Do you think six of us will be enough?’

  ‘Seven, with Hjalti,’ Gunnthor said, still smiling.

  Hjalti became uncomfortably aware of the grey-haired men behind him, outside his field of vision. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘seven, with me.’

  ‘Very good. Where is the moon?’ Gunnthor asked.

  ‘High above,’ Hjalti said, ‘but we should be able to catch him if we leave very soon.’

  ‘Then that’s what we do. Come on!’ Gunnthor rose with a speed that belied his age. ‘We settle this now.’

  ‘Oh for fuck’s sake,’ Storrek grumbled as he levered himself up out of the chair. ‘Give us some notice, will you, Grandpa?’

  Gunnthor’s grey-haired men ushered him out and the cold hit Hjalti square in the face. ‘Hairy arse of Thor, but it’s cold tonight,’ Storrek growled behind him.

  ‘We’ll get a fantastic summer after this,’ Gunnthor said. ‘You know what they say: it’s always worse before it gets better.’

  ‘Unless you die,’ Storrek added.

  ‘Unless you die,’ Gunnthor agreed. They walked along, seven of them, soon settling into an easy stride that looked at least partially guilt-free. Up above, stars twinkled.

  A lonely raven croaked at them from atop the beams of the longhouse, soon answered by another. They could hear the clamour from within.

  ‘Sounds like it’s back to usual in there,’ Storrek said. ‘They didn’t spend much time grieving for the fallen.’

  ‘They know Udal didn’t give a lamb’s turd about them, so they offer him the respect he deserves,’ Gunnthor said. ‘Besides, it works to our advantage. No one will hear him scream. Where’s his sad little god’s hut?’