The Valhalla Saga

by Snorri Kristjansson

  All through the men’s activity Helga could feel the heat of the small woman’s stare. It was like being watched by a vicious guard dog. Her face drifted in and out of darkness, sometimes hidden by the shadow of the big man, who was striding around the camp, establishing that everything was set up to his liking.

  Helga looked at the short woman then. Her face was scarred and hard, the face of someone who had spent precious little time indoors by a cosy fire. Her body was lean, almost boyish. Her cropped hair stuck out at odd angles – in fact, all of her looked spiky; there was not a soft curve anywhere on her. All through the examination the woman’s stare didn’t waver, and she gave nothing away.

  ‘Bring her over,’ the big man rumbled, and the woman grabbed Helga and dragged her without ceremony to where the big man and his son were standing next to Ygval.

  ‘Who the fuck are you, and what did you do?’ the big man asked.

  ‘Protection,’ Helga said. ‘It’s very crude, and won’t last long.’

  ‘You a witch?’ the boy said.

  Helga looked at him, thought about his question for a moment and then said, ‘Yes, if it makes you feel better. I know, and I’ve seen. That was a fire-troll – it was small and weak, but they’ll just get bigger and stronger, and because Loki walks they will be looking for ways into our world to join him.’

  ‘And can you protect us against the forces of Loki?’ the big man rumbled.

  ‘Yes,’ Helga said.

  ‘Well then. We’d better get up North and see if we can stop the fucker from walking too much,’ he said.

  There was no cheer, no rousing speech. If the big man’s followers had even noticed that they’d been summoned to war, they didn’t appear to care much.

  A massive hand was in front of Helga. ‘I am Skadvald,’ the big man said.

  She shook it, waiting for the crunch of bones, but the man was surprisingly aware of his strength.

  ‘And this is my boy, Ognvald.’

  ‘Well met,’ the youth said.

  ‘Well met,’ Helga echoed.

  ‘And this—’ Skadvald started.

  ‘—is Thora,’ the short woman interrupted. ‘And I have no time at all for runes and magic. So the moment I find out that you’re not what you appear to be, or if I see you messing with any of my boys’ heads’ – and she fixed Helga with a cold look – ‘I kill you. With a knife. In the face. Understood?’

  ‘Understood,’ Helga said.

  ‘You’re going to make yourself useful, and if you make trouble between the men . . .’

  ‘That won’t happen,’ Helga said, and something about the way she said it seemed to be enough for Thora; she turned away and walked off into the camp, followed by Skadvald and Ognvald.

  Suddenly Helga was standing all alone in the middle of the men, watching the camp get back to rotations, fire, rest and food.

  She looked at the three men laid out on the ground. One of them would not live through the night. The other two would be in an awful lot of pain for a long time, and they would never get rid of the scars.

  The rune that summoned the troll had been very crude; it had been tricky to throw it into the fire, but she’d managed. It was a shame that the men had had to suffer, but there had been no other choice. Loki’s plans had to be stopped.

  Helga checked to make sure that no one was watching, allowed herself a small smile and went over to tend to Streak.

  Chapter 8

  NORTH OF TRONDHEIM

  DECEMBER, AD 996

  The black winter night stretched overhead, dotted with white. Valgard luxuriated in his senses, savouring the height of the sky above him and the sensation of the cold, cold ground. He could hear them coming from far away; they were at the foot of the hill, stumbling through the woods with weapons clattering and armour clinking.

  Two steps brought him to the top of the ridge and it didn’t take him long to spot them down there, shifting shadows in amongst the trees. Their scent drifted ahead of them: sweat and fear.

  Good.

  King Olav led from the front, pushing through the snow as if it were a personal affront to him and his reign, looking to find the source of the stampeding animals. It had been terrifyingly easy to find their minds and give them a reason to run, and the effect had been pleasing.

  Valgard pushed a thought out into the air.

  —see me—

  Like someone remembering a dream, the king’s head rose and he scanned the top of the ridge. In the moonlight his face looked gaunt and drawn.

  ‘WE’RE UNDER ATTACK!’ he cried.

  ‘Not yet,’ Valgard said, surprised at the calm authority in his own voice.

  ‘. . . Valgard—?’

  ‘Yes,’ Valgard said. ‘It is me.’

  King Olav cracked a tired smile. ‘Old friend – we thought we’d lost you!’

  ‘You did,’ Valgard replied. ‘And your kingdom, too.’ Off to King Olav’s side he could see the lickspittle – Hjalti, that was his name – wading through the snow. Behind them Valgard sensed movement: soldiers. Looked like the king had decided to bring a hundred of his friends with him.

  The Lord provides. He smiled.

  ‘What do you mean?’ The king sounded confused.

  ‘This is my country now,’ Valgard said calmly.

  For a moment the king looked flustered and confused, as if he were struggling with a memory. Valgard tried reaching out to his mind . . . and tasted torchlight, iron and the touch of Loki like a drop of honey on his tongue.

  The king was still staring at him. ‘We must get you to Trondheim, Valgard! There’s something out here – something dangerous.’

  ‘I know,’ Valgard said, and finally he saw comprehension dawn on the king. He could almost feel the way the years of fighting took him over; how easily the mask of the warrior slipped over his head.

  ‘BLADES!’ the king screamed, and was rewarded with a concert of steel leaving sheathes in the darkness.

  Valgard did not move. He just smiled. ‘Those won’t do you any good,’ he said conversationally.

  ‘We’ll have to see about that,’ King Olav growled and strode towards him, quickly closing the gap to forty yards.

  Valgard motioned with his hand and they came out of the night to stand beside him: five of them, hewn of frost, all at least six and a half foot tall. They looked inhuman. There was a stillness about them that reminded him of trees and mountains, and winter predators waiting for the soft meat to come closer.

  King Olav waded on, snow up to the middle of his shins, and Valgard watched him coming towards them and felt a curious absence of fear.

  Behind the king Hjalti spoke up, his voice quavering. ‘. . . Botolf?’

  The king glanced up at the tallest of the blue-tinged creatures. There was only a faint suggestion of recognition there, but not enough. He drew his sword and closed in.

  Valgard couldn’t help smiling – it was all so amusing. He looked the king in the eye and took a half-step back, behind his men, and that was enough to tip King Olav over the edge.

  Fury took the king, who charged, screaming, and his sword dug into Ormslev’s shoulder.

  —go—

  —break them—

  Valgard pushed the thought out and watched Ormslev deliver a furious back-handed slap to the king’s ribcage, driving the air out of the man and sending him flying, spinning like a child’s thrown rag doll. Whatever was left of Valgard the Healer winced as the ruler of the Norsemen smashed backwards into the nearest tree, then collapsed face-first in the snow. Botolf and Skeggi were moving too, with Jori and Ormar close behind. A brave warrior stepped in front of them, a big man, swinging an axe in a menacing fashion. Botolf knocked the weapon out of his hands and seized the man by the shoulders, and without breaking stride Skeggi grabbed the man’s knees, sweeping him off his feet. As the big man
screamed in pain, Skeggi and Botolf pulled, and the inhuman noise was followed by the sound of snapping and ripping.

  Valgard walked in their wake, observing with detached interest the hot blood colouring the snow, spurting from the broken axe-man. King Olav’s men were beginning to look less interested in fighting than fleeing, shuffling backwards, struggling to find ground to hold. To his far left a young warrior dropped his axe and turned to run for it.

  Stop him—

  Valgard had no sooner thought it than Jori bolted like a hunting dog after the man, catching him in twelve steps. A moment later he turned and walked back towards him, leaving the twisted, lifeless corpse where he had dropped it.

  At least that settled it for the soldiers. They retreated a couple of steps into the forest to get the advantage of trees for cover, then bunched tighter together and formed up, albeit quivering, into something resembling a shield-wall facing Valgard and his five trolls.

  Valgard searched for the cold, hard minds of his trolls, finding them more easily now, like silvery fish in a lake.

  Kill them—

  —kill them all—

  Botolf moved first, snapping off a branch as thick as his arm as he passed the first trees. Skeggi followed, then Ormslev, Ormar and Jori. Valgard felt an odd surge of almost paternal pride as he watched them: they appeared more confident, more assured now, less stiff and lumbering, more fluid. Less bear, more wolf.

  The second of King Olav’s men died messily, Botolf’s tree branch wedged in his face. The third fell, clutching his smashed kneecaps and screaming, until Ormslev stepped on his throat.

  Something in the back of Valgard’s head hummed, a flaw in the pattern, a grain of sand in his mind’s eye. There was a ripple, a shimmer in the darkness – and then a flame.

  Shield your eyes, fool, the voice hissed at him, hoarse with anger.

  Valgard quickly averted his eyes, seeking the broken bodies of the king’s warriors, then glancing sideways at the light.

  ‘Odin,’ he spat.

  The runes in the bag glowed white-hot against his skin and words bubbled into his mind, and just as the heat was becoming unbearable, cold relief flooded from his fingers as ancient rhymes spun from his lips. He could feel the bodies of the trolls ahead of him and the power of the frost flowing from his fingers and into their spines, spreading throughout them with every breath. Reinvigorated, Botolf and Ormslev pushed against the physical force of the heat.

  You can beat him—

  —he’s an old man—

  —you deserve this—

  The voice hissed in his ear, insistent, urging him on almost like a lover, until Valgard, swept away on a wave of dark desire, ceased to be in the world and became just consciousness, free of physical constraint . . . and finally, the beast rose from the lake in his mind.

  It was beautiful, and terrible: powerful square jaws and a low brow, with thick bronze scales leading away from a gaping maw filled with sharp, curved teeth. Emerald-green eyes were set deep in a flat skull sitting on top of cords and cords of muscle that pulled the rest of his body, flowing and dancing, adder-like, ripping through the hole in reality. In the distance somewhere he could feel Odin’s consciousness, holding fast, but weakening in the face of Valgard’s belief.

  He deserved this.

  He had finally reached the point where a lifetime on the edge of the world, a lifetime of hurt, derision and scorn, had given him the power to push back – and he was going to push back hard. He could feel the point of the grey-haired man’s walking stick tearing into the flesh of the trolls, into his flesh, but he was fear and cold and death and he didn’t care.

  Then, suddenly, he felt reality’s pull again and he flailed against it, thrashing like a caught fish, but he could do nothing. Half-born, Valgard was pulled back into the world.

  Odin’s voice was loud and commanding. He was speaking to someone: ‘Join me, King Olav! Command the men to attack! We can overwhelm them!’

  The king.

  Valgard blinked, and tried to make sense of the world again. Improbably, King Olav had somehow made it to Odin’s side and stood there, ghostly pale, clearly favouring his right side. His brave fighters cowered behind Odin’s fire-shield.

  ‘Who are you?’ the king shouted.

  ‘I have many names,’ Odin shouted back, ‘but we can talk about that later.’

  King Olav’s face turned bright red and words tumbled out of him. ‘THOU SHALT NOT WORSHIP FALSE GODS!’ he screamed. ‘BEGONE!’

  The world drew its breath, and held it.

  Watch out—

  —the voice hissed at him.

  A blink of the eye, then—

  Valgard turned away just in time as the wave of force washed over him, knocking him back a step. Dazed, he reached for the words – but they weren’t there. He couldn’t speak. His head swam.

  Odin turned towards the king, sadness in his eye. ‘Time was, in battle I could be sure of a man’s belief,’ he said, almost quietly. ‘But if you will not allow yourself or your men to believe in me, Olav Tryggvason, there is nothing I can do for you. ’

  And in the moments between the blinks of the world, Odin the Almighty stuck the torch in the ground and walked off the battlefield.

  Consciousness flooded back into Valgard’s mind like cold water on a hot day. He shook his head to dislodge the last of the All-Father’s spell and searched for the minds of the trolls.

  They were there, groggy but recovering.

  Destroy—

  The thought was in his mind, but another one crept in.

  —most of them—

  Destroy most of them.

  Botolf reached for the long torch and knocked it over. The others were already moving towards the cowering soldiers.

  Valgard saw two shadows in the distance, running downhill like their life depended on it, but then the screaming started and he knew what he had to do.

  *

  All King Olav could hear was his breath and the thumping of blood, always the blood, as his feet decided what was best for him and sent him hurtling away from the slaughter, down the hill, caring not a second for his broken ribs. He waded through the snow, tripped and rolled, screamed in pain, rose and ran again.

  A hundred yards over to the left, Hjalti ran alongside him. The younger man was faster, and when the king got to the bottom of the hill Hjalti had already rounded up two horses. They could hear the tortured screams of the men they’d left behind, along with the roar of those . . . things . . .

  ‘Here, my King: we’ll ride back to Trondheim, tell the men, get some fires start—’ Black blood followed the words as King Olav’s skinning knife dug into Hjalti’s stomach and up, up towards his heart, until the hand holding it was almost inside him.

  The last thing Hjalti saw was King Olav’s face, glaring at him.

  ‘Don’t act like you didn’t expect it,’ he snarled. ‘You led them to my church. You brought this upon us. Our Saviour may forgive you, but I won’t.’

  He pulled the knife out with a wet slurping sound and Hjalti collapsed, coughing up blood and clutching his stomach. ‘Please . . .’ he wheezed.

  King Olav took the reins of the nearest horse, looked at the man at his feet and felt nothing but contempt. He opened his mouth to speak, but a wrenching scream drifted from the top of the hill. The horse threw its head and snorted.

  ‘You’re eager to go,’ the king muttered. ‘I understand.’

  He clambered up onto the horse’s back and rode off towards Trondheim, putting the hill and the corpses of his men far behind him.

  *

  Valgard could still smell the stench, even in the cold. He looked down with detached curiosity at a form that had been human a while ago; now it just looked like it had been dropped from a great height. The trolls had struck King Olav’s terrified men down where they stood, knocki
ng some out and breaking others: a quick, brutal attack. They’d fought to the last man and would no doubt be going to Valhalla eventually – but not just yet.

  He had a use for them.

  By his feet was a warrior, only half-conscious, staring up at him. The man’s face was bloodied and his left leg was bent at an odd angle. ‘Please . . .’ he muttered, eyes wide with fear.

  ‘What – do you want mercy?’ Valgard sneered. ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do: I will deal with you according to your conduct, and by your own standard I will judge you. How does that sound?’ A vicious kick turned the man’s words to whimpers.

  The old words stung Valgard’s lips.

  Rise, brave warrior

  Born of darkness

  Fear and blood

  Your sworn companions

  Walk in winter

  War’s compatriot

  Raise your blade

  For Loki’s promise

  The man’s body twisted and warped in the snow as the darkness flowed into him. Muscles coiled and twisted and knotted, ripping apart and reforming. The warrior’s mouth flew open and his face turned red in a silent scream. Valgard saw him, saw through his clothes and his flesh and his meat into the very core of him, and envisioned the frost creeping up through the man’s feet into his shins, past his knees, the big muscles in his legs, thickening them, turning them a shade of blue as the flesh somehow died and came to life again. He was being reborn into something stronger. Something bigger. Something better.

  The change was complete.

  The warrior lay in the snow like a squeezed rag, but there was already a different look to him. He was thicker and broader across the chest, but stiffer, less human. He was more like someone’s idea of a warrior. His skin was tinged with blue.

  Jori approached and looked down at the soldier. ‘Take him?’

  ‘Yes,’ Valgard said, and the gangly troll hoisted the man over his shoulder without difficulty and carried him over to a group of slumped fighters. Next to them sat Ormar, looking bored.

  Valgard counted. That made twenty-four.

  On to the next one.