The Valhalla Saga 01 - Swords of Good Men (35 page)

‘You will die like all the others! No one can stop me! I am Egill Jotunn!!’

Audun blocked a powerful swing with the hammer’s head and aimed a vicious stomp at Egill’s shin. His heel landed with a satisfying crunch on top of the half-giant’s foot. Audun followed up with a shoulder barge delivered with all his might to Egill’s chest.

The half-giant doubled over and staggered back. Coughing, he struggled to rise. ‘You cannot defeat me! You cannot—’ A violent cough drowned the rest of the sentence.

‘DIE, YOU TURD-FACED MOTHERLESS RAT BASTARD BITCH-FUCKERS!!’ An incredible shriek cut through the noise. A fresh wave of black-clad warriors streamed through the southern gateway, led by a tiny woman wielding two daggers.

As the last berserker on the wall met his match, the defenders hustled down the steps to meet this new enemy. Across the market square Egill Jotunn limped away, swinging weakly at Audun; the blacksmith batted the sword away without hesitation and moved in.

The hammer connected with the half-giant’s right knee, smashing it. Aloft again almost at once, it smashed into his left knee.

Tendons, knee cap, joint.

Snapped, shattered, broken.

Egill Jotunn roared and fell.

Audun’s hammer split his face and caved his skull in, killing him instantly. The black-clad fighters screamed and cursed, redoubling their efforts.

The sun set on blades rising and falling, the dying screams of warriors and a town fighting for its life.

ONBOARD THE
NJORDUR’S MERCY

Skuld stood in the prow, sniffed the air and looked towards Stenvik as day faded into dusk.

‘Come to me,’ she whispered. Weaving its way towards her on top of an almost invisible carpet of shimmering, grey-tinted air inches above ground came a thread so thick as to appear almost solid, silver sparks dancing within.

Her hands moved silently, summoning the life-forces of the newly departed warriors, calling them to her. Letting them deliver her prize.

The last thing she needed.

The final thread.

The soul of a legend.

STENVIK

The market square was littered with bodies. Pools of blood soaked slowly into the ground beneath the stones. Smells mixed in the air and assaulted Ulfar; entrails and death, mostly. He knew those smells now. In the middle of the square Sigurd leaned on the haft of his axe, blood splattered across the front of his tunic. Sven and Valgard were moving towards him, probably to receive further instructions. Ulfar had watched across the square as the last brace of black-armoured warriors retreated through the tunnel with the tiny woman, driven back by two old men and a handful of
Westerdrake
fighters. He’d been too tired to cheer.

At the far end he saw Audun slink away, unnoticed by the exhausted fighters.

Ulfar followed.

*

‘We would have been massacred,’ Sven said.

‘And we should have been,’ Sigurd growled. ‘I still don’t understand why they didn’t follow through. Why didn’t Skargrim come over the wall?’

‘Does it matter?’ Sven shot back. ‘We’re alive. We’re alive and they’ – his gesture took in a square full of bodies in black armour – ‘are not.’ A rag-tag group made up of the old and wounded was already picking its way through the corpses,
shifting one here, rolling another over there, searching for any useful equipment. ‘Their own fault for running that many people through a hole, the bastards,’ the bearded old warrior added.

‘I don’t like this, Sven. I don’t like it at all.’ Sigurd paused, brow furrowed. ‘Set some men to barricade the bloody gate. Use whatever you can. Send Thorvald to round up the women and children. We’re keeping them in the longhouse until I say so. Where the hell is he going?’

Sven and Valgard turned around to see Harald stagger off towards the west gate, stumbling in between houses and out of sight. ‘He’s been on his feet for a long time,’ Valgard ventured. ‘He’s probably just going home for a rest while he can get it.’ He knew exactly how Harald was going to get his rest, but kept that to himself.

‘Well, he’s going in the wrong direction,’ Sven spat. ‘Bloody useless at times, that man. He’s been acting strange in the last week, more so than usual.’

Valgard shrugged. ‘People have their bad days, I guess. Sometimes they come in weeks.’

Sigurd snorted. ‘They do, don’t they.’ He turned to Sven. ‘Get on with the barricade, old man, unless you’d like to walk down to Skargrim’s and get your throat cut immediately.’

‘Might save me dealing with upstart puppies like yourself,’ Sven shot back and smiled.

Valgard rolled his eyes and moved towards the healing station. There would be no shortage of work for him there.

*

Ulfar heard it before he saw it.

Coming around the corner he found Audun on his knees, vomiting hard. Spasms shook the blacksmith’s massive back and shoulders, delivering the contents of his stomach onto the grass behind a small storage hut.

Audun, Stenvik’s mender of iron and hammer-wielding hero in the battle of the market square, was down on his knees, face red, neck veins throbbing, tears streaming down his cheeks.

Words did not come to Ulfar.

Instead, an image of Lilia gently insinuated itself into his head, left a lingering trace, a touch, a suggestion. Drawing the blade that Audun had made for him, Ulfar swiftly cut a piece of his tunic, folded it twice and made a rag. Then he knelt by the blacksmith’s side, held the cloth to his friend’s forehead and waited for the bad time to pass.

*

In the aid tent some of the lucky ones, those with minor wounds, knocks and scrapes, were trading insults and jibes, talking about who had done more damage to the raiders, who’d fought like a girl, who’d been knocked out before he could hurt himself. Valgard listened to their patter as he prepared more bandages. Stars twinkled overhead; the air was cold and crisp. The night was almost over. And what had happened? He had been forced to quietly end the lives of seventeen raiders with his knife, warriors who would never rise again, proud men who would just have become shamed cripples, extra mouths to feed. The dead bodies had been unceremoniously dumped in a pile that would stink of battle if the whole town didn’t already. Valgard spat and tried to breathe with his mouth. They could try and hide the fear if they wanted, try to cover it with bluster, but in the end they’d been lucky. The black warriors had easily been a match for the raiders of the
Westerdrake
and their prowess could have overcome the situation, coming two and three abreast through a hole in the wall. The Stenvik archers had wounded at least half of them before close combat had even begun.

And even so, the defenders would still have struggled if it
hadn’t been for Audun. That man had kept them alive. There was no doubt about it. The stories would probably vary, but by last count he was thought to have disposed single-handed of about twenty black warriors and five berserkers, not to mention the giant. Sven’s duel with the knife bitch had been something to behold too: she’d been murderous quick and taken out many good men, fat Havar among them, but the old dog had stepped in and simply refused to die. Instead he had seemed to read and anticipate all her moves, parrying and countering, pushing her slowly back. In the end she’d retreated into the tunnel with eight of the black-clad warriors, running to the safety of their own camp. No doubt she’d be telling some nice tall tales about the Stenvik men’s numbers and fighting ability. That would be good for making them think twice about the next assault, but it would probably still not be enough.

Someone moved in behind him. ‘Go get some sleep.’

The thin, pale healer snorted. ‘Sleep? Sleep is for—’

‘Now, son.’

Valgard smiled to himself. He knew better than to argue with that voice. He turned, nodded at Sven and walked off, past three women moving towards the longhouse, when something occurred to him. Slowing almost imperceptibly, he changed course and headed towards the west gate.

*

Ulfar wandered aimlessly through Stenvik. Audun had not wanted to talk to him. Instead he’d grunted and wiped the vomit off his chin, stumbled to his feet and staggered home. Every bit of his own body screamed for sleep, but his brain would not let him. Images of murder on the wall flashed in his mind, throats opening and blood gushing from gaping wounds, light leaving warriors’ eyes.

He saw Valgard slink away from the wounded, saw Sven sit down and start working by candlelight, rolling up bandages and preparing for the next wave of the wounded.

‘Not very nice, that,’ he commented casually as he ambled over to where the old man was sitting.

‘What?’ said Sven, taken aback. He peered out into the darkness, trying to locate the source of the voice. ‘Bloody light. I’m blind. It’s Ulfar, isn’t it? What’s not nice?’

‘Leaving a feeble old man all alone like this,’ Ulfar said with a smirk.

‘Oh go kiss a cow, you bastard,’ Sven replied cheerfully. ‘The bloody lard was inspired. It’s a good fighter’s head you have on your shoulders there, son.’

‘Thank you.’ Ulfar blushed in the darkness. ‘I just – I did what I thought I needed to do, I guess.’

‘You did well is what you did,’ the old man said. ‘Now, would you do me a favour and do the rounds? Have a look in on the lads. Some of them are sleeping. Some of the others are in a bad way. See if anyone needs help.’

Ulfar nodded and turned towards the rows of wounded men laid out on pallets. As he walked he found to his horror that these were no longer strangers. He recognized faces and remembered names. A chill passed through him.

‘Ul … far …’ A soft voice whispered from the pallets.

‘Coming,’ he answered on reflex. Looking over the rows of wounded men, he could not see any movement. ‘Where are you?’

‘… Here …’ the voice sounded again, along with a flicker of movement halfway down the row of sleeping bodies. It was Orn. The young fighter he’d left on the wall was now a boy with a shattered collarbone, four broken ribs, a fractured skull and a badly twisted leg. Someone had smashed his right shoulder for good measure.

‘Here I am.’ Ulfar took Orn’s hand and mustered a smile. The boy’s face was pale and drawn, making his eyes all the more remarkable. All his strength seemed to shine out of them, blue and sparkling in the faint moonlight.

‘I need to tell you what I’ve seen.’ His grip on Ulfar’s hand tightened.

‘Ah! Yes you do,’ Ulfar replied. ‘What is it?’

‘I didn’t know who else to tell it to. All the others always tease me because I’m so young,’ Orn said quietly. Ulfar said nothing. ‘I may not be full grown yet but I see well,’ Orn continued. ‘I’m named after the eagle and I’ve inherited his sight. Everyone knows this.’ Strength and determination crept into his voice. ‘And I’ve seen things in the last couple of days that I’ve not told anyone. Magic. Every time someone dies on the wall, a little grey spark or cloud or something seems to leave them and slide towards the harbour. I think – I think someone onboard the ship that lies anchored there is harvesting their souls.’ Orn looked at Ulfar, then looked away. ‘You don’t believe me, do you?’

‘I have no reason not to believe you, my boy,’ Ulfar said. Orn relaxed back onto his pallet. ‘I’m just not entirely sure what you’ve seen or what I’m going to do with it. Is it … what? We’ve already seen the strange army of outlaws, we’ve seen a union of bastards from the north, apparently – what can I do about some grey mist?’

But Orn was fast asleep, an exhausted smile on his lips.

VALHALLA

Empty.

Hollow.

Dead.

There was not a single soul in the mighty hall. There were no stools around the great table. No echo of fighting men’s songs. It felt like it had been empty for some time, and Harald could already see it falling into disrepair.

‘Thor … ? Freya … ?’

The words bounded around the wooden box, sounding weightless and stupid. What the hell was he doing? Calling out to … who? To what? He felt his anger rise. He was being a fool and he didn’t like it.

‘This is all cowshit. This never was. I’m dreaming,’ he spat into the darkened far end. Shivering, he suddenly felt absolutely certain that if he walked towards the darkness it would draw him in, surround him, gradually slow him down and then, when at last he stood still, it would kill him.

He would never find the far wall.

Shaking, he forced himself to look at tangible things, rotting wooden fixtures barely visible in the dusk.

He blinked.

How had he not noticed that?

Lying on the floor in front of the massive table, standing out like a bloodstain on a white shift, was a piece of wood.

Loki’s voice whispered in his ear.

‘Take it, Harald. Set things right.’

Startled, he spun around.

Nothing.

Heart thumping in his chest, he turned back to the table and the piece of wood.

He caught his breath.

It was stunning.

An exquisitely carved wooden dagger, edge and point sharpened to perfection, intricate runes set on the hilt. The work of
Loki. Harald sheathed the dagger in the folds of his tunic with great care and left the hall.