The Valhalla Saga 01 - Swords of Good Men (15 page)

NORTH OF STENVIK

Sigmar had smelled it for a while now. It had met them in the forests a mile downwind from here and grown stronger as they got closer. A mixture of things, and he couldn’t quite tell them apart. They had made good time up through Birkedal, but seen
nothing. In fact they’d seen nothing at all, which was odd. They should have met someone or seen some kind of evidence of humans. But there was nothing. Now, approaching Gard by moonlight, they’d been slowing down.

Something was not right.

Cresting the hill overlooking the fields of Gard, the smell hit him like a wave.

It smelled like burning wood. It smelled like blood.

He looked down on the big farmhouse, saw the tendrils of smoke. Saw the yard.

The air smelled like roasting flesh.

STENVIK

Ulfar blinked.

The light in the hut was fading.

Geiri.

What?

Where was he?

Find Geiri.

He stumbled to his feet and staggered out. The stars twinkled above him. Clouds drifted past the moon, bathing his path in a silvery ghost-light. He staggered across the quiet walkways towards the healer’s hut, still more asleep than awake. When he got there he found Audun the blacksmith still on the same spot, eyes trained on Geiri’s sleeping form. As the smith made to rise, their eyes met. Ulfar nodded and helped the stocky man to his feet, but just as Audun got up they heard the scream.

‘FIRE!!!’

STENVIK

Ragnar was no more than a shadow gliding silently across the moonlit walkway. Oraekja watched him open the gate and step inside. Moments later, he led an obedient old draft horse out of the enclosure.

He had to admit it. Despite the old man’s stupidity and arrogance he moved well. So let him sneak and skulk. Lookout would do fine for tonight. Watch, melt into the shadows and disappear at the first sign of trouble. Oraekja smirked in the darkness. ‘No they won’t catch you. No, they won’t. We’ll see about that, old man,’ he muttered as he moved to join Ragnar.

They led the horse quietly past the huts and towards the harbour. The old man had found the spot earlier on one of his many walks, a darkened corner between some storage shacks. Apparently it was not visible from the walls – not that Oraekja had ever seen any of the guards Ragnar kept mentioning.

When they got there, a long rod and an armful of thatch lay on the ground waiting for them.

Ragnar started stroking and soothing the old horse, muttering in his ear all the while. Moving slowly, he produced a short, solid club from the folds of his tunic, raised it and brought it down with all his might on the back of the horse’s head, killing it instantly.

Oraekja had to hop away to avoid the falling body, which hit the ground with a muted thump. Ragnar was already crouching. He jerked the old nag’s head back, exposing the neck. Then he produced a skinning knife from somewhere and sliced into its throat. Soon the ground was painted with streams of blood. Amazingly, Ragnar had managed to escape without as much as a stain. As the flow slowed to a trickle the old scout started cutting into the flesh around the neck with the skinning knife. He worked quickly, carving a path to the neck joints.

*

‘You never were as much of a man as your father, I always said,’ the red-faced farmer slurred, leaning on a fencepost behind the longhouse for balance.

Standing next to him, his fat cousin heaved and gasped for breath. ‘Shut … up,’ he managed before another surge of bile filled his mouth.

The annoyed farmer breathed in, nostrils flaring and eyes widening. He breathed out again, slowly, and swallowed. ‘I’m fine,’ he added. ‘I’m not being sick like a little runny-ass girl.’

‘Shut up, you …’ his cousin doubled over again, a hacking cough sending up the remaining contents of his stomach.

‘Shut up, shut up. Why don’t you shut up so you stop’ – the red-faced farmer held his hand to his mouth, burped and winced – ‘spewing like a child, you wet-arse?’

Behind them the shadows changed shape.

*

Oraekja had to strain not to vomit.

It was filthy work.

The blood stank. The carcass stank. By now, Ragnar had finished the first stage and was on to the next, skinning knife in hand, sack at the ready. Oraekja busied himself tying together bundles of hay and touchwood from the pouch.

Soft, squelching sounds.

Ragnar’s voice was calm and measured. ‘Make sure you don’t get blood on your clothes. When the time comes we’ll be walking out of here.’

Oraekja chose not to look at him. The smell was bad enough.

And then they were done. Two full sacks, a pole almost half again the length of a man, and three touchwood bundles for each of them. Ragnar moved first, ducking between two shacks and looking towards the harbour. The square and jetty were dusted in silvery moonlight, almost as bright as day. Oraekja looked over Ragnar’s shoulder and swore under his breath.

‘Don’t worry,’ Ragnar muttered. ‘The hero may charge but the wise man …’ He looked up. ‘… waits.’

The moonlight seemed to fade. A cloud drifted in, floating on the wind like the finest silk, draping itself across the moon. Soon another followed, and then another.

Darkness descended on the square.

‘Now. Go.’

On the walk to Stenvik they had mapped it out in detail so there was no need to ask, think or talk. Oraekja was glad of it. He just sprinted to the jetty. Ragnar went to the near end. Oraekja looked at the ships in the middle, seeking the right ones, the ones that would burn best. Ragnar picked a small, fat merchant boat hemmed in by larger ships.

Oraekja became aware of movement out of the corner of his eye. Signalling furiously to Ragnar, he slid down into the biggest longship he could find and lay down, flattening himself against the side of the boat and clutching the bundles of thatch in his hand.

Straining, he heard footsteps and heavy breathing. The pier creaked, the sounds coming closer and closer.

Voices.

‘Which one?’ Out of breath. ‘Heh. Let’s take Ingimar’s. Never liked him. Besides, it’s next to the
Drake
, and nothing should be.’

Someone spat. ‘Damn right.’

Another man grunted. Wood creaked next to Oraekja’s ear. They were in the boat next to his. He pressed harder against the side and held his breath.

‘I say we cut them.’

‘No. No blood.’

‘Then what? They’re out now, but they’ll come to by dawn at the latest.’

‘Just wait and see,’ the third man growled. More grunting. The boat rocked. ‘Pass me the rope.’ Scuffing, straining. ‘Now give me the knife.’ Scraping noises. Oraekja felt the blow through the side of the ship. Then another two in quick succession. Metal on wood. ‘There. That should do.’

‘Oh. Oh, that is …’ there was admiration in the voice as it trailed off. Then, grim chuckles.

‘What about the pig man?’

‘A couple of well-picked words in his ear and he will find pigs somewhere else. Like Rus or somewhere. I’ve heard there are lots in Miklagard. If not … well, we can always arrange for another lesson,’ the growling voice concluded with smug satisfaction.

More laughter.

Creaking wood.

Oraekja’s heart thumped. All they had to do was lean over the side and look down and they would be right on top of him. He was willing to bet that Ragnar would disappear, too. He’d be found alone, lying in a boat that wasn’t his, clutching fire-starting equipment.

But they moved away, back up to the pier.

He felt more than heard the push as the boat next to his ship slid out and onto the tide.

‘Their own fault.’

‘Damn right,’ the growling man agreed.

Footsteps moved away.

He peered up over the side as soon as he dared. In the distance, someone staggered along the street and disappeared among the houses. Behind him, a boat floated serenely out to sea, carried on the tide. He could vaguely make out two shapes on board, huddled close together. At the far end of the pier, he could see Ragnar. He must have sneaked across the square while the bastards were in the boat next to him, and now he stood by a shallow-keeled, speedy raiding ship, signalling him to hurry.

Oraekja glanced at the moon and could see what he meant. It was full to bursting and starting to peer at them from behind retreating clouds. He must go, and go now.

He looked around. It was a drake indeed. He counted twenty-five benches, exquisite curves, beautiful woodwork. Lost in thought, he ran a hand along a smooth and neatly tucked-in oar, a warrior’s weapon in the battle with the sea. It was a shame to destroy such a beautiful ship, but Skuld had been adamant. The raiders of Stenvik needed to have their manhood taken away, they needed to live in fear of the old gods. And her word was to be obeyed.

Oraekja placed the bundles around the thick mast and had to suppress a wave of nervous giggles. This was not going to work. Trying to ignore the shaking in his hands, he found the bowline and dropped the sail. He could already see the flicker of a flame coming from the first ship that Ragnar had set on fire. The light was shielded from watchful eyes at the wall by barrels and cloth, but it wouldn’t stay that way for long. Working quickly, Oraekja
cut ribbons from the woollen cloth. It was a well-made sail reinforced with leather and the cutting was hard going. Still, it yielded to his knife and slowly strips of cloth gathered in a pile at his feet.

When he was convinced the pile was big enough he added the bundles, drew his dagger and loosened the fire-steel from his belt. Striking it hard against the flint pommel of the dagger, he produced a spark that flew at the touchwood, but didn’t take. He tried again. No luck.

It took four tries, but then finally the spark became a flame that grew in size, devouring the thatch and the wool, sinking its teeth into the mast.

The red-hot orange dance of the flame almost got him. Transfixed, he had to tear himself away from its beauty. But time was fleeing with the clouds. He jumped up onto the jetty, grabbed his sack and hurried to the middle of the square, where Ragnar was busy making a small hole in the ground.

Shaking, Oraekja upended the sack at the old man’s feet. The horse’s head spilled out, staring with frozen eyes at the night sky. Ragnar looked round and nodded at Oraekja. The skinning knife flashed and three horizontal stripes emerged, widened and oozed blood just above the jagged cut where the head had been separated from the body.

He watched as Ragnar grabbed the horse’s head under his arm, jammed the knife alongside the remainder of the neck joints and carved a hole. Then he took the pole, shoved it into the neck and gave a twist for good measure. Oraekja grabbed the bottom end and guided it into the hole in the ground as Ragnar steadied and pushed it. The damn thing seemed to rise for an age. Risking a look back, Oraekja could now see flames dancing onboard the three ships. The knarr was burning happily and the longship
showed flames in five different places. Even the
Drake
’s mast seemed to be moving as fire-cast shadows caressed the timber. Finally, Ragnar let go of the pole. It stood upright, the horse’s head grinning madly at the pier. He turned it so the head faced the town, muttered something under his breath, reached into his bag and tied a calfskin roll to the wood. Then he turned to him. ‘We’re done. Let’s go.’ Oraekja grabbed the second sack and the two men rushed out of the square.

*

The shadow had always been Harald’s friend.

He’d been alive again. Focused. Like he knew what it was about. Odin’s warrior, sent from above for the heads of weaklings. He had smelled the sea, the autumn in the forest, tasted the starlight in the air. It had felt good. He’d knocked his man unconscious in one. The boys had struggled with the other one, but managed eventually. Valgard had poisoned those two dirt-fuckers well enough.

The boys had wanted to gut them on the spot, but he’d said no. He’d said no because he was a good leader. Blood meant questions and they didn’t need that.

Not now.

He smiled to himself.

Problem solved.

*

‘FIRE!’

The cry carried across Stenvik, bouncing off the walls in the still night. Ulfar looked at Audun, searching for signs of a false alarm, a regular occurrence, something.

‘What do we—’

Audun cut him off. ‘I go. You stay with Geiri.’

And with that, he ran out.

Ulfar was left blinking in the gloom of the hut. Shaking his head to dislodge the fog of sleep, he knelt down beside Geiri. A sheen of sweat had formed on the sleeping man’s brow.

Ulfar found the water barrel but it was empty. He cursed, grabbed a water skin and left.

*

The old man really picked the worst time to lose his nerve. Confusion and panic shone out of his every move, leaked from every line on his face. Oraekja cursed as he trailed Ragnar at a dead run past the small wattle houses, heading back towards the southern gateway. A short, fat man emerged from a hut in front of them, fumbling with the cord of his trousers. Ragnar lost his balance and stumbled into him.

Behind them, Oraekja stopped abruptly. The old bastard was going to get him caught. Caught and tortured. Without thinking, he reached for his sword.