The Valhalla Saga

by Snorri Kristjansson

  TRONDHEIM, NORTH NORWAY

  DECEMBER, AD 996

  Snow hung off the eaves of the great hall in cascades of soft white curves. Inside, the fire roared and the old songs echoed off the walls, sung in full chorus by those who could and shouted by those who couldn’t. In the right-hand seat, Gunnthor leaned over to Storrek. ‘Listen to them. Makes me feel almost thirty years younger, this,’ the grey-haired man said.

  ‘What, only seventy?’ Storrek shot back, grinning. His features had been softened by untold jugs of mead – he’d stopped counting after six. ‘You’re doing the right thing, old man,’ he said. ‘You’re making them feel at home without all that God-crap.’

  ‘Keep it down,’ Gunnthor growled. ‘You never know who’s listening.

  ‘Right, right,’ Storrek said, sobering up a little. ‘Keep it down.’

  Across the hall, Einar Tambarskelf watched the two men converse across King Olav’s unoccupied seat, but the stench in the hall was becoming too much for him, and he pushed his way towards the door.

  Outside, the clouds cleared, revealing the black sky covered with twinkling dots. The night air was crisp and clear and the smell of blood had blown away. Red stains still marked the ground in front of the longhouse, but the nightmare was over.

  ‘Einar.’

  The whisper was borne on the wind, softly, like a thought.

  ‘Einar!’

  Einar Tambarskelf turned to find the source. Something in the shadows by the corner was moving . . . His dagger was in his hand and poised to throw when King Olav emerged, hands outstretched, palms facing forward.

  ‘I am putting my faith in the Lord,’ he said in a soft voice that only just carried on the wind. ‘I am hoping that you are not one of the conspirators.’

  ‘. . . what?’

  ‘Gunnthor, Storrek and Hjalti, all in on it – some of their men must have driven the animals in towards us, because the hunt was a set-up. They were going to kill me. I only just escaped, but I am wounded and in no shape to fight.’

  Einar’s face contorted in fury. ‘Bastards,’ he hissed. ‘I’ll take their eyes out,’ he continued, feeling for a bow that wasn’t there.

  ‘You will not,’ King Olav said. ‘There are too many of them. Instead, gather sixty of our best men. When the traitors realise I’m still alive none of us will be safe. We’ll sail from here tonight, go back to Stenvik and return in force in the spring – we’ll leave them with too many mouths to feed; they’re bound to whittle each other’s numbers down. Meet me by the harbour. We’ll take Njordur’s Mercy.’

  Einar took some time to ponder his king’s words, but finally he spun on his heel and marched inside.

  King Olav resisted the urge to cough and stepped back into the shadow, holding his ribs. He couldn’t tell Einar what he’d really seen – he wasn’t even sure himself. The throbbing ache in his side was the only real thing about it.

  *

  The moon had inched half a house-length across the sky and gone into hiding behind a thick bank of clouds when they appeared at the harbour: about sixty of them, all of them soft-spoken and quiet in the manner of men who know when they need to be.

  The king met them on the pier by the Njordur’s Mercy. In moments tasks were assigned, and six of them went into the town to fetch rations. King Olav had selected twenty men to prepare sails and get the ship ready when he noticed the blossoming light of a torch between nearby houses on the approach to the harbour. When the guard turned the corner and saw the quiet activity, the first thing he did was to shout a challenge. The second thing he did was to claw, coughing, at the arrow wedged in his throat. Einar drew again and the second arrow struck the guard in the chest. His torch fell and fizzled out in the snow.

  Very soon after, the six reappeared carrying two stuffed sacks each, and with that, the Njordur’s Mercy was ready to sail. The rowers pulled and the big ship lurched forward, but with each stroke she moved more smoothly until she was gliding across the water.

  King Olav glanced back at Trondheim once before moving towards the bow of the ship and staring into the dark up ahead.

  ‘Look!’ One of the men hissed and pointed to the sky.

  Up above, the last of the cloud drifted away to reveal a blood-red moon over Trondheim, as raw as a fresh wound. King Olav noted with some satisfaction that everyone he saw formed the sign of the cross.

  *

  Valgard crested the hill and looked down on Trondheim.

  The scent of the king’s fear-sweat still hung on the wind, shoved in his face by the wind coming from the sea, making Valgard lick his lips. The rich, salty taste of it thrilled him. There was something particularly delicious about King Olav’s fall, about him realising that he was in fact very, very mortal. And now he, Valgard, was about to walk back into Trondheim.

  This was going to be fun.

  ‘Skeggi, Botolf, Ormslev,’ he snapped, and like trained animals the three trolls stepped forward. Compared to the others, they looked massive: Botolf was reaching seven foot now, and Valgard wasn’t sure he and Skeggi could shift Ormslev if they tried. They’d do. They’d do just fine. ‘Take what you need and go to the far corners of the town. Move as quietly and quickly as you can. Don’t break more of them than you have to. We will need them.’

  When he finished talking, the trolls stepped back.

  ‘Ormar and Jori, you come with me. And you,’ he said pointing to the figure on the left. ‘Especially you.’ Around him there was movement as bodies shifted in the dark.

  There’ll be a lot of tracks in the snow, Valgard thought, but then again, soon that won’t really be a problem.

  Chapter 9

  THE SOUTH OF SWEDEN

  LATE DECEMBER, AD 996

  The man who called himself Erik and claimed to be the son of Hakon Jarl, chieftain of Trondheim, cleared his throat. He was a good half-head taller than Forkbeard and had the bearing of a man who’d spent his life in hard places. A lean, tough frame and broad shoulders, straight back and sharp features were complemented by black hair with streaks of grey pulled into a thick riding braid. Behind him was the faint hiss of snowflakes on open flames.

  ‘King Olav has left the North!’ he shouted. ‘He is coming southwards, and he is coming fast!’ Chatter spread out like waves in a pond from the man at the edge of the light, but it was interrupted by Forkbeard, who had grabbed the nearest man’s shield and axe and was now banging them loudly together as he stared at the assembled warriors.

  Slowly the men’s mouths stopped moving.

  Forkbeard smiled and waited until the gathering was absolutely silent. When he spoke, he spoke quietly but clearly. ‘My friend from the east’ – he nodded to Jolawer – ‘will be glad of the interruption, because he was clearly losing.’

  Shouts erupted on both sides, and Ulfar struggled to contain his grin. ‘That’s how to win a crowd,’ he whispered to Audun, but Forkbeard hadn’t finished.

  ‘However, all things must come to an end. Return to your camps. We march tomorrow morning.’ Reluctantly, the rows of assembled men broke up and sauntered off to their tents. Forkbeard, Jolawer and a small selection of their chosen men remained.

  ‘Do we stay?’ Mouthpiece whispered.

  Ulfar was about to reply when Sven answered the question. ‘Ulfar. Audun. Over here. Others – get lost,’ he said.

  ‘There you go,’ Thormund said, hurrying to get to his feet. ‘No good comes of named men talking.’ The old horse thief disappeared into the dark, Mouthpiece following on his heels.

  Emerging from the dark, a line of men formed behind Forkbeard and Jolawer to match Erik’s chieftains. Oskarl stood there, calm and solid, next to Audun and Ulfar, his height matched by Alfgeir Bjorne, while Sigurd, Karle and Sven were joined by Thorkell the Tall. Sigrid had stepped up next to Forkbeard.

  ‘Well met,’ Forkbeard said.

 
‘Well met,’ Erik said.

  ‘When did King Olav move?’ Jolawer said.

  ‘News travels slow in winter,’ Erik said. ‘Perhaps ten days ago.’

  Jolawer shot a sharp glance at Alfgeir; Forkbeard didn’t move, but his shoulders tensed. The kings were lost for words, caught unawares at the gaming table.

  A sharp voice cut the silence. ‘How many men?’ Sigrid said.

  ‘Sixty,’ Erik said.

  ‘That’s one ship,’ Sigrid shot back. ‘He brought forty ships to Trondheim. Do you think we’ll believe you?’

  ‘Why did he leave?’ Forkbeard added. ‘And who’s in charge up there?’

  ‘There have been no travellers from the North for a while,’ Erik said, and Ulfar felt his insides twist. This was bad: very bad indeed.

  Erik continued, ‘These men’ – he gestured to the silent group behind him – ‘are from the mountains, some from the deep valleys inland. They agreed to ride with me and put their names towards raising an army to take back Trondheim.’

  ‘But you don’t know what’s up there,’ Sigurd said.

  ‘No,’ Erik said. ‘We don’t.’

  Forkbeard looked over at Jolawer, then Sigurd. Finally he looked at Sigrid. ‘If Trondheim’s less important to King Olav,’ he said, ‘it is less important to me.’ He turned again to the young King of Sweden. ‘Jolawer?’

  ‘We’re going to need some information,’ the young man said. ‘We’ll meet at first light tomorrow.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Forkbeard said.

  Audun looked at Ulfar and whispered under his breath, ‘Could this be—?’

  ‘Not now,’ Ulfar said quietly. Forkbeard, Jolawer and Erik were already heading off with their retinues, but Sven and Sigurd had lagged behind, deep in quick, quiet conversation with Oskarl.

  The two friends found themselves standing alone in the trampled snow and flickering firelight, the marks of a thousand men littering the field.

  Audun sighed. ‘It’s never easy, is it?’

  Ulfar smiled. ‘Easy?’ He glanced at the stocky blacksmith. ‘Where’s the fun in that?’

  *

  Daybreak brought with it more snow still.

  ‘This weather feels like we should be a damn sight further north and later in the year,’ Thormund muttered as he packed up his tent.

  ‘You’re just not fat enough,’ Audun said, patting the bony old horse thief on the back.

  ‘These are lean times,’ he replied, ‘lean times for man and beast. Although your mother didn’t seem to mind so much.’

  Audun tensed, but Ulfar, crouched over the disassembled tent, interrupted, ‘Now, now, Thormund: age is getting to you! You’re confusing things again. I’ve never met our Norse friend’s mother, but I’m pretty sure that unlike your girlfriends she didn’t have hooves.’

  Beside them, Mouthpiece chortled, an odd, wet sound, but no less honest for it.

  ‘Whelp,’ Thormund said.

  ‘Codger,’ Ulfar replied.

  ‘Get up!’ Oskarl said, striding across the campsite. ‘Up and ready! Now!’ His calls were largely unneeded by now, though: the men from Stenvik had been well-drilled and Sigurd’s warriors were good to go soon after the first man woke.

  Elsewhere in the camp, Ivar turned to his sister. ‘I wish that fat Eastman would shut up,’ he muttered.

  ‘He will,’ Greta muttered. The siblings sat hunched together under a pile of old blankets. ‘He’ll catch an axe one day – hopefully with his face.’ Next to her, Ivar chortled. ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ he said, grinning at her. ‘Because you’re definitely angry at the Eastman.’

  Greta punched him in the arm. ‘Shut up,’ she snapped.

  ‘Ow! Go and punch Ulfar if you’re still this mad,’ he said.

  ‘Neither of you will do anything.’ Karle’s voice came from above and behind and the siblings scrambled to turn around, knocked their heads together and flailed as the blankets fell off them, revealing an assortment of rags stuffed down into trousers and up sleeves.

  ‘We’re sorry, Prince Karle,’ Greta said on her knees, trying in vain to sort out her clothing.

  ‘Yes,’ Ivar added, ‘we’re sorry. We won’t—’

  Karle looked down on them as they shuffled around on their knees self-consciously. ‘No, you won’t. But you will keep an eye on Ulfar and that thick-necked friend of his. Understood?’

  ‘Yes! Yes, understood,’ Greta blurted out. ‘Keep an eye. Not too close. No punching.’

  ‘Good,’ Karle said. ‘Report back to me.’ He crouched down and looked them in the eye. ‘And me only,’ he added.

  The white-clad prince rose and left.

  When he was out of earshot, Ivar turned to his sister again. ‘This is all your fault! If you hadn’t insisted on following the army just so you could see that stupid, skinny, moon-faced idiot one more time—’

  Greta punched him again, but Ivar didn’t stop; he went on crossly, ‘We could be at home now! In front of a nice warm fire – with hot broth!’

  ‘We’ll still get there,’ Greta said, ‘and what’s more, we’ll get there with the goodwill of Prince Karle, which means we’ll do plenty of trade in Uppsala.’

  ‘How?’ Ivar whined. ‘You have no idea! It’s cold and miserable and if I have to eat more slop I’ll die. Come on then – tell me your plan!’

  Greta didn’t answer; she just kept her eyes trained on the shapes rising in Sven and Sigurd’s camp.

  *

  Black tree trunks and white snow turned the world grey, cold and wet to the touch. Forkbeard and Jolawer’s armies trudged across the never-ending fields and valleys, through the forests of towering pines and past lakes coloured steel-grey by the thickening clouds overhead.

  ‘Is it just me,’ Mouthpiece said, ‘or are we going back exactly the way we came? To the Danes?’

  ‘I liked him better when his face was broken,’ Thormund muttered behind him.

  ‘Feels like I’ve not seen the sun for a hundred days,’ Audun said.

  ‘Cold,’ Ulfar said, ‘and getting colder. Oh, look,’ he added, not even bothering to hide the disgust, ‘there he is. Our saviour.’

  A bright white man-shape was clearly visible, coming out of a copse about two hundred yards to their left, a bow slung over his shoulder. Behind Karle were four men, struggling under the weight of a full-grown elk.

  ‘I don’t care what he did,’ Mouthpiece said. ‘I’m having stew tonight.’

  ‘Careful,’ Thormund growled behind him, ‘Or you’ll be having only the bits you don’t need teeth for.’

  Mouthpiece spat. ‘That’s the way of it, old man,’ he said. ‘I’m hungry.’

  ‘We all are,’ Audun said. ‘Doesn’t make Karle any less rotten.’

  ‘That’s one way to say it,’ Thormund muttered.

  They walked on in silence, listening to the shouts of the hunters as they delivered their prize to the cooks and disappeared again into the distance. As the day passed, they left one forest in the distance, only to find themselves entering another.

  ‘This is an old wood,’ Audun remarked, stroking the bark of a pine tree as he passed.

  ‘Just like Thormund’s—’

  ‘Shut up, whelp. I can thwack just as well with an old stick,’ the old man interrupted, to chuckles from the men around them.

  ‘Not a lot of life here,’ Ulfar noted.

  ‘Just like in Thormund’s trousers!’ Mouthpiece started, ducking a swiftly thrown snowball.

  A pale dusting of snow had reached the forest floor, but above them a canopy of white and green filtered and dampened the light.

  ‘Careful where you tread, boys,’ Thormund said. ‘Don’t smack into any trees and don’t trip on roots. A bit of bad luck and that’s your neck snapped.’

  They picked
their way uneasily through the woods, breathing a collective sigh of relief when they saw clear sky once again. In front of them, low hills and snow-covered fields stretched as far as they could see.

  Audun leaned in towards Ulfar. ‘What are we going to do? They’re headed south. We’re going in the wrong direction.’

  Ulfar took his time before answering. At last he said, ‘We’ll have to make our own way.’

  Audun looked at him. ‘Tonight?’

  Ulfar nodded.

  A while later, with light fading, the forest just a thumb’s-width-wide line in the distance and the field before them stretching on for ever, the hunters came back for the third time.

  ‘What’s this?’ Audun said, peering at them.

  ‘Hmm?’ Ulfar said, not quite bothering to move his head any more.

  ‘Someone’s missing.’

  Karle’s hunting crew was reduced to him and two others, one of whom was walking with a limp, and this time they were empty-handed. Ulfar glanced up the line and could vaguely make out Sigurd, Jolawer and Forkbeard in conversation.

  Soon after, Alfgeir Bjorne’s voice boomed over the heads of the men, ‘Stop! We’re sleeping here. Tents!’

  Lumbering like oxen, the men trudged into their assigned groups and spread out around the field. Soon enough, weary voices were barking commands and teams of axe-men walked off towards a nearby cluster of trees to fetch firewood.

  As the light faded completely, Karle’s team arrived, and Audun watched from a distance as the tall, white-clad hunter dismissed his men and stormed towards the leaders’ tents.

  ‘He looks miserable,’ said Ulfar, beside him. ‘That’s good for a little warmth.’

  Beside him, Audun chuckled. ‘I’ll drop a hammer on his toe for you one day.’

  ‘Don’t do that,’ Thormund said. ‘Boy’d catch fire from pure joy.’

  Smiling to themselves, Ulfar and his men continued building tents.

  *

  The armies of the two kings fought the darkness by building a host of small campfires. Food was prepared and distributed, and slowly quiet descended. After the day’s march, no one was in much of a mood to do anything but sleep.