The Valhalla Saga 01 - Swords of Good Men (37 page)

Then he stopped, fist raised.

A hand had snaked under his left arm and grabbed hold of his shoulder. A slim dagger’s point pressed uncomfortably hard at the base of his spine.

‘Let go of the woman, son,’ a voice behind him said, almost conversationally. Harald released his grip on Lilia, who collapsed onto the street. She pushed away from him and struggled to rise. Inga came out of her stupor and helped Lilia to her feet. The two men stood stock-still, entwined in what looked almost like an affectionate embrace.

‘You need to calm down, my boy,’ Sven said. Harald saw Inga look at the man behind him and then set off towards the long-house. Lilia stood still, watching him. Looking at him, into him and through him. He tried to turn, tried to stop her seeing the dagger by his breast, the door to Valhalla. But it was no use. Sven had him pinned. Harald cursed.

‘Yes, and your mother too, a couple of times,’ Sven replied levelly. Lilia turned and walked away. ‘Now, after she’s gone I’m going to release you. I don’t think Sigurd would appreciate it if you got angry with me. We need to kill the others, not each other. Do you understand?’

‘Yes,’ Harald grunted after a few hissed breaths.

‘Good.’ Sven eased the arm back, maintaining pressure on the point of the knife. Harald could feel a drop of blood trickle down his spine. Behind him the old fighter stepped back. Harald turned. Sven watched him intently, relaxed but quite clearly in a fighting stance.

The dagger went cold next to Harald’s skin. Not now, it told him. Not now. Loki and Freya and Thor would have told him that
too. Not this fight. He smiled at Sigurd’s adviser and nodded. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking,’ he said, and mustered a smile. ‘I must be tired or something.’

‘We’re all bone-weary,’ Sven said. ‘And I know you have your black moods every now and then. But save them for Skargrim. He’s coming, and he’s coming soon.’

A rising clash of weapons banged on shields carried on the breeze from the old town. Around them men ran towards the south gate, women to the longhouse. Still watching him as one would a cornered animal, Sven grinned and inclined his head towards the sounds of battle.

And suddenly everything made sense again. Harald had seen enough warriors prepare for war to know when the rules changed. And these rules he knew. Fights were simple. He smiled back, and Sven relaxed. As Lilia’s words echoed in his mind the burly sea captain’s smile broadened.

He knew the rules, sure enough. But the rules for this fight would be slightly different.

*

The door to the longhouse slammed shut and the thick bar scraped across the inside, settling in place with a heavy thunk.

Like a layer of night snow, an eerie silence settled on Stenvik.

On the wall Thorvald commanded his best remaining archers. His face was pale and drawn, his jaw clenched. He had only spoken a handful of words since Sigmar’s death. Beside him Runar finished sticking a handful of arrows in the earthen wall, looked down and signalled to Jorn.

In the market square, nearly seventy fighters quietly checked their armour and equipment. Sigurd and Sven inspected the scene. They had done all they could. To the south, a makeshift barricade of timber, stone and the corpses of their enemies blocked the gate.

Harald stood by the remainder of his men and smiled.

Jorn nodded to Sigurd and moved to his post.

In the smithy, Audun sipped the last drops of stale water. Then he reached for two mallets, hooking them to his hip. Grabbing a big two-handed sledgehammer, he moved towards the door.

Ulfar returned from his assignment and whispered to Sven, who nodded and shook his hand.

Valgard watched from a distance and smiled.

Thorvald’s voice rang out. ‘NOW!’ The archers on the wall started firing at an unseen enemy. Then, with more urgency: ‘SHIELDS!’

Death fell on Stenvik.

*

Skargrim was out of options and it filled him with primal, savage joy. He’d explained the plan to Thrainn and Hrafn in moments. Now orders were flying back and forth, groups were being marshalled and shields were up. Like cold water down his spine, bloodlust awoke in the old chieftain. He looked across the line at Thrainn to the west and Hrafn to the east. Then he nodded to Thora, who drew a deep breath.

‘MOVE!!’

Arrows punched through knee joints and arms, stuck in shields, glanced off mail jerkins. Sprinting, roaring, Thrainn Thrandilsson’s raiders rushed to the fallen walkways on the south-west side and started to raise them, hand over hand, straining and cursing. The men who could not help threw themselves at the wall and started scaling, kicking at the packed earth for footholds, inching upwards. With swords on backs and knives in hand they climbed on faith, looking straight at the wall to shield their faces from arrows and stones.

On the other side Hrafn’s warriors launched deadly javelins at
single targets with precision born of years of raiding together. More than one Stenvik archer would see the first spearman, duck down only to stand up and be thrown off the wall by the force of the second spear, launched moments later. This covered a sustained effort by Hrafn’s strongest men, and the first ramp rose quickly into place.

Hrafn was the first up the planks, cackling madly.

Runar stood, drew a bead on him and loosed. Whooping, he knew the moment it left the string that the arrow flew true. The cheer turned into a shriek as Hrafn, running at full speed, somehow shimmied past the line of the deadly missile that should have punched clean through his throat.

He hardly even slowed down.

Firing three quick shots in succession at the waiting warriors, Runar put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. Thorvald’s head whipped round, sweat pouring off the old man’s face. He read the situation in a flash.

‘BACK! BACK!!’

As one the archers turned and fled for the steps. Hrafn jumped up onto the wall to see the last of them disappear with surprising speed down towards the ground. He got to the top of the stairs just in time to see the warriors on the ground remove the planks that the archers had used to slide down.

The stairs had been smashed.

Instead of regular steps, a treacherous, uneven, rocky slope and grim defenders with long, thick spears awaited the raiders. Hrafn grinned and ducked as two arrows flew over his head. ‘Not bad, Sigurd Aegisson. Not bad,’ he chuckled to himself, seeking cover behind the inner wall.

*

Back in the embrace of stone and blood.

Skargrim’s nostrils flared as he tried to ignore the stench of
death. All around him his warriors were clearing out the corpses of Egill’s men, each grabbing a fallen raider and dragging him out of the tunnel.

Looking up, Skargrim noted the broken murder-hole covers with some satisfaction. Stenvik was going down hard … but it was going down.

*

‘WE HAVE THE WALL. SEEK COVER!’ Hrafn shouted. Two of his fighters had already fallen to well-placed Stenvik arrows – their archers had been swift to find where the invaders’ heads would be briefly visible above the parapets. Now the groove between the inner and outer wall was slowly filling with Hrafn’s men, crawling on hands and knees. ‘KEEP DOWN!’ he shouted again, grinning. Plans were all well and good, but it wasn’t a proper scrap unless they changed a little. ‘STAY WHERE YOU ARE!’ he bellowed. Crouching down, he made eye contact with his warriors and motioned for them to start crawling, head down, following the groove towards the north side of the wall.

*

Skargrim’s blood boiled. The silence in the gateway was oppressive, broken only by the grunts of the corpse-bearers. One of the men pulled a body from the top of the pile and rays of light leaked through the barricade.

Stenvik.

Sigurd.

‘COME ON, YOU BASTARDS! WORK FOR IT!’ Thora screamed, setting off a chain reaction of growls, shouts and insults through the entire tunnel. As four more corpses were pulled away the last obstacle came into view. A wooden cart filled with rocks and turned sideways across the opening. Roaring, Skargrim waded over the corpses and barged into the cart.

It didn’t move.

Cursing and slipping on the blood-slick stones, he pushed again. Nothing.

He found a foothold, bent his knees and pressed for all he was worth. The cart moved, but rocked back. Skargrim pushed harder. This time the wood creaked and the cart moved further. All around him he could sense more space as the corridor cleared.

One of his men joined him on the cart, and then another. Together they pushed and the cart rocked. As it balanced on a wheel, more people joined and pushed. The cart fell with a loud crash, shattering and spilling stones over the road. Skargrim charged roaring into Stenvik.

Three of the arrows missed him, another four thudded into his shield. The last one grazed his elbow. Blood oozed slowly out of the wound as Skargrim’s men poured through the southern gate, spreading out.

A chill of foreboding filled him. He looked down at the blood, already thickening. A drop fell off his elbow.

If you give to the land …

The drop hit the ground and a blast of cold air swept in from the harbour, followed by an inhuman scream.

Something was coming.

*

Audun could feel it. After yesterday’s events everything had changed. Or everyone, rather. No one knew how to talk to him after he’d shown what he was capable of, after he showed the people of Stenvik that he was a berserker. They hadn’t asked him to hold the line with them but had hinted that his presence would be welcome. Just before they hurried away.

He felt sick. There was death all around him and he could feel the murder in his blood like a disease. His body didn’t feel right;
didn’t feel all his after yesterday’s killings. Audun tried his best to quell the rising bile, but found himself wanting to vomit, drink water and hide under a pile of furs for a week. But for some reason he couldn’t quite comprehend he was here instead. Hiding behind some huts at the edge of the square, observing from afar.

The men in the market square looked uneasy and as sick of killing as he was. Thorvald’s archers were retreating, firing at the raiders coming over the wall. From his vantage point to the side he followed the fighters’ eyes towards the barricade he’d helped assemble.

The cart was moving, rocking back and forth.

It was a good cart, he thought wistfully. He could maybe have been a bit more generous on the wood on the aft axle, but despite its flaws it had done what it had been made to do. Audun smiled to himself.

The cart tipped but did not rock back. Instead it kept tipping until it was tipping over, falling and crashing to the ground.

Skargrim charged into Stenvik.

All eyes were on the big, grizzled captain as Runar and a handful of archers let fly.

When they heard the strange sound Audun looked at the men in the market square. Faced with Skargrim on the ground, raiders on the wall and possibly something unknown like the berserkers, they exchanged worried glances.

All of them, except one.

Harald smiled a hunter’s smile as he slowly inched from his position with the raiders of the
Westerdrake
and towards Ulfar.

Audun cursed and moved into the market square, following Harald’s path.

*

Harald watched as another arrow thudded into Skargrim’s shield. The big captain’s hand closed on the hilt of the sword. Roaring,
he charged the defenders’ ranks. His men followed and the Vikings flowed into Stenvik.

The square was battle, blood and chaos.

He grinned. This was good. The dagger by his breast pulsed hot and heavy. This was how it should be. From the blood the strong should rise and serve the gods. He spotted an opening and stabbed hard, his sword piercing the throat of an unfortunate raider and sending him down. One more for Valhalla.

They’d been right to meet them this early on – the invaders couldn’t use their numbers yet, but he could see the defenders would be pushed back. To his left Sven shouted: ‘They’re coming over the wall!’ The old bearded fucker was still alive, fending off two of Skargrim’s men with good footwork. He was a hard man to kill, Harald mused, but the battle wasn’t over yet. ‘Ulfar, go help to the east! Slow them down!’ Sven shouted. Ulfar broke off at once from the group and set off towards the east wall. Harald grinned, banged the pommel of his sword on a raider’s helmet and stepped from the front line to follow Ulfar. The rules for this fight were going to be different.

*

Sigurd wrenched his axe from the broken head of the dying fighter before him, never taking his eyes off Skargrim. A circle had formed around them, roughly the reach of their weapons. Many warriors had died already inside that circle.

Skargrim nodded at Sigurd and smiled. It was not a friendly smile.

‘Sigurd.’

‘Skargrim.’

Without warning the huge Viking captain launched himself at the chieftain of Stenvik, swinging to kill.

*

Hrafn motioned silently to his fighters crouched behind the inner wall and watched them pass the signal on. It was time.

He held his breath for one moment … two … and when the first warning cry sounded from the north side of town he climbed over the inner wall and dropped the twenty-five feet to the ground. All over the eastern Stenvik wall, from the southernmost point to the northern one, fierce raiders in sealskin coats did the same. Landing lightly, Hrafn saw the faces of the poor archers that had been set to watch one point on the wall, only to be faced with their field of vision filling with enemies. Not long now, he thought. Not long … there.

‘RETREAT! BACK TO THE LONGHOUSE!’

Echoes of panic.

Hrafn smiled.

*

Runar didn’t give himself time to think.

Move, stop and shoot.

Move, stop and shoot.

He vaulted a fence, turned and squared his feet. Like he’d been taught long ago, he took the moment to control his breath, size up the onrushing warrior, draw and shoot.

The arrow glanced off the nose guard, punched through his enemy’s left eye and dropped him dead.

Move, stop and shoot.

Back to the longhouse. That was the idea.