The Valhalla Saga

by Snorri Kristjansson

  ‘It’s so small,’ Helga said.

  ‘They only had four cows back then . . . Hildigunnur’s been on at Unnthor to do something about it for years, but there’re always more important jobs that need seeing to,’ Einar said. ‘They can’t make up their mind whether to tear it down or turn it into something else.’

  ‘I don’t know if I’ve ever been in here,’ Helga said, looking around curiously. ‘The smithy’s your father’s den, and this has always felt like it belongs to Unnthor.’ She kicked a piece of wood and it bounced into a corner. ‘So what do we need to do?’

  ‘First thing is to carry all of this out, I think – we need to clear the floor so we can build beds for Bjorn and his family—’

  ‘What? Why—?’ Helga was looking distinctly unimpressed.

  ‘The stories are mostly true, you know. He stopped fitting in any of the bunks in his twelfth winter. And young Volund is his father’s son.’ Einar thought for a moment. ‘Oh, right – you’ve never met them, have you?’

  ‘No,’ Helga said, ‘I’ve never met Bjorn, or Karl. I think they were all supposed to come five years ago—’

  ‘—but Karl was away and Bjorn’s family was ill. I remember. You know Aslak, of course.’

  ‘How could I forget? He brought two small children and a dragon of a woman with him. Will she be coming as well?’

  ‘‘fraid so,’ Einar said.

  Helga shuddered. ‘I’d rather deal with an angry bear.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ Einar said.

  ‘And then there’s Jorunn and Sigmar. I remember her, I think, but I haven’t met him.’

  ‘No,’ Einar said, busying himself with a cracked beam, suddenly less interested in talking.

  Helga grabbed a spade with a broken handle. ‘I don’t remember having seen this one.’

  ‘They’re all old things,’ Einar said, shifting a plough with one handle out of the way. ‘Unnthor’s been meaning to repair ‘em for a while now, but d’you know what I think?’

  ‘You think?’ Helga said, feigning surprise.

  ‘Shut your mouth,’ Einar said over his shoulder, lumping the old plough towards the door. When he came back he was practically twinkling with mischief. ‘I think the old man is so happy at how the farm is going that he allows himself to own broken tools – so he just leaves ‘em where they break and Father drops ‘em in here.’ He looked around at the debris. ‘The hoard of a brave warrior, this.’

  ‘Hah,’ Helga said, ‘I find that hard to believe.’ She thought of Unnthor, her adoptive father, who’d taken her on eleven winters ago – at his wife’s urging – just as the farm was emptying of children. Picturing him being easy with his hard-earned riches was almost impossible. Back in the day there’d been rumours that he’d come back from his raiding in the west with a hoard to equal anyone’s, but the old bear always flat-out denied it. With the ever-present Jaki’s help, he’d sent back most of those chancers who’d come to look. The rest were buried just beyond the fence to the west. Eventually word had got out and the locals, seeing how hard Unnthor worked his farm, reasoned all those rumours were just that, fireside stories, and soon enough those in search of quick and easy profits found other places to look.

  ‘I find that hard to believe,’ Helga repeated, then added with a smirk, ‘Hildigunnur wouldn’t let him!’

  ‘Maybe,’ Einar said, ‘but she’s kept the old bear company for so long . . . I reckon she knows when to fight and when to look the other way. They’re each as stubborn as the other, those two.’

  ‘Probably why they’ve stayed married,’ Helga said, shifting a couple of broken sledgehammers. ‘In time my mother’s story will feature “The Legend of the Taming of Unnthor”.’

  ‘It’ll be a good story, though. Just like Unnthor has “The Wooing of Hildigunnur”. I still like it, even though I’ve heard it at least once for every summer of my life.’

  ‘So in your case that’d make – what, twelve?’

  Einar made a face at her and bent to find the grip on a big cracked whetstone. ‘Unnthor Reginsson went to find himself a wife. He wanted Hildigunnur but her father, old Heidrek, was part troll . . .’

  Helga strained to shift a stack of planks out of the way. ‘Only part? The old men can’t have been far into their drink when they told you last time. I thought he was—’

  ‘Nine feet tall if he was an inch. And the bastard filed his teeth,’ a gruff voice said from the doorway: Unnthor of Riverside, chieftain of Ren Valley and ruler of all that he saw, blocked out most of the light. His shoulders weren’t that far from touching either side of the doorframe, his grey hair was still thick enough to plait and his neatly trimmed beard was full. At sixty-two summers he still struck an imposing figure. ‘He used to kill bears for fun, that one.’

  ‘And you strode up to him,’ Helga said.

  ‘And smacked him in the head with the thigh-bone of an ox,’ Einar said.

  ‘Not quite,’ the old man said. ‘I opened my mouth to speak, and he hit me – knocked me back four steps and cracked my jaw good and proper. Then I hit him with the bone, and down he went. When he came to I asked him if he gave me his permission to marry his daughter.’ He joined them in shifting tools towards the door.

  Einar smiled. ‘And he said—’

  ‘—the crusty old troll laughed and said, “Go right ahead. She hits harder than I do.” And he wasn’t wrong,’ Unnthor said. ‘No – leave that.’

  Einar stopped just short of touching the stone pillar. ‘Why?’

  ‘It would be bad luck to move it. It’s been there since the day we settled. The gods would disapprove,’ he added. ‘Just leave it.’

  Einar shrugged and moved towards the pile of timber. ‘I need you to get started on the beds for Bjorn and Thyri – oh, and little Volund as well,’ Unnthor said. ‘Stack the planks over there,’ he added, pointing at the corner of the cowshed furthest from the door.

  ‘Little Volund is now twelve winters,’ Helga said, ‘and he hasn’t been little for a while, Mother says.’

  Unnthor dismissed her with a huff and a hand-wave. ‘He’s little if I say he is,’ he said. ‘Einar, go and get your father’s tools. We’ll build the beds where you’re standing.’

  Einar nodded, dropped the planks on the ground and left. The rest of the debris of farm life that had been tucked away in the old cowshed was now neatly piled up outside by the fence and the empty space was filled with silence.

  ‘My own flesh and blood is coming for me, Helga,’ Unnthor said quietly.

  ‘What do you mean, Father?’

  The old man turned to look at her. In the half-light he seemed very tired. ‘My own flesh and blood,’ he said, ‘with darkness in their hearts. I saw it in a dream.’

  She opened her mouth to speak, but the rattle of metal on metal warned of Einar’s approach. Unnthor heard it too, and in a blink the tired old man had disappeared, replaced with the fearsome chieftain.

  Despite the heat, the hairs on Helga’s arms rose.

  *

  At noon, Jaki’s voice boomed across the grounds: ‘Riders!’

  Helga felt a surge within. Unnthor’s odd behaviour in the shed had stuck with her, but she did her best to ignore it. Something’s going to happen. While the safety of the everyday was comforting, there was a pull to this: the world was coming her way. She ran to the main gate, where there was an unhindered view down the valley. Jaki and Einar were already there.

  ‘They’re not sparing the horses,’ Jaki pointed out.

  ‘When did Karl ever spare anything?’ Einar said.

  The stocky man grabbed his son by the arm, none too gently. ‘You will watch your mouth,’ he growled. ‘Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Father,’ Einar said, trying not to wince at the grip.

  Jaki let go. ‘Just – if you can, say nothing.’ He glanced at Helga. ‘That goes for you too, girl,’ he said.

  Helga nodded. ‘Of course.’ She stared down at the riders. She could just about make o
ut the shapes . . . ‘Are there three of them?’

  ‘Too far for me to tell,’ the old man mumbled.

  ‘Maybe . . .’ Einar looked puzzled. ‘But who have they left behind, then?’

  Froma distance, Hildigunnur’s voice rang out across the yard. ‘Helga? A little help—’

  With a last look at the approaching riders, Helga turned and ran towards the longhouse, an imposing structure with walls almost twice the height of a man. The woman in the back doorway looked like a twig in comparison, but Helga had quickly learned not to judge her by her size. Hildigunnur, the woman who’d become her mother, was tougher than most men. She might not be either tall or wide, but she moved with an ease that belied her fifty-five summers, and she could still run for half a day without stopping.

  As impossible as it might seem, she was Unnthor’s match in all ways. For the last thirty years they’d been at the heart of their valley, and the next over, and the one after that. Women travelled for days to seek Hildigunnur’s advice; most thought her firm but fair – and those who didn’t at least had sense enough to keep silent and tell stories about witchcraft when they were well out of earshot. Like her or not, everyone agreed that her wisdom ran deep.

  ‘Shift it, girl,’ she shouted. ‘I’ll grow a beard waiting for you.’

  ‘And if you did, Mother, it would look great.’

  ‘Flattery will get you nothing but trouble,’ Hildigunnur said, smiling. ‘Pots await. The travellers will need feeding. So you’ve been building beds – is that all done?’

  ‘A while ago,’ Helga said. ‘Einar was pretty quick.’

  ‘Oh, he’s a good ‘un,’ Hildigunnur said. A glint flashed in her eye. ‘And not bad to look at, either.’

  ‘Mother!’ Helga said. ‘Ugh! Really?’

  ‘You may see him as a brother,’ Hildigunnur said, leading Helga into the longhouse, ‘but people see things differently.’ She glanced over her shoulder before she closed the door. Unnthor had joined Jaki and Einar at the gate.

  When the riders were close enough for the three men to get a good look at the horses, a deep silence spread among them.

  Jaki finally spoke. ‘I see Karl has done well,’ he said.

  Unnthor grunted in response.

  The horses were running at full gallop, muscles bunched, necks stretched out with the joy of speed. The riders, hunched over, were shouting encouragement and urging their mounts on. One of the riders inched ahead of the other two and continued to stretch the lead.

  The men at the gate could make out shapes now. A mastiff was bounding alongside the racing trio, tongue lolling. ‘Karl’s not winning this one, though,’ Unnthor said with a note of satisfaction.

  The rider on the leading horse rose up in the saddle and punched the air, then reined in the mount, slowing the beast until the riders behind followed suit. The hood fell away to reveal long blonde hair and rosy cheeks flushed with excitement.

  ‘Grandfather!’ the girl shouted, and beside her the dog barked in response, a big, throaty sound.

  ‘Gytha!’ Unnthor shouted back as the horses closed the distance.

  ‘You ride like I’d taught you!’

  ‘Better, I should think,’ growled the larger of the two trailing riders. Karl Unnthorsson was built solid: thick across the chest and shaped like a tree trunk. A patchy black beard stuck out from his jaw like a badly wired brush and his left cheek bore the scars of battle. Thick eyebrows gave his face a perpetual scowl. He wore a leather strap around his neck and the top of a silver Thor’s Hammer was resting on his collarbone. ‘She don’t hold back.’ As he dismounted smoothly, the dog padded over and nudged his hand.

  ‘Karl,’ Unnthor said. ‘Welcome home.’

  ‘And I’m invisible, am I?’ The third rider dismounted swiftly.

  A tall but slim woman, quick of movement, threw her hood back with a flick of her wrist. A blonde braid lay over her right shoulder, richly inlaid with silver thread. There was no mistaking the look of mother and daughter.

  ‘Welcome, Agla,’ Unnthor said. ‘You are ever a treasured guest in my house.’

  ‘You lie like you dance, old bear,’ the woman said, ‘awkwardly. But it is good to see you.’

  Jaki swung open the gate and the three riders walked their horses in.

  ‘Magnificent animals,’ Unnthor said.

  ‘They’re good,’ Karl agreed, ‘but I need a stronger one for me. They’re all from the same breeder and they carry similar weights. Gytha won because she’s lighter.’

  ‘Did not,’ the girl shot back. ‘I’m just better than you.’

  ‘The spirit of youth,’ Karl said. ‘I’ll teach you a lesson soon enough.’

  ‘You’d have to catch me first.’ Gytha danced away from her father’s reach.

  ‘You’d better keep moving, then, or I’ll snap your pretty neck when I do,’ Karl said.

  ‘And then I’d kill you in your sleep,’ Agla said.

  Karl’s laugh was short and sharp.

  ‘Einar, take the horses,’ Unnthor said. ‘I’ll bring our travellers in for some food.’

  Karl looked around. ‘This is new,’ he said, nodding towards the stables.

  ‘Built it six years ago – six?’ Unnthor looked at Jaki.

  ‘Seven,’ Jaki corrected him.

  ‘It’s been a while,’ Karl said.

  ‘Leave the horses. Your mother has some food on.’ Unnthor ushered the quibbling family towards the longhouse. Once they were out of earshot, Jaki glanced at Einar. Beside them, Karl’s mare snorted and stomped her foot. ‘I told you,’ the old man murmured, ‘if you want to keep all your bits attached, say nothing.’

  Helga watched the smile slide onto her mother’s face. Then she heard the approaching voices, and a moment later the door opened. The grey-haired woman glanced at the pot and Helga took the hint. She focused on the wooden spoon, stirring the stew in steady circles.

  ‘Wife,’ Unnthor bellowed, ‘we are given the gift of guests!’

  ‘Agla! Gytha!’ Hildigunnur walked swiftly across the longhouse floor and swept the two women up in a hug. ‘Welcome, my loves.’

  ‘Thank you, Grandmother,’ Gytha said as her mother extricated herself from Hildigunnur’s arms. ‘You look as young as ever.’

  ‘Oh, psh,’ Hildigunnur said, ‘I am old and weak, and so are my bones.’

  ‘Didn’t feel like it,’ Agla said, rubbing her shoulder. ‘If that’s how you hug your husband, no wonder he’s known for his foul mood.’

  ‘Whereas Karl is a right little lamb,’ Hildigunnur said, eyes twinkling.

  Gytha laughed. ‘Hah! The old bitch has some bite still!’

  ‘GYTHA!’ Karl’s voice cracked the air like a whip. ‘Come here, right now—’

  The girl pursed her lips and bit down on words that seemed to be pushing to get out. ‘Yes, Father,’ she finally managed to mutter. She walked up to where Karl stood next to Unnthor.

  The dark-haired man was all angles, shadows and fury. ‘You will bring honour to my name when you are a guest in another’s house.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘But nothing,’ Karl growled.

  ‘I thought it was quite funny,’ Hildigunnur said.

  ‘Mother,’ Karl said between clenched teeth, ‘stay out of this.’

  He turned to Gytha. ‘Go and see to the horses’ – he stopped her in her tracks with a vicious glare – ‘and behave yourself.’ At the far end Helga worked hard to attract no attention whatsoever.

  Moments later the door slammed as Gytha left.

  For a moment, no one said anything.

  ‘Well,’ Hildigunnur said, breaking the silence, ‘at least we know she’s not a changeling.’

  Karl’s scowl melted into an almost-smile. ‘She gets it all from her mother.’

  ‘Does not! She’s as stubborn as a stone, and I’m not. I’m very reasonable,’ Agla said.

  Behind Karl, Helga watched Unnthor swallow a laugh.

  ‘No, you’re not,’ Karl said. ‘
You’ll argue about anything.’

  ‘No, I won’t!’

  ‘Yes, you will.’

  ‘Shut your mouth, old man – I am very reasonable!’

  ‘Karl, stop teasing,’ Hildigunnur said. Helga’s heart sank as her mother turned towards her, followed by Karl and Agla’s gaze. It did not feel pleasant.

  ‘Now, I need to introduce you to our girl Helga – she’s lived with us since about two years after you left, and she could just as well be your sister, except that she’s smarter and better-looking. We’re keeping her here as long as we can.’

  Karl bowed his head once in greeting. Agla gave her the once-over, like she would a horse, and appeared to find her uninteresting. And just like that, Helga was invisible again.

  ‘Would you two like a bowl of something to eat, or are you about to start arguing again?’

  Despite the humour in Hildigunnur’s tone, Agla still glared at her husband, and though Helga searched for a tell-tale twinkle, a smile or any sort of affection in the woman’s face, she found nothing.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ Agla said, and Hildigunnur turned her gaze Helga’s way, which was as good as a snapped command. Hands working automatically, she plucked out wooden bowls from their place under the side benches and filled them with stew.

  The steam played around her hands, heating her skin. She adjusted her grip and hurried out to the table, where Agla had sat down next to Unnthor. Hildigunnur had disappeared, but Helga didn’t need to see her mother to know she’d be working somewhere she knew the girl would pass by. She’d stop her for an exchange of words, then there’d be the tilted head, the raised eyebrow – the surreptitious glance to ensure that the two of them were the only ones sharing the joke – and moments later Gytha would be swallowing a chuckle, eyes sparkling at her grandmother’s spirit. Helga could almost hear her mother’s voice, throwing wisdom over her shoulder. A well-placed word can save you a lot of trouble.