The Valhalla Saga 01 - Swords of Good Men (7 page)

Skargrim thought of the advance party. Ragnar had not wanted
to go. He’d suggested that they should hit Stenvik at an hour like this, just before dawn. Go in quiet and strike while the people were sleeping, set the houses on fire and raze it like they’d done countless times to countless towns. They’d scale the wall in the dark, come down quiet and hit them hard.

She had refused.

She said the pole needed to be raised to tell the people of Stenvik that the old gods were angry, to tell them that they were on the wrong side. They needed to make absolutely sure that the men, women and children of Stenvik were scared, she said. Skargrim remembered arguing that they’d be just as scared if they were being killed while their houses burned – and then she’d looked at him.

It was a mild night but Skargrim still shuddered.

Those eyes.

When she wanted something, she would fix him with those pale blue eyes and he would feel like he did when he was a boy getting ready to jump off the cliffs into the deep and chilly water for the first time, and something would lurch inside him. His limbs would go weak. And then the faintest echo of voices inside his head. Voices that went with cold, dark nights … Skargrim shook himself.

How had it come to this?

She’d just … appeared, one night last winter. Walked in from the cold wearing nothing but a shift, straight into Ormar’s long-house. His crew had been there with Ormar’s men, all of them drunk on strong, sour mead. A sizeable hoard had been brought back from across the ocean, and they’d been swapping heroic stories that grew bigger and more heroic with every retelling. And then she’d entered, wisps of fog swirling around her ankles, and the whole house full of hard-drinking men had gradually
fallen silent. The dogs had slunk away. She’d stood in the doorway and said that an army was coming with a young king at its head. That the king brought a new god – one god to rule all, the White Christ. Ormar had roared with laughter and said that Thor the god of Thunder would wipe his arse with this White Christ.

None of Skargrim’s men had laughed with him.

She said that the old gods had visited her in a dream. She said they were not pleased, and that she would lead everybody in this room to victory over the young king and the new god because the old gods had shown her what she needed to do. She said she was Skuld, one of the Three.

That got Ormar’s attention. He had laughed again, but this time at her. Straight to her face. Thinking back on it, Skargrim thought that showed how much Ormar knew about people. He and Ragnar had known from the moment she stepped in that she was fey. They’d both felt that other, older powers had walked with her. They’d kept their heads down, glancing only briefly in her direction. Ragnar told him later how he’d seen when her mouth started moving, whispering quietly.

Ormar was neither so smart nor so humble.

He looked her straight in the eye and started saying something about she was just a deranged bitch and how she would be good for one thing and one thing only. He started saying he’d do her right there, on the table. And then he stopped, mid-sentence, and watched his own hand in surprise as it slowly reached for his dagger. Then he stabbed himself. Hard and fast. Stomach, chest, thighs, chest, throat, face. Blood blossomed on his clothes. His screams choked on it. They watched, horrified, as his life drained away before their eyes.

The hand stopped moving only when he was dead.

Skargrim remembered the cold, clammy silence in the long-house as Ormar’s corpse tumbled out of the high chair with a dull wet thud. How a hall full of hardened fighters, raiders and murderers had sat quiet as mice and tried not to be noticed as she picked her way daintily to Ormar’s seat at the head of the table. How she’d sat in it and looked as if it was made for her. How two of Ormar’s thralls – two of his own thralls! – had quietly lifted him up, carried him out of the house and fed him to the crows. A few moments later one of Ormar’s champions had stood up, stormed to the centre of the hall and challenged her for leadership. She’d looked at him, smiled and moved her hand in a gentle swaying motion. The hardened fighter’s eyes had opened wide, and suddenly he was struggling for balance. He started retching. Her hand slowly contracted into a fist. Ormar’s champion had vomited blood and collapsed on the floor, as dead as dead could be. Since then the men, the ships and the blades had been hers. No council, no ruling, no committee.

No bloodstains on her shift.

In a sense, maybe the strongest had taken over like it was supposed to happen. Maybe Ormar had been growing old and fat. He’d always been a stupid brute. But to die like that? There was little honour in it, that much was certain. It did improve the men’s loyalty, though – there had been no argument whatsoever. That night she had delegated day-to-day command of all the men to Skargrim. She had also given him his orders. He’d not known what to say, but it was not as if he’d had any choice. He’d followed them to the letter.

A bitter smile played on Skargrim’s lips as he went back to his post. He liked standing in the prow. At least then he could see where he was going.

STENVIK

Iron didn’t lie.

It obeyed simple laws.

Heat, then separate.

Then bend it to your will.

And if you listened, it talked.

The water hissed and sputtered as Audun dunked the white-hot blade in the trough. In time it would become a sword to split some poor bastard’s skull, but that was not his fault. Nor the sword’s, for that matter.

The sword hadn’t asked to be made. Someone had asked for it. It was always about the people. And if they didn’t have swords, they’d simply kill with their bare hands. Like animals. Animals that fed on blood. The smell came back to him, the heady rush of it. He grimaced and spat into the furnace. The heat in the smithy forced Audun’s thoughts away from the past and back to the task at hand. He judged the colour of the metal.

Three more breaths.

The blade emerged from the hissing water, cherry-red in colour. He turned it with the tongs, felt for the weight, inspected the line and the edge.

This would be a good blade. It would do what it was made for and do it well.

And if it got stuck in some idiot’s head, he’d probably done something to deserve it.

*

The people in the market milled about, uneasy and curious.

‘So you’re saying she’s not worth you looking at her, pig man?’ Harald said, gruff voice ringing out over the square.

‘No! I think your wife is very beautiful.’

‘So you were looking at her.’

The big pig farmer looked frantically around the market square for support, but no one would meet his eye, let alone step into the ring that had suddenly emerged around them. Clouds drifted across the morning sun, and the temperature dropped.

‘No, I wasn’t. I swear. Not like that. I simply saw her, that’s all,’ he simpered.

Harald looked him over with a mixture of anticipation and contempt. He circled the prey slowly, moving with the economy and practised purpose of a brawler. ‘See, I say you’re lying. I say you were looking at my wife and thinking filthy, disgusting thoughts, pig breeder. And I say that’s not the right sort of behaviour for a visitor in my town.’ Behind him two large young men stepped into the ring, smiling wolf smiles. Harald continued, addressing the crowd as much as the pig farmer.

‘I reckon we have been a bit lazy in showing our guests how we do things around here.’

Harald’s hands turned into fists. He smiled, took two quick steps towards the big ungainly farmer and set to explaining the Stenvik way.

*

‘Look. It was a cowardly thing, I know and I regret it. You are like a brother to me, and I ask only that you treat me as such. I was confused and I—’

The back of Geiri’s hand hit Ulfar’s cheek with a loud slap that bounced off the walls of the tiny hut.

‘What the—’ Ulfar slipped on reflex into a fighting stance.

‘You just said I was to treat you like a brother.’ Geiri grinned. ‘And if my brother had acted like that around his elders, I’d have
slapped him. And you should see your face right now, cousin,’ he added with a laugh.

The pain in Ulfar’s cheek made him blink. Looking at Geiri’s grinning face took the fight out of him.

‘Yes. I probably deserved that one.’

‘You did.’

‘So what now?’

‘Well,’ Geiri frowned and leaned back against the support. ‘We can’t ask for another introduction. We have nothing to trade and it doesn’t look like we have anything these people need or want. So we find a ship that’s leaving for home and we get out of this hole. We have no function here and it’s time—’

‘No.’

Geiri stopped mid-sentence. ‘— What?’

‘No. We’re not leaving. You leave if you must, but I’m not going to. I have to see her again.’

Geiri looked incredulously at Ulfar. ‘What’s got into you? Is this the man who called himself Heartbreaker, Skirt-chaser and Kiss-taker all through the summer?’

‘This one is different, Geiri.’

‘Forgive me, my friend, but she can’t be.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Seeing as you’ve had every possible type of girl and woman since we set out, she’d have to have antlers and scales to be different. And even then I’m not so sure. Some of those Rus girls were quite … interesting.’

Ulfar ignored his friend, who seemed fully ready to evade an attack this time around.

‘Believe me, Geiri. She is.’

‘And how do you know?’

‘I just about walked into her last night.’

‘Oh, long live Freya’s wiles.’ Geiri rolled his eyes. ‘Did she throw her clothes at you this time around?’

Ulfar did not respond. He simply looked into the middle distance, lost in thought. The silence grew more and more awkward until Geiri gave in. ‘Oh, if that is how it is, I will accept that you’re right. Fine. There is something special about this woman.’

‘Yes.’ Ulfar’s voice was dreamy.

‘And you want to know what it is.’

‘Yes.’

Geiri looked firmly at Ulfar. ‘Well then, my travelling brother. I will bargain with you. We’ll go drink with the locals tonight, I’ll help you inquire
sensibly
’ – Geiri added a stern look for emphasis – ‘and we discover what there is to discover about this magical creature of yours. And we will try as hard as we can to do this. But if we don’t find anything, if she’s another man’s woman, if there is no hope of the gods or anyone else giving their blessing—’

Ulfar nodded.

Geiri finished. ‘— then we leave.’

‘As usual, you are the wiser one, if somewhat less pleasing to the eye,’ Ulfar said, smiling. ‘Thank you, Geiri. You are a true friend.’

Geiri shook his head.

‘No I’m not. I just get bored travelling alone.’

‘Liar,’ Ulfar said.

‘Coward,’ Geiri retorted.

They both grinned.

*

The circle had formed quickly, just like up north. They tended to do that whenever there was even a faint promise of violence, Ragnar mused. Just like animals and food. This had never been
a fight, though. It was turning into some kind of display, one that seemed to be making the audience uncomfortable. The crowd shuffled nervously. Someone shouted: ‘That’s enough, Harald!’ but nobody stepped forward to stop him.

Right. Enough of this. He sought out his travelling companion, tapped his elbow and motioned for him to follow into a nearby alley. Oraekja lingered, casting a longing eye towards the centre of the circle. When he followed at last he was smirking. ‘At least there’s Norse in someone in this rotten sty,’ he said. Behind them, sounds of something breaking were followed by a muffled scream and someone vomiting.

Ragnar shut him up with a glare.

‘I am going to say this once and only once. I couldn’t care a yak’s arse about whether you live or die, but the job needs to get done. Keep your neck covered at all times, stay close to me and come when I tell you to. We go in, we do what we need to, when we’re done we go back to where we landed and wait for Skargrim. Stay out of the forest and watch out for the raiders in this town. Despite being born this far south, Sigurd’s men know their work. That’s three of them in the circle, and unless you want to end up like that poor sod in the middle I suggest you keep your wits about you.’

‘If they’re so proper then how come we’re inside their town?’ Oraekja said.

‘We’re here because we’ve used our heads. We’re not storming anything nor showing off our allegiance. We look like skinners, not like an invading army. That’s why we can walk through the front door. Did you look up when you went through the gateway?’

The young man gave him a blank look and shrugged.

Ragnar sneered. ‘From now on you note your surroundings, or I’ll be all too happy to leave you to Sigurd’s dogs.’

‘If they get me they’ll get you too,’ Oraekja shot back.

Ragnar felt a faint itch in the palm of his right hand. It would be so good to scratch that itch with a hilt, with the hilt of a knife, whose point he would happily bury in the little rat’s eyeball. But he couldn’t rightly do that now. It would create attention that he could do without. Instead he looked straight at Oraekja and smiled his meanest.

‘No they won’t.’

After a spell the little bastard looked away.

‘Now come on. We have things to do.’

*

‘Help! Please help!’

Valgard rolled his eyes. There really was no rest to be had. ‘Wait.’ He rose slowly and deliberately from his pallet, feeling every single pinched nerve in his back, every thread of muscle in his aching legs. He shuffled to the doorway and stuck his head outside.

‘What do you want?’

Two anguished and awkward men stood by the doorway, fidgeting nervously. While the fatter one caught his breath, his red-faced friend spoke up.

‘It’s our kinsman—’

‘He’s hurt—’

‘In the market in the middle—’

‘Got in a fight—’

‘We heard some seaman said he’d looked at his wife—’

‘Big man, reddish beard?’ Valgard interrupted.

‘Yes.’

He sighed and shut his eyes wearily. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll come as fast as I can. Run to the market and try to make sure your kin survives.’