The Valhalla Saga 01 - Swords of Good Men (26 page)

Thrainn’s runaways arrived at the houses and swarmed over the walkways, still shouting.

Nothing happened.

Cutting through into the middle of town, the bloodthirsty raiders hooted and hollered.

Above Stenvik’s southern gateway a lone figure stood up, horn in hand. He blew three short blasts, then one long note. The
younger of Thrainn’s warriors turned and hurled insults back towards the man with the horn.

All around the raiders, walls silently collapsed inwards.

Armed men in twos and threes, shortswords, hand axes. No shields. One cut to injure, two to maim, three to kill. Screams of pain erupted from within the old town.

Then, as swiftly as they’d appeared from the huts, the ambushers were sprinting for their lives back towards the southern gateway, swerving across the southern road in strange lines.

A brace of flaming arrows flew from the top of Stenvik’s walls, thudding into wattle walls, wooden roofs. Houses that burst into flame surprisingly quickly.

‘No, no, no …’ Skargrim muttered.

Infuriated, Thrainn’s renegades had regrouped and were giving chase with swords raised.

STENVIK

Harald’s hand-picked raiders sprinted into town in small groups, their triumphant whoops echoing through the gateway. One of Harald’s raiders strode through into the market square and let loose a primal roar.

Valgard called to him across the square from his makeshift aid station. ‘Are you hurt? You’re covered in blood!’

The powerful young fighter turned and grinned. ‘Hah! If so, it’s not mine!’ A roar of approval went up from the men in the square, soon echoed from the southern wall.

STENVIK, THE OLD TOWN

Afterwards Thora swore she’d heard the snap as the first man’s leg broke. Within a couple of breaths four more of Thrainn’s men had run at full speed into the trip holes dug into the southern road, set with vicious barbed spikes to punch through feet and stones at the bottom to ensure a broken ankle. They had been picked off easily by the archers on the wall, their corpses stuck in the road, some buried up to mid-thigh.

Eight raiders dead, another twenty-seven badly wounded.

The remaining men had retreated quickly out of missile range and returned to Thrainn’s ranks as the southern gate closed with a dull thump. Now the young chieftain sat at the harbour and looked out to sea, ashen-faced.

‘Those men will never fight again,’ he muttered.

‘No, they won’t,’ Skargrim replied. ‘And not only that – they’re still here. The rest of your men can still look them in the eye. They can still hear them whimpering. It won’t stop your fighters, but even the hardest ones will be a little less inclined to fight. Sigurd knows what he’s doing.’

Of the twenty-seven, only four had life-threatening wounds. The others had been hit just hard enough to take them out of the fight. Sword arms, knees and shoulders. As Skargrim suspected, the houses hit by fire arrows had been liberally clad with kindling to accelerate the fire, heat the blood and encourage pursuit. The rest of the town’s houses stood firm. A cautious advance had confirmed that the town outside the walls had been deserted in a hurry.

Hrafn’s men had ransacked the houses. One of them had found a leg of lamb that someone had abandoned and taken a chunk out of it. Skargrim and Thrainn could still hear the poor man’s
retching from where they sat. He’d thrown up everything in his stomach and was now vomiting blood. Thrainn watched, mesmerized, as Hrafn walked over to the man and past the pile of poisoned food they’d gathered up. There was no bounce in the captain’s step, not a hint of a smile on his pale face. Just grim determination. Hrafn levered his shoulder gently under the crouching man’s armpit and stood him up. A greenish, sickly face with a thin stream of pink spittle stared at them.

Hrafn half-led, half-carried the man into a storage hut by the harbour. He came out alone and walked over to Thrainn and Skargrim.

‘Fogroot. A lot of it, too. He won’t live through the night,’ he said, matter-of-factly. ‘Serves him right, thinking with his stomach like that. Although I must say,’ he continued, nodding to Skargrim, ‘your friend Sigurd has a nice bag of tricks.’

‘He always did. We know what he’s capable of. Nobody thought this would be easy, did they?’ Skargrim looked at Hrafn and Thrainn. Both shook their heads. ‘But clever as all of this is, Sigurd will find out that all he’s done is separate the boys from the men. Soon he’ll find out that he has no water.’

Hrafn grinned at that. ‘Lovely. Ragnar?’

Skargrim nodded and smiled proudly. ‘He’s a wily one, my brother.’

‘Always has been,’ Hrafn nodded in assent. ‘Is she …’ he gestured towards the
Njordur’s Mercy
, at anchor in the bay.

Skargrim nodded. ‘She’s staying on the ship, out of harm’s way. I had four of my men row her out there. She says she won’t step on this ground before the will of the old gods is done.’

‘Battleground’s no place for a woman, anyway,’ Thrainn said.

Hrafn grinned. ‘I’ll be sure to carve that on the forehead of your corpse when the Valkyries come.’

Thrainn smiled back. ‘If you plan on hiding in the back, old thing, then by all means do. I’ll be up front with the real men.’

‘Hah!’ The glint was back in the skinny sea captain’s eye. ‘You could fit Idunn’s tit into that mouth, Skargrim!’ The big grey-haired raider did not respond. ‘… Skargrim?’

Skargrim faced away from them, looking east.

Thrainn and Hrafn followed his gaze.

Around town the other raiders gradually fell silent as they saw what was happening.

After a while Hrafn broke the silence.

‘Who in Bolthorn’s name are they?’

STENVIK

The men of Stenvik were gathered in small groups on the wall, some peering over the edge, whispering and pointing to the east. Others tried their best to catch glimpses of the assembled army to the south. There looked to be nearly four invaders to every Stenvik fighter, and the silent forest loomed with a promise of untold masses of near-invisible outlaws.

Ulfar didn’t see Sigurd, but he felt his presence. Suddenly the chieftain was there, walking amongst the raiders of the
Westerdrake
, clapping shoulders, nodding seriously at grizzled old fighters, sparing a smile for the younger men. Sigurd wove through the fabric of Stenvik’s defences, bolstering the men’s spirits simply by being there.

Sven leaned in and winked. ‘He’s good, isn’t he?’ Ulfar could do nothing but nod. The chieftain of Stenvik was dressed for war, red tunic over a bulky mail shirt, round shield on his back, spear in hand and a broad-bladed battleaxe in his belt. Ulfar watched him walk the wall, stopping to speak and share a private moment with every single warrior – and courage followed in his wake. Frightened boys, doubtful fighters and shaken old men now stood up straight, determined and strong. Thinking back, Ulfar suddenly understood something Geiri’s father had spent months trying to teach him and Geiri. You can’t tell them, he’d said. You
have to show them. Looking at the warriors of Stenvik, he realized that Sigurd was not commanding or forcing anything. Walking among them, making them his equals, he simply gave them a choice, a lead to follow.

And they would need it.

After the initial slaughter Skargrim’s army had drawn back, setting up camp around the far end of the old town, out of arrow range. Ulfar had tried to count heads but been chastised by Sven. ‘We don’t need to know,’ the old man had snapped. ‘There’s lots of ’em. Enough for everyone. Leave it at that.’ Then, a second later he’d added: ‘There’s fewer now than there were to start with, though,’ and walked away, chuckling to himself.

Now Sven was back at his side, looking to the east.

The fading light made the forest seem alive with movement. From behind every tree, out of every pool of darkness outlaws emerged, black shapes against a grey backdrop. Behind them, shadows flickered in the gloom. Shouts went up along the wall. ‘Calm down, boys!’ Sven shouted. ‘They’re just showing themselves.’ Most of the mass of outlaws disappeared back into the forest, but a small group broke off and headed towards the invaders’ camp, skirting the walls by a wide margin. ‘So, Ulfar. Did you count them?’ Sven snapped.

‘No … no, I didn’t. Maybe a hundred?’ Ulfar stole a look at the old man, who kept his eyes trained on the forest.

Sven’s voice lacked its usual note of mirth. ‘Eighty. Staggered over a broad line. Twenty more filling in gaps. Possibly another twenty running between trees in the back. They just showed us that they had numbers but made it impossible for us to establish how many they were. Clever,’ he mumbled. ‘The outlaws are not to be taken lightly.’

Ulfar thought he saw movement around the old town, but
there was no mass mobilization, no onrush of Skargrim’s men to meet the forest bandits in bloody battle.

‘I hate it when I’m right,’ Sven mumbled by his side. ‘Somehow that old bastard has rounded up every murdering, thieving bastard around and got them on his side.’

Sigurd approached them. ‘So. Got any bright ideas, Sven?’ the chieftain muttered under his breath.

Sven snorted derisively. ‘Die fast?’

Sigurd looked at his friend. ‘I’m sure there’s women and children that need looking after if you’re scared, old man,’ he said gently, a mischievous glint barely visible through the eye guard of his helmet.

‘Oh shut up,’ Sven said, grinning into his white beard. ‘I thought I was destined to rot slowly and take a running leap off the cliff. If we die here we die with honour, defending our town. Can’t ask for more than that, can you?’

‘Don’t reckon you can,’ Sigurd replied. ‘Keep an eye on them. I’m going to go talk to the rest of our men, make sure they stay awake, alert and as alive as possible.’

‘You go do that,’ Sven replied.

The last rays of the evening sun faded into night.

STENVIK FOREST

Somewhere deep inside Oraekja, something stirred. Something called to him, made him feel warm and wanted, pulled at his blood. Made him want to get moving. Skuld was here. He could feel it. She was close and she needed him.

He could almost taste the sharp smell of the pine needles as he hurried through the forest, heading towards the sea. The sounds of the outlaws were all around him, but he didn’t care.

He would live.

She’d make sure that he did.

STENVIK

‘So what do you think, son? Should we be lighting torches on the wall?’

Ulfar smiled to himself. This was familiar ground. ‘Yes. Definitely, yes.’ Sven was about to speak when Ulfar interrupted him. ‘If you want to blind your men to the dark and light us up for their archers, then I say absolutely. What you can and will do is light torches down below. We’ll be able to use the edges of the light but won’t be too badly blinded.’

Sven nodded his approval. ‘You’re well schooled, boy. I suppose you’ve learned from your father?’

‘Don’t all sons learn from their fathers?’

‘Some do,’ Sven replied quietly.

The two men stood in silence for a spell, listening to the bustle of the town behind them, the chatter of the men on the east wall.

‘Geiri’s father – my uncle – used to drill me on these things,’ Ulfar finally ventured. ‘Reading the terrain, talking to the men, considering the outcome of every decision on the battlefield.’ Mimicking an aging chieftain, he rumbled: ‘That is what makes a good leader, Ulfar. Knowledge.’ He snorted noisily. ‘Mmm. Knowledge.’

‘You’re a piece of work, son.’ Sven smirked.

‘Thank you … I think?’ Ulfar replied.

‘Oh, you’re welcome. Now try not to die in the next couple of days, will you? We still need to finish that game. I remember the position exactly.’

‘I’m sure you do,’ Ulfar said. ‘Exactly like it was.’

‘How dare you question my honour like that! I’ll have your hide—’

‘— after your nap and your warm milk?’ Ulfar shot back.

‘Hah!’ Sven exclaimed. ‘Here’s a free lesson in leadership, son – two, actually, from a wizened old cheat. First – keep doing exactly what you’re doing. Keep the mood, the sword and the head up, and we all live to see another day. And last – never underestimate an old man.’ Sven grinned wickedly.

Flickering torches in Skargrim’s camp illuminated an army moving to the east. Towards the outlaws.

‘Looks like Skargrim is going to meet the woodworms,’ Sven spat.

‘It does indeed,’ Ulfar said. The silence lingered. ‘You’ve just slaughtered a lot of livestock, haven’t you?’ he added after a while.

‘Yes. Why?’ Sven said, a note of suspicion creeping into his voice.

‘Oh, nothing,’ Ulfar replied. ‘It’s just that I had an idea.’

BETWEEN THE OLD TOWN AND THE FOREST

The captains lined up in front of their men.

Thrainn, straight-backed and strong.

Ingi, calculating and assessing.

Wide-eyed Hrafn, grinning manically.

Egill, humming happily to himself.

And Skargrim.

Behind them, over a hundred battle-hardened raiders.

In front, a group of ragged, scrawny men. In the torchlight they looked more like a small band of demons. Gaunt and gangly, clad in green and brown rags. Scattered on the front line were
long, thick spears, and the flickering torchlight caught on a variety of edges and spikes, knives and shortswords.