Blood Will Follow

by Snorri Kristjansson

  They stood on a small rise. Below them, the road wound down to a ferryman’s shack next to a small pier. The river itself was at least sixty yards wide. The other bank was a good six feet above water level, with a forbidding wall of pine trees all the way to the edge of the water.

  Audun whistled softly.

  “Yep,” Bjorn replied. “Can you swim?”

  “I suppose,” Audun said. “Didn’t know I’d need to.”

  “You might not, but it means I can stand you next to the edge, if need be.”

  “The edge of what?”

  A big, ungainly raft bobbled into view around the river bend, apparently floating upstream. Four bargemen stood on it, one in each corner, poling the craft toward the pier.

  “The edge of that,” Bjorn replied. “That’s our passage down to the Sands. You’re going to learn a lot more about tending horses real fast, Fjolnisson,” the tall man added. Audun wasn’t sure, but it almost looked like he was amused.

  “I’m never, ever going on one of these again,” Audun muttered.

  “What’s the matter, big man?” Breki said, slapping him on the back and grinning. Audun scowled, but he did not notice. Bjorn’s older brother did not appear to worry overly about other people. “No stomach for the waves?”

  “You can say that,” Audun replied, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Too much movement.” The river churned beneath them.

  “That’s what your mother told me!” Breki said. He laughed heartily at his own joke. Audun saw another couple of smirking faces. “Whoa!”

  The barge heaved under them. It was only just big enough to fit the two carts side by side. The rest of the party had squeezed in behind them at the back. The bargeman and his three flat-faced, thick-necked cousins had posted themselves one on each corner and were barking orders to one another in some kind of strange river language; only the occasional word was intelligible. Audun glanced at the one closest to him. The man stood braced against the two raised edges with his white-knuckled hands around a big, thick bargepole. The four men guided the vessel downstream with a carefully choreographed series of pushes—Audun suspected they knew the precise location of every sandbank and mud hole in the whole river.

  “How much longer?” he shouted to Bjorn.

  “We’ll be there before nightfall,” the tall man called over the backs of the horses.

  “Left!” the thick-neck next to him shouted, his eyes suddenly going wide. “Rocks! Left!”

  Time turned into dripping candle wax as the barge began to rotate, slowly at first, under the power of its own momentum. Panicked shouts from the other corners blended into the growing roar of the river. The bargeman next to Audun strained against his pole, tugged, and shoved, but something had caught it at the bottom and it didn’t budge. The veins on the man’s wrists bulged, and Audun watched him roar as he pulled for all he was worth, but it was all for nothing—he was slowly being lifted up into the air as the barge shifted under him.

  As if in a dream, Audun reached for the pole.

  His hands closed on the rough wood.

  He pulled.

  Every thread of every muscle in his body leapt to life and filled him to brimming with power, so much power, so much strength. He could feel the life in the wood, the pummeling force of the water; he could feel where the point was jammed between the rocks. Heat spread from his steel-woven belt buckle.

  The wood creaked in his hands.

  Something heavy shifted at the bottom of the river and the pole came loose.

  The bargeman stumbled back down to the deck, found his feet, and shouted a quick series of commands to the other corners.

  A wave of nausea washed over Audun. Cramps stabbed his gut, and he vomited over the edge, spitting bile.

  “Oho! We’ll have a ways to go with him yet before he’s a proper traveler!” Breki shouted. “Come on, Audun! It’s just like being with a woman! Or in your case—good training for the first time!” The panic on the barge dissolved into laughter.

  “Don’t be an idiot, Breki,” Bjorn said. “Audun—are you ill?”

  With supreme effort, Audun straightened up. “I’m fine,” he said between gritted teeth. “Just don’t like this river much.” His insides felt as if they were being squeezed out through his throat, and a hot ache coursed along his spine, setting his teeth on edge. The buckle was hot against his skin.

  “It gets better,” Bjorn said. “We’re nearly around the worst of it.”

  “I hope so,” Audun said. The packhorse leaned over, nudged his chest with its head, and snorted gently. He reached out and patted the animal’s neck. “Easy,” he mumbled. “Easy.” The horse repeated the gesture, and as the raft glided onward, Audun wasn’t sure who was comforting whom.

  THE SANDS, SOUTH NORWAY

  LATE OCTOBER, AD 996

  The Sands were not a patch on Stenvik, Audun thought.

  After the rapids, the river had slunk through a forest, under intimidating cliffs, and at last opened up into a narrow mouth that eventually became a bay. The light was fading as they arrived, and torches flared on poles above a smattering of large houses, but there were no longhouse to be seen and no town walls.

  Behind that was the sea. After the trees and the cliffs, the immensity of the sky and the width of the horizon briefly took his breath away. The deep hiss of waves had crept into the background; it was always present, like a pulse.

  When they got closer, he spotted a low pier. A short, fat man stood there waiting for them, hands on hips. “Well met!” he shouted.

  The leader of the bargemen exchanged quick words with Breki, who was not very happy when he turned away. “Well met!” he called back. “Coming in for the night. Seeking shelter.”

  “You and everyone else, friend,” the fat man replied cheerfully as the bargemen steered them toward him. As the vessel docked, the fat man shifted so that he was sure to be awkwardly in the way. “And it does appear that folk out there have discovered that it’s mighty hard to shelter behind a coin.”

  Audun saw Bjorn reach out and lay a hand on his brother’s forearm. The words died on Breki’s tongue and were replaced with a forced smile. “Wise words from a good man. Wise words. So what say you we trade? A couple of our coins for a little of your shelter?”

  The fat man smiled and stepped out of the way. An elbow from Bjorn jostled Audun back into action, and he whispered soothing words to his horses as the first cart rumbled ashore.

  It happened on the third night.

  They’d set down at the Sands, camped by their wagons, and spent two days eating, drinking, and dicing with the locals. Audun had earned a couple of silvers mending carts, but there was nowhere near enough trade for him to set up shop, even if he’d wanted to. He looked west, toward the retreating sun, and envied it. At least the sun got to leave this dump once a day.

  Breki, Bjorn, and a couple of their traveling companions had started a fire. A handful of locals drifted along; Audun just sat and listened. There was campfire chatter about King Olav—apparently trouble was brewing. Someone said he’d sailed north with six thousand men; someone else said that’d be suicide this late in autumn. Some of the Sands men had met a caravan farther up the valley that was headed for Stenvik with supplies and men, both of which were apparently in short supply. The consensus was that the king was probably crazy as a hovel of foxes, but none of the present company volunteered to go and tell him.

  Near midnight, a bull-necked sailor turned to Breki, who was in the middle of a story about a milkmaid and three farmhands that was not headed anywhere nice. “Oi, big mouth. Why are you still here?” he asked. Audun took one look at the man and felt a familiar tingle at the back of his neck.

  “Waiting on a ship,” Breki said.

  “You’ll be waiting a while, then,” said the sailor. “The strait is chock full of sea-wolves. We’ve had one in the last four due come in, and them badly wounded. Looks like you’re going to be stuck here losing your money at dice,” he crowed and sho
wed a gap-toothed grin.

  “And why the fuck would anyone want to sit outside or inside a shithole like this?” Breki snapped.

  And that was that.

  The sailor shoved Breki hard and dived after him as he hit the ground. Two of his friends jumped up and ran across the fire to help. A moment slow to realize what was going on, Bjorn was almost up on his feet when Audun pulled him down and shook his head. “If you go in there, they’ll smack you as well,” he said.

  The fury in Bjorn’s eyes was worse than a slap. “He’s my brother,” the tall man hissed. With that he was up and gone, wading into the darkness and the pile of bodies.

  Blinded by the sparks, it took Audun a couple of breaths to come to his senses.

  “Fenrir take your bones,” he snarled. “All of you.” He rose and strode into the fray.

  Bjorn did not speak to him for two days. Breki’s jaw was bruised, and both his eyes were swollen; he still managed to glare. The townsfolk gave them all a wide berth.

  Audun sighed. He really didn’t have a knack with people.

  He’d tended the horses; there was nothing else to do. He couldn’t walk any farther south without getting wet fast. The ocean seemed to surround him, fill out his field of vision, mock him with its serene infinity. All straight lines . . .

  And one sail.

  A ship was heading for the Sands.

  Without thinking, Audun hurried toward the makeshift harbor. When he approached, he saw that others had indeed noticed. A group of hard sailors had taken up positions to meet the newcomers. Some held clubs, some leaned on spears, some wore swords or axes in their belts.

  It felt as if the ship was taking forever to get there. Around Audun, hands tightened on weapon grips.

  The fat man who had met them at the pier elbowed his way to the front. “Who goes there?” he bellowed.

  “Oh, shut up, Ivar,” someone shouted from the stern. “And tell your boys to calm down.”

  Ivar turned around with a big smile on his face. “It’s all fine. It’s Hrutur.”

  A ripple of relief spread through the assembled men. Loud, nervous chatter replaced muttered curses, and some of them called out well-meaning insults to the approaching captain. Shouted commands guided the ship into the dock. She was a stout knarr with five cross-benches for rowers. Audun noted that not all of them were manned.

  “Come on, you old bastard!” Ivar shouted. The captain barked a string of orders, and the ship docked smoothly. A wiry man leapt ashore and embraced the fat chieftain, who punched his arm.

  “Welcome back, brother.”

  “Thank you,” the leathery-skinned captain replied. “Can’t stop, though. It’s worse out there every day, and we’ll need all we can get. Men, supplies, anything.”

  “Right,” Ivar said. “You!” he snapped, pointing at Audun. “Get your big-mouth friend down here—right now if he wants to do any trade.”

  When Audun brought Breki and the carts, the men on the docks were nearly done unloading the ship. Piles of furs, sacks of flour, and barrels of fish stood on the harbor. Townsmen were ferrying barrels, boxes, and sacks toward the harbor—woodcarvings, amber jewelry, bars of marsh iron. Ivar and Hrutur stood to the side, locked in heated discussion.

  “That the captain?” Breki said.

  Audun nodded.

  Breki strode toward Hrutur. The swelling was down, but the short man’s face was all the more colorful for it. “Well met, Captain,” he said.

  “Well met. Is this Breki?” he asked Ivar, who nodded. “My brother says you have trade.”

  “Amber, cloth, wool, and furs.”

  “On the carts?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sounds good. How much?”

  “Fifty silvers for the lot.”

  “Hm. Forty.”

  “Done. And I’ll need passage for six people.”

  Hrutur’s laugh was short and sharp. “I’m not a ferryman. Can’t help you.”

  What was still white in Breki’s face turned beetroot red. “But—but—”

  “I need the speed, and the Danes don’t want more people. Still forty?”

  Suddenly Breki looked completely deflated. “Forty-five,” he muttered.

  “Done.” The sea captain spat in his hand and extended it. Breki reached out, squeezed it, and walked off without a second look at Audun.

  “Poor man,” Ivar said.

  “Seen worse,” Hrutur said. “Don’t need passengers. I just need a couple of oarsmen.”

  Audun cleared his throat.

  The ship had been filled with supplies, the men rested and fed. Audun had found his place on the empty rowing berth and got to grips with his oar.

  “Off you go and may Njordur’s blessing see you safely across,” Ivar intoned.

  “And may Freyr keep you out of too many wives’ beds while I’m gone,” the captain shouted back.

  A small crowd had gathered to wave them off. The caravan brothers were nowhere to be seen.

  Audun sighed and tried to quell the rising anxiety in his stomach. But if King Olav was on his trail, at least he’d make the bastard chase him across the sea.

  “A lot of them out today,” a burly sailor behind him said.

  “We’re the first in two weeks,” another said.

  “Two weeks?”

  “Hel’s tits.”

  “Yes, boys, and don’t you forget who you have to thank for that,” Hrutur snarled. “Don’t think too hard about it; otherwise you’ll shit yourselves. Just get going!”

  Audun leaned into the oar and pulled, flexing his muscle against the endless sea. The man behind him grunted once, appreciatively. He settled into the rhythm, and the knarr started its slow crawl toward the horizon.

  A while later, Hrutur shouted for oars up and sails down. The crew stirred into action without a single wasted movement. They were well clear of the Sands, now just a thick, black line on the horizon behind them. Audun tried his best to stay out of the way when they didn’t need extra hands to pull against the wind.

  The boat rocked and sped across the gently tipped waves. The sea air filled his nose and lungs, teased salt water out of his eyes, and cleared his head. The sickness from the barge was gone—as were the encroaching cliffs and forbidding wall of pines. This is life, he thought. This was freedom.

  He permitted himself a smile.

  “Sail! Oars! You’re going to row, you fuckers, unless you want to be skinned!” Hrutur screamed as he yanked at the rudder.

  The sailors scrambled to their benches and grabbed oars.

  Audun stole a backward look. Two longships were approaching at terrifying speed.

  VALLE, WEST NORWAY

  LATE OCTOBER, AD 996

  The world re-formed around Ulfar’s head. The breeze that woke him was chilly and crisp, but it didn’t bite, not yet. He propped himself up on one elbow and looked around. There was no sign of Gestumblindi, nor Geraz or the phantom Frec, but the sun was shining and last night’s clouds had departed. The fire-pit was almost invisible; all that remained was the hint of a burned circle in the grass.

  He knelt by it, ran his hands over the green blades, felt the lines the points traced on his palm. He was . . . lighter, somehow. His body felt better than it had in weeks.

  But the taste of ash still lingered in his mouth.

  Sunlight caught on silver. A small flask lay in the grass a couple of steps over. Ulfar bent down to examine it and caught his breath. It was small, delicate, and exquisitely crafted—the side had a scene of some sort etched into it, depicting two men by a well. Slowly a handful of last night’s events came back in a confusion of images. He picked it up and shook it gently. Something sloshed around inside. He touched the stopper, then reconsidered, and tucked it in the small bag hanging off his belt.

  Without a word, he rose and walked toward the rising sun.

  TELEMARK,

  EARLY NOVEMBER, AD 996

  Fields gave way to forests, forests to fields, fields to hills, and still Ulfar
walked. His pace was relaxed; through some means he couldn’t quite fathom he knew exactly where he was going. It was something to do with the stars. The world’s travelers must have been heading somewhere else that morning because he had the pleasure of solitude on the road for the best part of the day. The touch of autumn was heavier now; behind and below him, blushing red trees, golden branches, and multicolored leaves turned the slates of forest green into a picture of vibrant death. The fields were pregnant with wheat, barley, and corn, waiting for the harvester who never came.

  Not for the first time, Ulfar wondered whether King Olav realized the damage he’d wrought on the nation he was seeking to unite.

  The path leveled out under his feet and started sloping downward again. On this side of the hill the forest was thicker; pines stood shoulder to shoulder, creating a green-brown roof over their thick trunks and obscuring his view of the valley below. Ulfar tried to picture himself as an eagle, soaring above the treetops, drifting up toward . . . something, but in his mind the gentle curves of green below turned into sea, and then he was on that boat again facing the woman in white, living the nightmare.

  Raised voices up ahead broke the spell and pulled his mind back to earth. They were coming from somewhere down the hill, around a bend, and were clearly in some disagreement. As he drew closer, the strings of noise broke apart into words.

  “. . . and if you hadn’t tied the straps like an old woman—”

  “An old woman? You’re one to talk! If you hadn’t filled the bag—”

  “You told me to fill the bag! You told me!”

  The voices grew louder with every step Ulfar took.

  “You are an idiot! Mother always said so! She said you were an idiot and that you’d fallen on your head when you were little and that I should never trust you with anything!”

  “No! She loved me best! You are a horse-faced bear-ass and I hate you!”

  “You shut up, you disease-ridden scumbag milkmaid-botherer! I hate you more! Your father was a useless wimp! You always mess up everything I do! If only Erik was here! I’m so tired of you I could—”

  The first thing Ulfar saw as he rounded the bend was a sack of turnips lying on the road. It had opened and spilled some of its bounty on the ground.