The Valhalla Saga 01 - Swords of Good Men (11 page)

‘Indeed. Something tells me we won’t live to regret that,’ Sigurd added with a grim expression.

STENVIK

The sounds of the smithy soothed him. It was his world, a simple world, and that suited Audun just fine. There was no doubt. You
needed to do certain things at certain times or the metal would punish you. No uncertainty. There was only failure, which you then turned into success through experience.

But this one was not going to be a failure. The sword was looking better every day. It was going to be a very good blade indeed.

Audun sighted one more time along the edge.

It was formed, pretty much.

Now it needed sharpening.

WYRMSEY

Hrafn’s men were the next to arrive. Ten ships’ worth of frost-hardened raiders from the far, far north where the sun didn’t show in winter or set in summer. They wore thick sealskin coats over their ring mail and carried long spears along with their swords, hand axes in their belts and shields strapped to their backs.

Skargrim nodded to Hrafn, who saluted with a grin. A skinny man with thinning hair, he had a hooked nose and tiny black sparkling eyes. He was continually on the move, fidgeting with his hands if he absolutely had to stand still. When asked, Hrafn had been all too happy to come and bring what looked like most of Finnmark with him. Now he was here, on Skargrim’s beach.

‘Well met, Hrafn.’

‘Well met, Skargrim!’

‘It’s been a while.’

‘That it has.’

‘When did we last have a dance? Vasconia?’

‘That we did.’

‘Doesn’t look as pretty any more.’

‘That it doesn’t,’ said Hrafn. His smile grew into a toothy grin.

Skargrim nodded.

Beneath him, many hands helped get the newcomers settled and the ships in line.

Thirty-six.

EAST OF HARDANGER HEATH

King Olav waited for them outside his tent, watching impassively as they approached.

‘My King.’ Jorn bowed deeply.

‘Stand, Jorn Ornulfsson, Prince of the Dales.’ The King’s voice was calm and commanding, his expression unreadable.

Jorn straightened up, looking honestly bewildered. ‘I wish to ask your forgiveness, my lord, for the incident involving the behaviour of my kinsmen, which you saw and rightly stopped. They are—’

King Olav interrupted him. ‘You think quickly and speak well, Prince. Your men obey you. A king needs men to speak on his behalf, for he cannot be in all places at once. If you can give me your oath that your men will abandon the old ways and bring honour to you and thus to me, I have a task for you.’

Jorn looked stunned. ‘Anything, my lord,’ he stammered eventually.

‘Take four horses of quality. Ride ahead to Stenvik. Tell them of our conquests; tell them of the size of our army. Bring word that the White Christ’s host marches and start work to prepare for our arrival in seven days hence. Arrange for supplies. Find a suitable site for our camp. Stenvik is a big town full of able fighters, so I want to be absolutely sure they are all on our side. In short, I need you to be my eyes and ears. I want to know who
these men are, what they think, what they feel. The Hardanger Heath will slow us down. I need you to make sure the arrival of the army will be as smooth as possible.’

Jorn nodded. His face was set in a mask of determination.

‘It shall be a great honour, my King.’

Without explanation the King ducked into his tent. He came back out with a thin silver chain coiled up in his fist.

‘Take this and wear it around your neck. It shall mark you as my spokesman and be my royal seal, carrying my and the Lord’s guarantee that any promise you make shall be fulfilled.’ He opened his fist and handed the chain over.

Jorn pinched the chain between his fingers and let it drop. Exquisite silver cascaded from his hand, weighed down by a crucifix. His pupils widened a touch, but he composed himself quickly.

‘My heartfelt thanks, my King. You confer great responsibility upon me.’

‘I do. Accept and honour it. You leave for Stenvik at once.’

‘As you say, my King.’ Jorn fitted the chain around his neck, then turned and walked briskly towards his camp.

Stunned, Finn watched Jorn leave. He became aware of the noises of the camp, men shouting at each other, cheerful cursing in the distance. When he turned to King Olav he was baffled to see the King smiling a wry smile.

‘My lord … but … what …’

‘Finn – you should see yourself. You look as if you’ve just seen a talking horse.’

‘But how … why?’ Finn was reeling. ‘I simply do not understand.’

‘What do you not understand, my faithful friend?’

‘The man is a viper! His followers are scum! You took away
their prize the other day, and if I was a man for betting, which I’m not’ – Finn quickly crossed himself – ‘I would say that you have invited your enemy into your house.’

King Olav still grinned, but there was a fierce glint to his eye. ‘And if you were a man for betting – which you are right not to be because it is a sin in the eyes of the Lord – where else would you keep your enemy but close to your breast? It is the best place to keep an eye on him. I’ve sent him to Stenvik because it will give the townspeople time to think and prepare for our arrival. A delegation of four is easier to stomach than an army of thousands, and can tell us what to expect when we arrive. Now, if he yearns to do mischief, which he very well may, seeing that I spared his father’s life but took his lands and his men, his betrayal will be far away when it happens and obvious when it comes. For now his silver-coated tongue is in my employ and far away from … ?’ King Olav looked expectantly at his lieutenant.

And then Finn understood. ‘… the army,’ he whispered.

‘Exactly,’ King Olav added happily. ‘Where he cannot learn how to garner the support of men or become a real prince. See, we’ll make a leader out of you yet, Finn Trueheart.’

Finn shook his head. ‘It might take a while.’

‘It so happens that time is on our side. Just remember, Finn – there’s not much difference between a chain and a collar.’

King Olav’s smile was cold and hard.

WYRMSEY

Skargrim knew they thought he was losing his mind, but he didn’t care. He’d given the orders regardless. The ditch was to be the height of a man, twice the width of a warrior’s leap, and go
in a circle large enough to fit a longship any way one pleased. In addition, it was to be as far away from the camps as possible.

The men grumbled, but he didn’t care about that either. He knew from experience that it was not a good idea to have fighting men from many counties sitting together doing nothing. There were always scores to settle, and if they were tired they were less likely to settle them, and he had other reasons besides. Even Skuld didn’t seem quite sure what he was up to.

He surveyed the men from his vantage point up on the cliff they’d called Wyrmshead.

They’d see.

In the distance, more sails dotted the horizon.

STENVIK

Thorvald stood by the table in the longhouse and looked at the three young men before him.

He had chosen them all, some when they were only seven winters old, and he’d chosen well. He’d taken them out into the forests, whipped them up Huginshoyde and down Muninsfjell, run them until they didn’t tire and fought them until they didn’t lose. He’d taught them how to move silently in the woods, how to hide anywhere, track anything, take down a deer with a single arrow, keep the speed high and the profile low.

The gangly old hunter smiled. He had never married; never needed to. These were his sons, gathered around the table. He unrolled the map he had shown Olav last night and gathered the three scouts around it.

‘Sjoberg. By noon. Then to Birkedal, up the hill, check on the farmers at Gard for news, down to the south-east, find high points. I have marked some out, but leave the choice to you. We want
to know if anything is moving out there. No heroics, just information. Sigmar, you lead.’ Sigmar nodded gravely. Thorvald handed him the map, but did not spare the young man a smile. It would not do to grow soft in his old age.

‘Off you go.’

Without a word his three scouts set off at an easy run towards the western gate.

*

Valgard woke with a start. His skin felt clammy, his mouth tasted like bile and his body felt like a wrung dishrag. Falling asleep at the workbench hadn’t helped. It had been a bastard of a night. He’d had to go for fresh water for his patients five times. By the last time the well guard was cursing him roundly and threatening to piss in the next bucket.

But no one had died. Mostly thanks to him.

In the shed next door he had the pig farmer, who looked like he was going to recover eventually. He might even have had some sense smacked into him. The gods occasionally allowed for fantastic things.

Lilia … he’d done the best he could. He always did. Harald never let her out of the house when he was ashore, so she would be resting at home.

The Swede was another matter. Sven had been at him, bandaging, serving him mixtures, steaming plants to make him breathe better, but nothing had worked. His lanky long-haired friend insisted on sitting with him.

They were all pieces on the board now.

He tried his best to ignore the pain in his body and clear his head. There would be repercussions after the events of last night. You couldn’t start something like that without damages. Honour demanded it.

It all started and ended with Harald. He’d succeeded in making the big oaf dependent on him to provide the mixture and patch Lilia up when the bastard went too far. Now Harald would probably be in trouble with Sigurd because of how he had abused the pig farmer. Harald was not one for authority to begin with, but would Sigurd push him far enough? If there was one thing that brute could be trusted to do it was to make a bloody mess of things. But how best to use it?

With his toe, Valgard tapped the bundle of wood under his workbench. Behind it, the box. He nodded slowly to himself. A lot of pieces were in place already.

Now he had to figure out in which order to play them.

*

Audun looked at the three sleeping forms in the shed.

The pig farmer in the far corner looked the worse for wear, bandaged almost beyond recognition. Still, he’d live.

In the middle lay Geiri. He looked peaceful, as if he was only sleeping. A large, purple-green bruise peeking from underneath a head bandage was the only thing that hinted at anything out of the ordinary.

In the corner his friend from the longhouse lay slumped. Ulfar, his name was. Before he could think about what he was doing Audun had walked over to him, put a hand on his shoulder and shaken him gently. ‘You. Get some proper rest.’

Ulfar startled, blinked, tried his best to see. ‘Wh-what?’ He shook his head. ‘Must have … fallen asleep. I’m awake now. Geiri? How’s Geiri?’

Audun kept his hand on the young man’s shoulder. ‘He’s still out. And you’re going somewhere where you can sleep proper, not in a corner like a thrall. Go to wherever you’re staying and get some rest. You might need it. I’ll watch over him.’

Ulfar looked at him and blinked. After a while, he nodded and stumbled to his feet, standing nearly a head taller than Audun. ‘Thank you. I’ll go sleep for just a little while.’

He staggered out of the hut.

Audun looked around then sat down in Ulfar’s place.

What in Hel’s name was he doing, helping strangers?

He shook his head.

No good could come of this.

*

Oraekja rolled his eyes.

A lot of posturing, that was all it was. Stalking behind Ragnar, squeezing in between another pair of pointless, stupid huts, Oraekja meant to scowl fiercely. It came out as more of an annoyed sneer. He knew he had a good scowl though – the kind of scowl a hard bastard would use to silence a room. He’d been practising it for a while.

But this was just pointless.

No skulking, no hiding, no dragging people into shadows and stabbing them. He’d seen a couple of girls worthy of his attention but there’d been none of that either. Ragnar would just walk around during the day and look at things.

It was stupid.

And he was left trailing after the old man, who would walk around inside the walls like an idiot, just looking. Every now and then he’d see something, a house or a barn or a couple of men walking, look up at the gateway, close his eyes and mumble. Real advanced scout business, Oraekja sneered. He didn’t seem like he was in any rush to do anything to Sigurd and his men. Earlier he’d stopped by a place with long sticks and bales of hay. Bales of hay! What was he going to do – feed them to death?

‘When do we move?’ he asked.

Ragnar sighed. ‘Like I’ve told you, we wait for her sign. Did you not listen to the instructions?’ He turned away and continued walking.

Oraekja spat and scowled. He reckoned Ragnar was simply scared. He was a scared old man and should make way for the younger generation. Men like him.

Ragnar was weak.

Weakling.

Bloody weakling.

The blood pumped in Oraekja’s head. He wanted to shout, scream or pick a fight. There was only one thing he could do. He thought of her. Then he went over her special instructions again in his mind. He’d listened well enough to those, and now he was beginning to understand.

WYRMSEY

‘Put some cock into it, you lazy mongrel shit-witted bastard whoresons!’

Skargrim listened to Thora give the workers a tongue-lashing. As always the vocabulary of his second in command amazed him. She was nothing if not inventive. And the voice on her! Skargrim marvelled at the sheer loudness that fitted inside such a tiny frame. On his instructions she’d set the men to cutting down trees and hewing them down to planks after they were done with the ditch. To the side a platoon of workers was fashioning ropes to bind the logs together.

As he watched, one of them, a broad-shouldered rower from Thrainn’s crew, threw down his axe. ‘I did not come here to do farm work for a woman!’ he shouted. Skargrim cringed. Thora walked towards him, grabbing a shovel on the way without
breaking her stride. Swinging the shovel like a mallet, she thwacked him on the cheek as hard as she could with the flat of the blade. The dull klonk of the shovel blended with the wet squelch of splitting skin. The rower went down in a heap, clutching his face and screaming obscenities.