Helga spun around. “Do not presume to tell me what to do or say when you are on my land, Johan Aagard! I would like you to leave!”
She took two steps toward him and wished she hadn’t. Johan was a farmer and had been working the land for the best part of forty years. He was a good head and a half taller than her, barrel-chested and solid.
He did not move but looked down at her. “I have told you: I will court you, and you will be my wife.”
“Loki’s balls I will,” she snapped. “Now leave.”
“No.”
“Go away!” she screamed in his face and crumpled as he struck her in the chest. Blinking and gasping for breath, she thought she saw something—
“She told you to leave.”
Audun. Standing by the fence, completely still.
“Oh? So that’s it, then?” Johan stood over her, impossibly big. “Someone got there before me?” He chewed this over for a couple of moments. “It’s all right. You’re a woman. It was to be expected.” He turned toward Audun. “Now you, on the other hand, can fuck right off.”
Audun said nothing, but there was a faint . . . change in him. Helga felt her insides go cold.
“I said, you can fuck right off.” Johan took a step toward the blond man by the fence, and Helga felt a sharp stab of fear. “You deaf? Fucking traveler scum. Norse? Probably.”
Two more steps.
“She would like you to leave,” Audun said. He didn’t raise his voice, but the statement was loud enough for those who wanted to hear.
Johan was not one of them.
“You fucking—” He stepped in strong, ready to bash, grapple, and twist the smaller man to the ground.
Audun broke his arm.
Johan screamed and fell to his knees.
“Audun!” The word escaped her lips, and she watched him deflate. He stepped away from the screaming man and took a few deep breaths. Incredibly, Johan staggered to his feet spewing a stream of curse-words, red-faced and drooling. He climbed up onto his horse and rode off, clutching his arm.
Helga clambered to her feet before Audun got to her.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
She dusted herself off. “You’re going to have to get used to sleeping with a blade,” she said. “He’ll be back.”
Audun sighed and shook his head.
She was about to insist when he walked away.
When he came back out of the tool shed, he was carrying a hammer.
ON THE ROAD, NORTH OF LAKE VANERN
CENTRAL SWEDEN, EARLY NOVEMBER, AD 996
Ulfar woke to drops of cold water on his lips. He tried to speak, but all that escaped was a moan.
“Easy. Easy, now,” a man’s voice said behind his head.
His eyes adjusted to the light: late evening; sky fading from purple to black. The soft orange glow of a campfire somewhere a bit off. His shoulders were stiff, his back worse. He tried to move his hands but couldn’t. Rope burns tickled and itched. A thick, numb feeling in his stomach slowly dissolved into white-hot pain, and his breath caught in his throat.
“You’ve been badly hurt, friend,” the man said.
Wincing, Ulfar turned to look, but his captor remained out of his field of vision. All he could see was a strong arm holding a water bottle. Now his neck hurt as well.
“Do you remember anything?”
“N-nuh,” Ulfar muttered. He tried to concentrate. A wagon. He’d been trussed up and thrown onto a wagon.
“Thought so,” the man rumbled. He moved to stand in front of Ulfar. He was of medium height, graying at the temples. “I am Goran. I look after a couple of fur-pushers. You are in our caravan.”
“Where—?”
“We’re going to Uppsala,” Goran said. “And you’re coming with us.”
The words caught in Ulfar’s throat. He leaned back, closed his eyes, and waited for sleep.
When he woke again, it was to the merciless bump and jostle of the road. He was still wedged in the back of the wagon; his hands were still bound. The sky was the blue of midmorning. The chatter of the men washed over him.
“—but where will he go?”
“Forkbeard is heading for the south. We are well north of anything he wants. He’ll just take the flat and easy, as usual.”
“Strange choice for a wife, then.”
As the men chuckled, Ulfar twisted into a better position for listening. Behind him, someone drew a sharp breath and squealed, “He’s moving! Quick!” The wagon slowed, then stopped, and commands were shouted up and down what sounded like a short line.
Someone carrying a staff stepped into view. “Good morning, friend,” said the man who’d introduced himself as Goran the night before.
“Morning,” Ulfar muttered. His wagon shuddered as the owner of the voice descended out of sight.
“Look! It speaks!” a tall, sleepy-eyed young man said.
“Shut up, Regin,” Goran snapped.
“Calm down, old man. Just saying—”
“Say less.”
Regin huffed and moved away toward the front end of the caravan, and Goran turned back to Ulfar. “So. Tell us about yourself,” he said.
Ulfar blinked and stuttered. “Tell you . . . what? Me? I . . . I was attacked in the forest. Bastard stuck me in the gut and ran away with my gold. I chased him—and next thing I know I’m trussed up on a wagon.”
“Interesting,” said another voice, and the owner followed shortly, waddling into view: a squat man with a squashed nose and ill-fitting merchant’s clothes. He stared at Ulfar. “And you want us to believe that? Where are your friends?” He looked comical, but the glint in his eyes suggested he’d be an unpleasant opponent in a game of wits.
Ulfar closed his eyes and thought. Friends? “One of them went . . . south, I think. The other is dead.”
“Sounds like you’re bad company,” Goran said, not unkindly.
“Maybe I am,” Ulfar said. “But I was making for Uppsala, just like you.”
“Hmpfh,” the short merchant said. “And who are you going to see there, man of no friends?”
“My uncle. His name is Alfgeir Bjorne.”
Goran glanced at the merchant, who nodded. Ulfar saw the flash of the blade and tried to move, but he was too weak. A strong hand grabbed his arm and with a deft flick his ropes fell away.
“You will forgive the caution,” the merchant said. “You came stumbling out of a bush, wielding a sword. Heidrek!” He snapped his fingers and another guard, young and bright-faced, stepped into view, holding Ulfar’s sword.
“Fancied it myself,” he said as he handed it to Ulfar. The smile on the young man’s face was genuine. “Where’d you get it?”
“A friend made it for me,” Ulfar said.
“I hope he’s not the dead one,” Heidrek said.
“I doubt it,” Ulfar said, and he felt a hint of a smile creep onto his face as he stumbled off the wagon and strapped on his sword-belt. “I seriously doubt it.” It felt good to have the blade back at his side again.
The merchant eyed him. Either he had some serious doubts about Ulfar or he had a naturally suspicious face. Ulfar put on his most winsome smile and hoped for the latter. “I am Ingimar,” the merchant said, “and this is my caravan. We’ll take you on as a guard—there’s no space for passengers. You walk.”
At the front of the line, the first wagon rumbled into motion.
Days passed, and as Ulfar fell into the rhythm of the caravan he slowly got the measure of his fellow travelers. The merchants mostly kept to themselves, save for Ingimar, who checked in with Goran three times a day, at morning, noon, and camp-time. There were three younger guards: sullen Regin, cheerful Heidrek, and Arnar, a quiet, serious man with a big rumbling voice and a big, black beard who’d barely grunted a greeting when Ulfar came to and had not uttered a word since; they answered to Goran, the gray-haired man.
The forest gradually thinned out around them, and the land started taking on a curve that looked familiar to Ulfa
r. There were still a couple of days to go; still a couple of days to make a run for it. The west was behind him, and north was nothing but frozen death. He could go south—but that was where Forkbeard was reputed to be. Ulfar pushed the worries out of his mind and concentrated on what he could do. At the moment, that meant putting one foot in front of the other.
The sun crept toward the midday mark. Regular as night, Ingimar scrabbled from the seat of his carriage and headed toward Goran. “Anything?”
“Nothing to worry about,” the guard replied. “We’re fine. Couple of days to go.”
“I know the route as well as you do,” Ingimar snapped, but Goran just nodded and kept walking.
The moment Ingimar returned to his seat, Heidrek started. His favorite pastime was to wind up Regin, and it looked like today’s entertainment was just about to begin.
“Regin?” Heidrek said.
“What?” Regin said with a sigh from the other side of a caravan. “What do you want?”
“You are so much wiser than me,” Heidrek said, and Regin just rolled his eyes and waited. “If you split a lamb in half, lengthwise, how many legs do you get?”
“Two,” Regin said.
“So if I had a lamb and sold you half, you’d pay me for two legs?”
“Of course not,” Regin snapped.
“But you just said! Two legs! Would you swindle me out of a leg just because you’re smarter?” Heidrek asked, a wounded expression on his face. “I thought you were my friend.”
Ulfar ambled along, listening to the regular plod of the horses and the rattle of the carts.
Regin, smelling a rat, took his time before answering, “There’s no meat on the other leg.”
“But why then does it have the front legs?” Heidrek said.
“If it had big muscles at the front, it would run forward and back at the same time,” Ulfar said.
There was a brief silence, and then from the rear of the caravan Arnar roared with laughter so loud it nearly spooked the horses. “Hah! Forward and back at the same time!” He slapped his thigh. “If that’s not the funniest thing I’ve ever heard,” he muttered. “Forward and back.”
Heidrek grinned, and even Regin smirked. When Ulfar turned to Goran, he found the old man was giving him a calculating look.
“Forward and back,” Arnar mumbled again. “Well, I never.”
Ulfar knew the road well enough, but it still took his breath away when, after two sharp bends, suddenly the trees thinned out on both sides, and the fields opened up before them. In the distance, the hill rose gently, and behind it they could see the three barrows. Houses were scattered like toys around the largest building Ulfar had ever seen.
The hof, the biggest temple in the world, was an incredible feat of building: four stories high and wider than four longhouses set side by side. Behind him he heard Regin mumble a disbelieving half-curse.
“There we are,” Goran muttered. “Uppsala.”
At that moment the sun broke from the clouds. The light danced across the field ahead of them, slipped between the houses, and sought out the top of the hill. When it hit the roof of the gigantic building, the men in Ulfar’s caravan had to look away.
“What the—?” Heidrek exclaimed. The roof had turned a bright, shining white, as if it had been struck by lightning.
“It’s very impressive,” Goran said. “They tiled it with gold. They say Thor himself approves.”
“He’d better,” Heidrek said. “That was something else.”
The nearer they drew to the town, the more the knot in Ulfar’s stomach tightened. Soon enough, excited children and yapping dogs were running toward them; the traders largely ignored them, but some of the children gathered around Heidrek. Ulfar was not in the least surprised; the young man looked like precisely the type of man who’d have a knack for entertaining kids.
He tried, but no smile came to Ulfar’s lips—and then he saw four men come walking abreast down the winding path around the hill. When the light caught on a cloak of white sable, Ulfar ducked behind a wagon.
“Goran?” he hissed. “I may have to—”
“Count to three, then go to your left,” the tall guard said without so much as a glance in his direction.
One . . . two . . .
A big storage shed loomed up on their left. As Ulfar felt the wagon veering toward it, he sent a silent, grateful thought to Goran.
“Watch where you’re leading!” Ingimar shrieked.
“Sorry,” Goran mumbled, unseen.
By the time the wagon was straight on the road again, Ulfar was no longer anywhere near the caravan.
UPPSALA, EAST SWEDEN
EARLY NOVEMBER, AD 996
“Welcome to Uppsala, travelers!” The speaker was tall, blond, and fair-skinned, dressed all in white so bright that it was almost uncomfortable to look at. He bowed deeply. “Ingimar!”
Goran watched Ingimar’s chin disappear into his chest. “Prince Karle,” he muttered.
“You’re back, you old rogue,” the prince said. “Worried we’d seen the last of you.”
“You know me,” Ingimar said. “Like the seasons roll around, old Ingimar will be back in town.”
“That is true,” the prince said. “Still, hard times. Forkbeard is about, stirring up trouble.”
“He’s still in the south, I hear,” Ingimar said. “We were fine, just me, my fellows and my”—he glanced back—“guards.”
Goran smiled. Old Ingimar might not be a swordsman, but his mind was sharp enough.
Ulfar’s feet found their way without much help. The lambs’ path up the side of the hill was still there, leading straight to the longhouse at the top. The door swung open smoothly, but the cavernous space within was empty. Ulfar stepped in, his heart thumping. Something about this felt wrong, like he was thieving.
The familiarity of the place felt worse, somehow, jarring—like a wrong note in a well-loved song. He was halfway to the dais before he realized what was wrong with the place.
He was.
Everything else was the same here, just like he’d left it—a couple of years older, of course, sagging in some places and fresh in others, but essentially the same. The only thing different was him.
“Tell me what happened.” The voice came out of the shadows at the far end of the house, and Alfgeir Bjorne stepped into the light from the open shutters. He was still a frightening man at five-and-fifty.
Ulfar swallowed, then blinked in the dim light and glanced around. “This might take a while,” he said.
Without a word, Alfgeir crossed over to a long bench near the dais and sat down. He looked at Ulfar, then gestured to the next seat.
“Are you telling me the truth, Galti?” Prince Karle smiled, his eyes trained on the young noble.
“I am, my Lord. I’m sure I saw him go up the path to the longhouse just a little while ago. Just when you were welcoming the guests.”
“Longhouse, you say. Hm. So Ulfar’s back.” Without thinking, the prince clutched his forearm. “And he was alone? You’re certain of this?”
“Absolutely,” Galti said.
“Well then. Hrodgeir!”
A flushed youth stopped studying his toes and peeked out from behind Galti. “Uhm . . . yes, your Highness?”
“Is Greta in town?”
“No, her and Ivar are off in the fields, I think. They might have gone home.”
“Find them—find them and make them come here. Tell them I request their company.”
Hrodgeir’s eyes opened wide and he glanced at Galti, who snapped, “Do as you’re told!”
“Of course,” the boy said, and scurried away.
When he’d gone, Galti looked at the prince. “Greta . . . and Ivar. Think it’ll work?”
Prince Karle smiled, rolled his shoulders and stretched. “We’ll see.”
Alfgeir Bjorne sat quietly and looked at Ulfar. There was no light in his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Ulfar muttered.
“Nothin
g you could do,” the old man mumbled, his voice thick with grief. “Nothing you could do.”
“But I—”
“Shut up.”
Ulfar did as he was told and continued to sit uncomfortably in the dusk.
“He liked you. I hope you had a good time.”
“He did you proud, Alfgeir.”
At that, the old man smiled. “You were always good with words,” he said. “We both know what he could and couldn’t do. He could have been something with a couple of years on him. Now he’ll never have them.” He sighed heavily and looked up, as if seeing beyond the ceiling to the skies. “Not here.”
Ulfar fidgeted, and hated himself for it. What now? In a way, it was like he’d stepped off a cliff; now, floating in midair, he did not know what to do.
“Best stay and wait for Jolawer,” Alfgeir mumbled. “He needs to hear the news from Stenvik.”
“Jolawer? But . . .” Ulfar’s voice trailed away.
Alfgeir looked at him. “I didn’t spend the best part of twenty years raising an idiot nephew. Of course Eric died. That’s what old men do. Jolawer has been king for a year and a half. Peacetime.”
“So Sweyn—”
“Yes, Sweyn has had enough of a rest to gather his troops and quite enough time to get sick of that harridan of his, so he’s coming, and he’s coming soon. I don’t know if news of this Olav will worry our young king more or less than the Forkbeard on his doorstep, but whatever they do, it’s my job to watch over the boy, and so that is what I will do.”
They sat together in silence for a while, until Alfgeir sighed again and said, “Tell me. Tell me how he lived.”
This was something Ulfar could do. He told him. He told him what had happened from the moment Geiri’s boat had set sail from the coast, of their adventures in Rus, tales from Hedeby, the endless roads and endless seas. Ulfar spun and weaved, plucking people from thin air, Goths and Moors, all manner of urchins and locals—and girls. There were a lot of girls. Most of them he gave to Geiri, building a picture of a young man learning life in the best possible way. As he talked, Alfgeir’s brow started to lift ever so slowly, and soon enough he was chuckling along, then laughing at the foolishness of his two young pups making every mistake in the book. Midway through a tale of two men with pants around their ankles escaping by the skin of their teeth from a furious farmer and his inviting daughters, Alfgeir rose, lit the fire set ready in the hearth, and poured them ale.
Blood Will Follow Page 15
