The Valhalla Saga 01 - Swords of Good Men (25 page)

He took no pride in it. He just wanted to lie down.

He wanted to lie down and sleep and wake and drink some mixture and sleep again. He wanted to go to Valhalla, to speak with the gods. To eat and fight. Go somewhere where things were simple again, where he did the right thing. Where the thing he did
was
the right thing.

‘Like if you were the chieftain,’ a dry, cold voice whispered from the shadows, smirking. Harald’s heart thundered in his chest, but he didn’t show it. You never show your fear. That much he knew. It had been beaten into the very core of him.

‘Chieftains. Men with power. Mmmm.’ The husky notes of a woman somewhere, gliding over him like warm honey, infiltrating his head, surrounding him. Visions of Freya’s curves danced before his eyes. Harald could feel his body stirring and drew a deep breath, trying to push the images away. He was not well. There was something wrong with his head. Maybe he should tell someone. But that would mean abandoning his post. And Harald would not shirk his duties, regardless of how he felt or what he thought of Sigurd. Not now. This was war and he needed to be reliable. Reliable and solid. So he continued and tried his best to ignore it when his head changed things around him.

And soon enough the voices of the gods stopped bothering him. As Harald walked through the old town banging on shutters and ordering people into the fort, the visions became his friends and companions through the preparations. He made sure he didn’t talk to them, though. Not here. Not now. But as he grew more familiar with Freya’s eyes, Loki’s shadow-smirk, Thor’s curt nods, his head cleared again. There was nothing wrong with him. Quite the opposite. It was all beginning to make sense.

He had been chosen by the gods.

Now he only needed to find out why.

STENVIK

Sven found Sigurd walking the wall, looking towards the woods. ‘Did the pig farmer come to see you for a ruling on his rights?’ he asked without preamble.

Sigurd looked at him, briefly puzzled. ‘Oh. That. That’s today. No, I haven’t seen him. Why?’

‘It seems he left the hut yesterday to go find you.’

Sigurd shook his head. ‘I cannot keep track of everyone within our walls, Sven. Maybe he’s changed his mind. I’ve seen neither of his kinsmen either since last night.’ He shrugged. ‘I guess that means Harald is safe.’ Moving slowly among the men, he nodded at a fair few, clapped backs and clasped hands.

‘Maybe,’ said Sven. ‘He is still responsible for Geiri’s wounds, is he not?’

‘He might be, yes. But if the boy lives it’s not that bad, is it?’ Sigurd looked at his adviser with a critical eye. ‘I promise you that if we survive this we’ll lean on Harald. The boys will get their worth and everyone but him will be happy. Then we’ll send him out to raid somewhere else and take it out on some Saxon farmers. Is that acceptable?’

‘I guess that is our only option,’ Sven replied.

Sigurd smiled. ‘One is better than none, my friend.’

*

The raiders of the
Westerdrake
had followed orders and spread the word – prepare for war. Everywhere Audun looked, Stenvik obeyed. People worked with steely determination. Harald’s raiders had rounded up all the people in the old town and escorted them inside the walls. The fast-approaching line of enemy ships was spur enough.

Thorvald’s men were coming in from the outside carrying pails
of water quickly drawn from irrigation ditches, animal troughs and anywhere else. Some of the scouts were wounded from skirmishes with the outlaws.

The town bristled with weaponry. An old man walked past Audun, a fierce glint in his eye and a rusty sickle in his hand. Kids were running up the steps to the top of the wall, carrying bags bulging with stones. By the southern gateway Harald stood at the head of a group of ten raiders, all armed and ready to go. Audun watched as the big captain put on his helmet in silence. As the metal guard cloaked his eyes, the big raider checked the axe in his belt, the sword sheathed on his hip, and pointed silently towards the southern gate. The raiders followed him without a sound. Looking around, Audun noticed three other ten-man groups, all heading towards the southern gateway.

*

Up on the wall, Ulfar and Sven watched as the enemy fleet split in two. Still a fair distance out, a large group of ships seemed to double back and hold, reefing sails and working oars. Meanwhile, twelve ships in the vanguard appeared to set a course to the south of Stenvik, skirting past the harbour. Five sleek black-and-silver vessels peeled off from the bulk of the fleet and followed.

Around them fighters manned the walls under Thorvald’s control. Dressed in mail shirts and helmets, armed with spears and axes, two raiders would line up on the wall. Between them an old man or young boy would stand armed with whatever he could find, several bags of small stones by his feet. Over on the far side of the wall Ulfar saw Valgard laying out cloth to use as bandages.

‘This is going to be one hell of a scrap,’ Sven remarked. They stood in silence for a while. Then he added: ‘You’re not half bad at Tafl, son. So tell me, what are they doing?’

Ulfar found to his embarrassment that the compliment made him blush. ‘Well, if you’re outmanned you wouldn’t split up – the larger force would murder first one half of your troops, then the other. So odds are Skargrim knows he’s got the numbers. Maybe that’s what he’s showing us. It depends on what happens with the outlaws, but I’d expect him to have his men form a loose circle around the town, focusing on the four exits. Then he’d wait us out.’

Sven grinned. ‘Not bad, son. Not bad. But what do you know about Skargrim?’

Ulfar scratched his head. ‘Not much, I must admit. I’ve heard his name mentioned, but detailed news of his conquests hasn’t quite spread down my way.’

‘Well – I’ll tell you this for nothing. He is smarter than you’d think, absolutely merciless and fond of the unexpected. That’s why he’s coming in now.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’d think he’d want to approach under cover of night and hit us just before dawn, surprise us and hack us in our beds. It’s the way we usually raid, it’s smart and it saves on men.’

‘You’re right,’ said Ulfar, frowning. ‘So why is he coming in now?’

Sven smiled through his white beard. ‘He wants to soften us up nicely first. He figures we’ll be staying and fighting, so he wants us to see him coming. He wants us to know and have a good long think about it. If you add that to the poisoned well and the outlaws, you get defenders with death on their minds who are therefore twice as likely to run away or break down.’

‘M-hmm,’ Ulfar replied, lost in thought and examining the terrain. ‘And how do you know what he’s thinking?’

Sven’s face turned hard.

‘Because Sigurd and I used to sail with him.’

*

‘But what about grain? Meat?’ Jorn tried to keep pace with Sigurd, who was marching towards the longhouse.

‘We have enough.’ Sigurd’s reply was clipped, offhand.

‘For how long?’ Jorn followed the chieftain as he opened the doors to the longhouse and stepped in, hardly breaking his stride. He didn’t reply. ‘For how long? And where do you keep it?! Tell me! I have to know!’ An edge of hysteria crept into Jorn’s voice. ‘King Olav told me that I had to find out! Prepare for the coming of the holy army! The word of God!’

Sigurd turned on Jorn, eyes blazing. ‘We have enough grain, the sheds by the animal pens are full of bloody grain, and your King Olav can bloody come here and ask me himself instead of sending some wet little boy to do the work! How far away is he? Come on! How far away? Tell me that, Jorn of the bloody Dales!’ Sigurd advanced on the young man, radiating fury.

Shocked, Jorn took two steps back. ‘I – I—’

‘You don’t know. And how could you?’ Sigurd sighed and turned towards the dais. ‘You’re just boys who know nothing,’ he muttered, stepping up to his chair. Instead of taking a seat he moved behind it, reaching for the big axe mounted on the wall.

It came down easily.

Turning towards Jorn and his men the old chieftain hefted the menacing weapon, weighing it in his hands, looking at it like he’d never seen it before. ‘You were never going to stay on that wall, were you?’ he said quietly, looking at the worn wood in his hands. ‘You were always coming down again.’ Looking up, he seemed to realize where he was. ‘Stop gawping,’ he snapped. ‘Make yourselves useful. Jorn and you’ – he pointed to Runar –
‘report to Thorvald. Tall, skinny. Scout master. You two’ – pointing at Havar and Birkir – ‘report to Harald. You’ve met, I believe.’

‘I don’t mean to complain but you can’t—’ Havar began. Sigurd turned and looked at him as if noticing him for the first time. The fat man yelped involuntarily. Ramrod-straight, strong and lithe, holding the massive axe as though it weighed nothing, the years seemed to drop off Stenvik’s chieftain. A slow, wolfish smile spread on his weathered face.

‘… Can’t?’ he prompted.

‘I beg your pardon. So, so much,’ Havar bubbled nervously. ‘I meant to say that you can’t ask for more than to fight beside yourself against – against the … the others. The enemies. The enemies of Stenvik are the enemies of King Olav and oof—’ A well-placed elbow from Runar silenced the fat man.

Jorn seized the opportunity. ‘Sigurd. We’re about to be besieged. If King Olav knew of this army of raiders coming in, he told us nothing. We must send your best runner out past the outlaws to alert the King!’

The old chieftain headed for the door without looking back. ‘We must do nothing but survive. However, your suggestion has merit. Ask Thorvald whether he will send Sigmar. It is his decision. Now go find your commanders, get orders and get rest if you can. They’ll be here soon and then there’s no telling.’ With that he left, the slam of the door spreading silence in the longhouse like rings in a pool. The first noise to breach the quiet was Havar’s outraged voice. ‘That was unnecessary!’ he whined at Runar.

‘Yes, it was,’ Jorn replied, all trace of nervousness vanished. ‘Runar should have left you to blabber to the man with the big axe. He should have let you tell him more about what he can’t do. Maybe tell him that he couldn’t lop off your fat, yammering head with one stroke and watch him prove you wrong.’

‘I’m … sorry, Jorn,’ Havar muttered, staring at his toes.

‘So you should be,’ Jorn snapped.

‘Still,’ Runar piped up. ‘You p-p-put on a very con-uh-convincing show. He was f-fuh-furious at the King.’

‘For sending a boy,’ Birkir rumbled, eyes twinkling. ‘A boy who knows nothing.’

‘Thank you,’ said Jorn. ‘Glad you liked it. Now we need to build on this without going too far. We do what Sigurd says, report in and fight with the locals. We hold off these stinking northerners long enough to allow King Olav to get here and trounce whatever is left, by which time I fully expect something accidental to have happened to, say, a third of their grain stores? Just don’t get yourselves killed, you idiots.’

‘P-p-please, Jorn. Just once. C-can I? Just once?’ Runar pleaded as Birkir and Havar smirked.

Jorn frowned in mock annoyance. ‘No, Runar. No dying.’

‘Wh-what if I get Havar killed?’ Runar ventured.

‘That’s another matter entirely,’ Jorn replied.

‘Hey! I’m right here, you stuttering little weed!’ Havar exclaimed as the four men left the longhouse, grinning among themselves.

OUTSIDE STENVIK

‘ROW! ROW, YOU STINKING, DRIBBLING SHIT BABIES! ROW! COME ON!’ Thora screamed at the men, who smiled through gritted teeth. The ships had fanned out and were heading at full speed towards the beach. The other half of the crew was armed to the teeth, ready to jump overboard and hit the defenders hard the moment they touched land. To the north, past Stenvik harbour, Skargrim could see Ingi, Thrainn and Hrafn directing their ships to do exactly the same.

That had been the plan, at any rate.

But the beach was empty. The ships zoomed in, skimming across the water, powered by strong arms and broad shoulders.

Skargrim looked at the collection of huts, the longhouse rising above them. Wooden walkways, deserted. Behind the old town, a fortress rising.

Stenvik.

He smiled a feral smile. ‘Not bad, Sigurd. Not bad.’

Thora’s scream cut through everything. ‘OARS IN!!’

As one, thirty-six oars lifted up out of the water and the
Njordur’s Mercy
knifed through the water.

The last thing Skargrim saw before the ships beached at speed was a pole, set in the square by the harbour.

A nag’s head was impaled on it, facing out to sea.

STENVIK FOREST

They’d fought.

Oraekja had ended it, lying on his back on the forest floor. A handful of mud and leaves flung in his opponent’s eyes had bought him time enough to get up and close enough to do the knife work. He’d clutched the gangly fighter with his left arm, stabbing repeatedly into the soft belly and twisting the knife in the dying man’s guts. His right hand was covered in blood and the stench of the outlaw’s innards was still all over the front of his clothes. He reeked, but the fight had shaken Oraekja out of his misery.

He had to find her.

All aches and pains forgotten, he started inching towards the sea.

STENVIK, THE OLD TOWN

‘MOVE!’ Skargrim’s voice boomed. Three hundred hardened raiders roared an assortment of battle shouts and headed at speed towards the deserted old town. Skargrim ran with them, keeping pace despite his age and bulk.

‘Seems a little too quiet,’ Thora said, running up alongside him. ‘And look. Their southern gate is open.’

Behind him he could hear Egill Jotunn shouting at his men. He stole a quick look and saw the black-clad raiders striding purposefully along, the giant at their point. He shook a massive, slab-like fist in greeting. Skargrim saluted in return.

Looking back at the Stenvik houses, something stirred in Skargrim. He turned to Thora. ‘You’re right. This stinks.’ The command voice boomed again. ‘SLOW DOWN, we’re walking in! Eyes!’

The men responded at once and slowed to a walk, shields up. On the other side of town Ingi had already called for caution, with Hrafn following his lead. Across the harbour Skargrim saw young Thrainn watch in desperation as a sizeable group of his men disobeyed his order, broke free and set off at a dead run towards the houses outside the wall, screaming obscenities and battle cries. Skargrim also noted that Ingi’s contingent made up the rearguard and were slowing down in their approach, if anything.