The Valhalla Saga

by Snorri Kristjansson

  ‘And?’

  She glanced at Jolawer, but Forkbeard waved for her to continue talking. ‘We are all together in this,’ he said.

  ‘It appears,’ Sigrid said hesitantly, ‘that a force far bigger and stronger than Olav Tryggvason’s army is sweeping down from the North.’

  Forkbeard listened, but did not react. ‘Where are they going?’

  ‘Gallows Peak.’

  ‘Hm,’ he said. ‘So be it.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ Jolawer said, his voice rising.

  ‘I am not going to risk the lives of countless men over winter to go chasing stories,’ Forkbeard said quietly. ‘We’ll see what’s what come spring.’

  ‘You are a coward and a liar,’ Jolawer snapped.

  Sweyn Forkbeard froze for a single moment, then he turned and looked at Jolawer. ‘You know what? You bore me. So I think we’ll end this alliance now.’

  He raised his voice. ‘YOU TAKE THAT BACK!’

  By the fire, Erik and his men rose.

  ‘How DARE you say that about our Norse friends?’ The knife was in Forkbeard’s hand in the blink of an eye. ‘You fight for King Olav, don’t you?’ His voice sounded flushed with indignation; the glint in his eye told a completely different story. Erik and his men were moving towards Jolawer now, hands on hilts.

  Jolawer looked at Karle, and the cold hatred in his cousin’s smile hit him like a gust of winter wind.

  Only at the last moment did he notice a solitary figure waddling towards the Norsemen. The light at the man’s back cast his face in shadow. ‘Erik Hakonsson!’ The voice carried surprisingly well. ‘I’ve poisoned the rations of the filthy Danes, just like you ordered.’

  A moment of doubt clouded Forkbeard’s face.

  ‘Who in Thor’s name are you?’ Erik snarled. ‘And why are you shouting such nonsense?’

  ‘Come now! Yesterday you told me to mix shadowroot in with their mead and cut their grain with ground-up horseshit. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten?’

  ‘Who is this man, Erik?’ Forkbeard said.

  ‘Never seen him before!’ Erik shouted.

  ‘Yes, you have!’ the man shouted back. ‘Are you calling me a liar?’ The man’s path to the Norsemen lay past Jolawer; as he came closer, Jolawer could make out the man’s misshapen jaw and hastily bandaged head. ‘Karle killed Alfgeir. I was on the boat and I saw it happen,’ the man muttered out of the side of his mouth. ‘I’ll set them on each other. Run!’

  Jolawer blinked, then shook his head. He watched as the man’s hand moved slowly to an old club hanging from his belt.

  When he’d passed, Jolawer’s eyes met Karle’s again. The prince stared at him, scowling.

  ‘For Forkbeard!’ the mysterious man screamed, launching himself at Erik Hakonsson’s men, swinging his club wildly.

  ‘Get him!’ Forkbeard screamed. ‘He’s nothing to do with me!’

  The club connected with an arm and a skull, then froze in midair as Erik Hakonsson’s axe buried itself in the head of a warrior who had answered to the name of Mouthpiece.

  ‘Is that the best you can do, Forkbeard?’ Erik snarled as he pulled the axe free.

  ‘He had nothing to do with me, Erik,’ Forkbeard said. ‘Nothing at all – I promise you! I’ve seen you fight – if I did want to kill you I’d send some of the thousands of men I have waiting at my command over there.’

  Erik eyed Forkbeard and said nothing as he wiped the axe blade, very slowly.

  ‘Bastard,’ Karle said.

  Forkbeard looked at the spot where Jolawer Scott had been standing, but the young king was gone.

  Chapter 15

  THE MOUNTAINS OF THE NORTH

  LATE DECEMBER, AD 996

  Ulfar could feel the blood clotting in the ripped skin where the wolf’s teeth had torn his face to shreds. I should be screaming, he thought, then, No. I should be dead. Instead, all he had was a dull pulse in what remained of his cheek, along with one blind eye. He ignored it and looked down at Audun. The blacksmith was lying at his feet in the snow, doubled over, blood-coloured spittle cooling in his beard, the broad belt by his side.

  Then Ulfar looked up, and wished he hadn’t.

  Surrounding the men of Stenvik were faces, staring at them – nothing like an army; mostly peasants in rags, men and women both, clutching a variety of weapons – but there was something common to them all. Common, and wrong. The way they stood, the way they moved: there was no spark in their eyes.

  Nothing human, Ulfar thought. They just look . . . empty. Empty and stiff, like hastily made clay figures. And there were a lot of them, too; Ulfar estimated around two hundred and fifty, perhaps more. Add to that one wolf to every five men – and then the trolls, of course: twenty of those, some bigger than others, but all of them taller and broader than the largest of the Stenvik fighters.

  Ulfar looked at his travelling companions and brothers in arms. Some were wounded, others dead; they were all old and tired. His eye met Sven’s.

  ‘Well, son,’ the whitebeard said conversationally, ‘we sailed for a good long while, but I think this might be the shore.’

  Beside him, Sigurd Aegisson smiled. ‘Sven, my friend – I’ve never told you this, but—’

  The grizzled chieftain’s hand went up to intercept Sven’s answer. ‘You don’t half complain like an old woman sometimes.’ He hefted his axe, turned to face the trolls and took one step forward. For a moment there was quiet in the circle.

  ‘Who wants a go?’ Sigurd Aegisson growled.

  Nobody moved, although one by one the wolves started sniffing the air. ‘I SAID—’ Sigurd’s voice trailed off as the circle broke without a word. The trolls, moving together, stepped past the broken and wounded men of Stenvik without a second glance and lined up alongside humans and wolves, facing south.

  The Stenvik raiders looked at each other, puzzled.

  ‘Is this a new strategy?’ Oskarl, standing behind Sven, mused. ‘Are we supposed to run away now?’

  ‘Shut up,’ Sven hissed. ‘Let me think. We just—’

  A woman’s voice rang out, incredibly loud, and cut him off. ‘RIGHT, YOU GOAT-FACED BLUE-SKINNED GRANNY-FUCKERS. LET’S SEE WHAT YOU GOT!’

  The trolls formed a line. The dead-eyed humans and wolves followed them, moving mindlessly.

  ‘Looks like you scared them off,’ Sven said to Sigurd.

  Sigurd looked puzzled. He looked down at his axe. ‘That’s never happened before,’ he said.

  ‘The woods!’ Oskarl shouted. ‘Look!’ He pointed, and they all turned as a lone warrior emerged from the trees to the south. Then two more figures stepped out and stood next to him. They might have been half his width, and neither reached his shoulders, but they still radiated menace. Behind them a group of men moved into position, slow and measured, spreading out in a battle line about two hundred yards away.

  Sven looked around. ‘Who the hell is that? Anyone we know?’

  ‘Hold on,’ Sigurd said. ‘It— No . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. For a moment I just thought—’

  At that moment the trolls burst into action, charging the new enemy in a wave of death and destruction, followed by the humans and howling wolves.

  ‘We need to move – NOW!’ Sven barked, turning towards the fallen men. ‘Pick up what you can and go – we’ve got a couple of moments to get to higher ground! Help the wounded!’ He rushed to the nearest man on the ground and tried to pull him up. ‘Come on, move it!

  ‘Sven?’ Sigurd said. He hadn’t moved.

  The old rogue wasn’t listening; he just kept shouting, ‘What’s wrong with you all? MOVE!’

  ‘Sven!’ Sigurd snapped.

  ‘WHAT?’ Sven growled, whirling to face his chieftain.

  ‘We’re not running from the trolls,’ Sigur
d said.

  That stopped him. ‘Why—?’

  Sigurd pointed to the clearing. ‘Because they’re all dead.’

  Ulfar was vaguely aware of Sven’s mouth moving, but he didn’t hear a word; he couldn’t take his eyes off the fighters, who had moved like water, flowing past and through the trolls, lopping off limbs as easily as branches on old, dead trees. The battle, such as it was, had been over in moments. Ulfar saw the trolls knock maybe five of the fighters down, but at least three of those were getting back up. One of the new arrivals didn’t move, mostly because half of his head was missing; the rest were chasing and hacking down the peasants, with what, from where they were standing, looked like very little effort. The wolves had run off. ‘Smart puppies,’ Ulfar muttered.

  ‘Look at them,’ Sigurd said. ‘The only crew that fights like that . . .’ his voice trailed off.

  Sven finally managed to form words. ‘You’re right. Screw me sideways with a pine tree,’ he muttered. ‘I can’t decide if we’re saved or dead.’

  ‘What do we do?’ Ulfar said.

  ‘I think that’s pretty clear,’ Sven said, glancing at Sigurd. ‘We can’t run, so we’ll go greet their leader and hope he hasn’t found out.’

  ‘Found out what?’ Ulfar said.

  ‘That I killed his father,’ Sigurd said.

  ‘It’s never easy with you two, is it?’ Ulfar said.

  ‘Nope,’ Sven said.

  ‘Right,’ Ulfar said. ‘Well then. Let’s try and get our warriors up and standing, shall we?’ With that he bent down and hooked an arm under Audun’s shoulder. ‘Come on, big man. Up you get.’ He felt the full weight of the blacksmith through his arms and legs and grunted. ‘We need to get you eating less. You weigh as much as an ox.’

  Audun mumbled something incomprehensible.

  ‘What?’

  ‘. . . blood . . .’

  His forehead and cheek throbbed with the effort of lifting him. ‘Yes. I know. The beast bit off half my face. Should’ve asked it to take a bite out of your arse instead. Might’ve made it easier to get you to your feet.’

  ‘Maybe . . .’ A rattling cough shook the blacksmith as he got one knee under himself.

  Ulfar frowned. ‘Are you . . . laughing?’

  ‘. . . you promised her you’d marry her?’

  ‘Fuck off,’ Ulfar said, smiling.

  Another cough, followed by a smirk as Audun rose, clutching his stomach with his left hand. ‘Ugh,’ he managed.

  ‘Is it that bad?’ Ulfar managed.

  ‘The belt rips my insides,’ Audun muttered. ‘I can lift a mountain with it, but the bloody thing kills me.’

  ‘Right. If you could just look mean for a little while longer, maybe pretend that you’re not dying, that would be very good for our immediate health and future,’ Ulfar said under his breath. ‘We’ve got visitors.’

  Audun looked up and across the frozen river to the force now advancing on them. He closed his eyes, then looked again. ‘It’s . . . Helga,’ he muttered.

  ‘What?’ Ulfar hissed.

  He mumbled, ‘The woman I stayed with? On the farm? She’s there.’

  Ulfar took a deep breath, pushed all his questions aside and looked once more at the warriors approaching the men of Stenvik. There was no doubt who was in charge – the man in the middle carried an axe Ulfar doubted he’d even be able to lift, let alone swing. On his right was a short, wiry woman with spiky hair, lean and mean. On his left was a boy of maybe thirteen years who wore a nobleman’s sword and had an unmistakeable family resemblance to the leader. Behind them was a woman, clad in travellers’ clothes but moving gracefully, with the confidence born of certainty and the bearing of a queen. The weak light caught on strands of silver interwoven in her braid of smooth dark hair. Behind and around her was a group of the hardest bastards Ulfar could remember seeing.

  ‘I hope you mean the tall one,’ Ulfar said.

  Audun elbowed him just as Sigurd and Sven stepped out in front of the men of Stenvik. In comparison with this group, Sigurd Aegisson’s men looked like what they were: old, and grey, and tired.

  ‘Well met, Skadvald, son of Skargrim,’ Sigurd said.

  ‘Well met, Sigurd Aegisson,’ the big man replied.

  ‘You’ve saved our lives,’ Sigurd said.

  Skadvald looked around. ‘This is true,’ he said.

  ‘And you are no doubt aware that I am responsible for the death of your father,’ Sigurd said.

  Ulfar looked up in horror. Sigurd had just dropped it in there, like he’d been asking for an extra chicken at market to go with the three he’d bought already. All around him old hands drifted slowly in the direction of blades, preparing to defend to the last, hoping to maybe take one or two with them to Valhalla.

  ‘My father should have left raiding to younger men,’ Skadvald said, matter-of-factly.

  ‘And listened to better advice,’ the woman next to him snarled. ‘There was no dishonour in it, Sigurd Aegisson. But if I ever get my hands on that bitch—’

  ‘The woman in the boat?’ Ulfar’s stomach dropped as he realised the voice behind the words had actually been his own. He felt the eyes of both groups on him and wished that just for once he could have refrained from speaking, just for a moment.

  The short woman looked as if she’d happily spend a long time killing him. ‘Yes. Do you know her?’

  ‘We killed her,’ Ulfar said.

  ‘Really?’ The short woman’s face lit up in genuine joy.

  ‘We had to,’ Ulfar said, ignoring the heat of Sven’s glare. ‘She was wielding the powers of Loki.’ The smile disappeared off the short woman’s face as quickly as it had come, and her mouth clammed shut.

  ‘This is why we need to talk,’ Skadvald said. ‘I am told that the dark powers walk here. We will need to work together.’

  ‘How?’ Sigurd said. ‘We can’t give them half the fight that you just did.’

  The teenager standing next to the big man smirked. He was almost vibrating with energy.

  ‘I believe you will,’ the big man said. ‘But first, let’s bind our wounds and clean our blades.’

  ‘Start a fire,’ Sven said to the men next to him.

  ‘No!’ the big man said quickly. ‘No fire.’

  Out of the corner of his eye Ulfar caught the tall, dark-haired woman hiding a smile.

  *

  Skadvald’s men helped drag the corpses of the hacked-up trolls to one side. The trolls had taken nearly a quarter of Sigurd’s men; the fallen needed to be properly laid out and sent off.

  Oskarl stood beside Ulfar, watching as Sven knelt by the bodies. The old man moved slowly, stopping by each one, then he leaned over and muttered a few quiet words, things that needed to be kept and carried to Valhalla.

  ‘It’s a bad business,’ the Eastman said.

  ‘That it is,’ Ulfar said.

  ‘I reckon there’ll be more of this before we’re done.’

  ‘Probably.’

  They stood in silence for a while, until Oskarl spoke again. ‘How’s your friend?’

  ‘His health improved rather quickly when our visitors arrived,’ Ulfar said, unable to hide the smirk.

  ‘Good. He’s a hard one.’

  Ulfar chortled.

  ‘What? We’ll need him to hammer our enemies.’

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ Ulfar said, grinning as much as his bandage would allow. ‘You’re absolutely right.’

  The ceremonies ended and a group of men set to breaking the frozen earth for graves. Sven motioned for Ulfar, Audun and Oskarl to come over.

  ‘Right. Sigurd’s over there’ – he motioned to where the chieftain sat on a fallen log – ‘and we’re going over and we’re going to listen to what Skadvald and his lot have to say. What do you do?’

  ‘Stand in the back and
look dangerous?’ Audun offered.

  ‘That’s exactly right,’ Sven said. ‘I’ll make men of you puppies yet. Come on!’

  Shuffling over, Ulfar took a good look at Sigurd Aegisson. The old man looked like there was nothing left of him but skin, bone and stubbornness. His axe lay across his legs and he was deep in thought. Sven approached and sat down at his right-hand side without a word. Audun, Ulfar and Oskarl crossed the log and took up position behind the two old men.

  Skadvald did not wait long; he walked towards the log with a party of three and sat down in the snow, apparently untroubled by the wet and the cold.

  ‘This is Thora,’ he said, looking at the short-haired woman. ‘She sailed with my father.’ Sigurd and Sven gave her a warrior’s salute and she sneered in return. Not showing teeth is probably as close as she gets to politeness, Ulfar thought.

  ‘My son, Ognvald,’ Skadvald said.

  Ognvald looked at the men on the log and smiled, and Ulfar made a mental note to stay either behind or far away from the young man next time there was killing to be done.

  ‘And this is Helga,’ Skadvald finished.

  The tall woman bowed her head. Ulfar caught the slightest glance at Audun when she looked up and he couldn’t help but smirk. The blacksmith looked less like a fearsome warrior and more like a nervous boy.

  ‘I am afraid I can confirm what you may feel you know,’ she said. ‘Valgard is here, and he is not alone.’

  ‘What does he plan to do?’

  ‘He’s going after Bifrost.’

  ‘What—?’ Sigurd’s jaw dropped, and Sven looked equally lost. ‘He’s—’

  ‘—looking for the bridge to Valhalla. That’s right,’ Helga said. ‘What’s worse, I think he’ll find it.’

  ‘How?’ Sven said.

  ‘Loki will show him the way,’ Ulfar said.

  ‘But he’s not a god!’ Sigurd protested. ‘Only the gods can call down the Rainbow Bridge.’

  ‘I’m afraid he will find a way,’ Helga said. ‘He will force the gods to come and fight him, and you know what happens when the gods spill blood on Earth. In the East, Jormungandr will rise. In the West, Fenrir will walk the earth.’