Blood Will Follow

by Snorri Kristjansson

  With the setting sun, spirits lifted in the cold longhouse.

  With the darkness came King Jolawer.

  “My King,” Alfgeir said.

  “Alfgeir,” Jolawer said.

  Ulfar blinked and shook his head. The boy he’d known as Little Jolawer was now a man of nineteen summers and almost Ulfar’s height. He was still scrawny, still looked like a worried bird, but there was something different about him.

  And then Ulfar remembered: King.

  King Jolawer Scot stared at him intently. “Ulfar?”

  “The same, my King,” Ulfar said. He bowed.

  “None of that,” Jolawer said. His voice was clear and strong. “We have history, Ulfar. Although it was inevitable, I was sad to see you go away.” The king scanned the room, then looked at Alfgeir. Something passed between them, and Jolawer looked down at the floor for a moment.

  “That is the world,” Alfgeir muttered.

  “So it is,” said King Jolawer.

  “You need to hear what Ulfar has to say,” Alfgeir said. “It’s a good year for raising armies, apparently.”

  Goran had sent Heidrek and Regin to look after the horses. The stable wall was solid enough for leaning on, so he allowed the time to pass and the road to leak from his bones.

  Ingimar came out of a house on the left, waved at someone inside, and hefted a sizable sack. Amber, Goran thought, probably. Or something else. He’d never quite understood the men who wanted to take things from one place and put them in the next, only to do it all again at the other place. He could see the idea behind it, but it all just felt a little . . . pointless.

  The merchant approached him, wheezing and coughing under the weight of his goods. “We’re nearly done here,” he said. “Quick sales, good prices. Perfect trip,” he added. A perfect trip would have been shorter, warmer, and better provisioned, thought Goran, but he kept that to himself. “Where are the boys?”

  “Seeing to the horses.” Goran gestured toward the stable.

  “Hmf,” Ingimar snorted. “Wish I could have taken you out again tonight.”

  “You can’t do that,” Goran said with a start. “The horses need to rest and—”

  “Yes, yes, I know that.” Ingimar waved his objections away. “Of course I know. The boys need a bone with some meat and some meat for their bone. Hah!” He laughed and waddled off. “I’ll see you in the big house when it’s time for food, old man,” he said over his shoulder. “We’re stuck here for tonight so might as well have some fun!”

  As Ingimar left, carrying the sack, Goran looked around, taking in the hardening grasp of autumn, the bare, wet-black trees in the distance, the sheen of dying leaves fading from red to brown. He smelled the cold on the air and watched the rim of the sun setting in the west. The houses of Uppsala were, upon closer inspection, just like the houses in every other settlement. It was cold in the shade of the big temple on the hill, and his old bones ached.

  Fun?

  Didn’t seem very likely.

  By nightfall the fires in King Jolawer’s hall were roaring. The dull, oppressive heat was better than the alternative; the Snow King’s fingers were already scratching at the window screens. It was going to be a hard winter and no mistake.

  “Goran! Stop being so mis’rable!” Heidrek shouted. “Have another drink!”

  “Y’ can’t say tha,’” Regin slurred behind him. “Ee ’asn’t ’ad one.”

  “Outrage!” Heidrek twisted his face into a serious mask. “Will not do! You bring shame to our home counties!”

  Goran rolled his eyes and forced a smile. “I go thirsty for my good nature, boys,” he said.

  “Whaddya mean?” Regin peered at him suspiciously.

  “More for the two of you!” Goran shouted.

  Heidrek and Regin cheered, clanked their mugs together, and swigged the contents. The Svea king’s ale smelled passable, but Goran had decided tonight would be a good night to have his wits about him. It would make tomorrow’s walk better, for a start.

  A cold gust of air made him turn his head. One of the welcome committee—the tall one with the nose—had stepped in. The boy dusted off his coat and gazed around the room with a casual air. He repeated the actions three times, and Goran couldn’t help but smile. Why don’t you just shout their names? he wanted to say. It doesn’t look like they’re here.

  The newcomer’s eyes kept drifting toward the panel at the back of the dais. The three chairs were empty.

  A door slammed, and a large man who looked only marginally younger than Ingimar walked out from behind the panel. He had the shoulders of someone who enjoyed his work and the belly of someone who enjoyed his wine, and he radiated authority. He calmly sized up the men in the room. The chatter died down very quickly, and Goran couldn’t help but think of deer smelling a wolf. Alfgeir Bjorne might be old these days, but he wasn’t dead yet.

  Favoring his left leg slightly, the large man went and sat in the chair to the right of the high seat.

  When Ulfar came out and sat beside him, on the other side of the throne, Heidrek coughed, middrink.

  “’e waschn’ kid’n,’” Regin mumbled. His head was sinking closer and closer to the table.

  A young, slim man made his way out from the back room and sat in the high seat. In between the two other men, King Jolawer Scot looked young, and painfully frail.

  “He certainly wasn’t,” Goran said, while keeping his eyes trained on the dais. Something was . . . off about the three men. Ulfar appeared to be reluctant to look at the other two. The young king’s shoulders were stiff, and even from the far end of the hall he looked ill at ease.

  “All hail, King Jolawer!” Alfgeir shouted, and the men answered with a rousing cheer, but that was it.

  “Nothing much to say to their king, it seems,” Ingimar said. “Gets in the way of drinking time.” The merchant had sidled up next to Goran without him noticing. He was carrying two jugs of mead. In the firelight he looked thinner, somehow. And was that a tinge of gray in his hair? “Jolawer’s found out about Olav in the north. I hear from others that he’s taken Trondheim.”

  “Hmh,” Goran grunted. The light was just playing tricks with him. “At least we won’t die bored.”

  “Hah!” Ingimar laughed and toasted his health. “Come on, Goran. One for tomorrow and the road.”

  The warmth and the food were making him very thirsty. Goran reached for the jug. Just one, this time.

  King Jolawer ate quickly, taking little pleasure in his food; then he bade goodnight to his guests and ducked through a door in the back wall to the bedchambers beyond.

  He caught Alfgeir Bjorne looking at him. The big man had aged visibly today, but at least the spark was back in his eyes. “What do you see?” he rumbled.

  “He’s good,” Ulfar muttered. “He asked all the right questions. I think he’ll do well.”

  “If he lives,” Alfgeir said. “If he’s around long enough to see things—to see the things you’ve seen,” he added.

  Ulfar didn’t answer.

  “Boy”—Alfgeir stood up with some difficulty, and Ulfar felt nine years old again—“get drunk. Talk to someone. Tell jokes. Play games. I’ve got one dead son, and I’ve no use for a half-dead nephew.”

  The lump in Ulfar’s throat threatened to choke him, but his mask remained cold and impassive. He favored Alfgeir with a smile. “I’m not one to disobey,” he said.

  With that promise, the king’s right-hand man limped away, climbed down off the dais, and moved through the suddenly sparse crowd, heading for the front door. It was odd how crowds always tended to thin out right in front of Alfgeir Bjorne’s feet, Ulfar mused. It seemed common sense was still at least a little bit common.

  Ulfar let the night wash over him. He met people he knew, though fewer than he had expected, and they talked but said little. He wandered around the room and found himself at the cook-pots. The mead tasted familiar, and the stew was reassuring. He politely declined a third helping and handed his bowl ba
ck to the cook, but he did allow a pretty little blonde to refill his mug. She looked familiar—but then, there was one in every town. He took a sip and winced; it tasted slightly off, but it was sweet enough. Somewhere deep within Ulfar, something felt a little bit right for the first time in a while.

  He turned away from the pots, and the slap hit him full in the face, leaving his ears ringing.

  “You dickless, no-good, oath-breaking shitbag!” The woman in front of him was slight of build but absolutely furious. Her nostrils flared, and her eyes were wild.

  “G-Greta?” Ulfar stammered, reeling. He could hear cheers and laughter around the king’s hall.

  “Greta? You’re asking? You don’t remember my name? You little—Gaah!” she screeched and launched herself at him, pummeling his chest, kicking, spitting, and flailing wildly.

  Ulfar crossed his arms in front of his face. “Hey! Wait! We can—” Claws swung for him at eye-height, and he grabbed the hand on pure reflex. At the back of the room the door flew open.

  “Leggo ma sister!” someone shouted. A man strode into the hall. “You! Gotta fine face to be showin’ round here!”

  Greta continued to rain blows on Ulfar with her free hand, all the while twisting in his grip. “Stay outta this, Ivar!” she screamed. “I love him!” She was crying now, but her attack on Ulfar showed no sign of slowing down. “Why’d you leave? You told me we would be together! You told me you wanted me!”

  She started kicking wildly, and her foot connected with his knee. Ulfar cried out and managed to throw her, still screaming, away from him.

  Ivar sidestepped his flailing sister and came right for him. “I’ll fucking cut your shit off and stuff your face with it,” he snarled.

  Ulfar was dazed but still found his feet quickly enough to ward off Ivar’s clumsy blows. “Ivar! Stop!” he shouted, but the enraged man chose not to hear him as he snarled curses and imaginative options for Ulfar’s genitals.

  Backed up against a support beam, Ulfar twisted away from a vicious right hook and face-first into Greta’s redoubled efforts. She was snotty and crimson-cheeked with fury, and her words made no sense. She wrapped her arms around him in a fierce grip, shouting incoherently into his chest.

  “Please, I—Mph!” The air exploded out of Ulfar’s lungs as one of Ivar’s blows finally connected, and he staggered, lost his footing, and tumbled over on top of Greta.

  “Look—they’re at it again!” someone shouted drunkenly from the crowd. The laughter was mean.

  Ivar roared again, completely incensed, and Ulfar felt pressure on his head, then a sharp pain as he was pulled off Greta by his hair. The woman on the floor didn’t move. Ivar shrieked, “What have you done to her, you bastard?” and twisted Ulfar’s hair even more tightly.

  A knee smashed into Ulfar’s spine, hard, and the tingling sensation in the fingertips of his left hand was made worse when it disappeared and was replaced with nothing. “She’s just knocked out,” Ulfar hissed through gritted teeth. “And now”—he swung his right hand in a big arc and hit Ivar’s wrist with his clenched fist, making him scream and let go of Ulfar’s hair—“I’ve had just about enough”—Ulfar clambered to his feet and faced off against the man holding his wrist and shooting anguished glances at his sister on the floor—“of this.” He swung his left arm at Ivar; it didn’t feel right yet, still mostly numb, but it worked just fine as a club.

  Ivar raised his arms on reflex to ward against the blow, and Ulfar used his own momentum to drive his right fist hard into Ivar’s stomach.

  The blond man doubled over, coughing, and without missing a beat Ulfar kicked the back of Ivar’s knee. As he went down, gasping, Ulfar growled, “Stay down if you know what’s good for you.”

  Fucking locals, everywhere the same. He looked around at the red, sweaty faces hoping for more violence. Part of him wanted them to come have a go—three of them maybe, a handful, enough to keep him busy.

  No one came forward.

  He looked at them, one by one. “I didn’t ask for this,” he said. “You saw them. It was years ago.”

  A couple of grim nods in the room.

  One face registered alarm. The eyes were fixed on Ulfar’s knees.

  A flash of pain in his leg turned Ulfar’s vision bluish-white.

  He looked down.

  A skinning knife was buried almost to the hilt in his leg. Blood bubbled up out of the wound. Ivar was lying on the floor at his feet, looking up at him, a maniacal grin on his face.

  Before he could think, Ulfar let himself fall down. His aim was true: his kneecaps crashed onto Ivar’s chest and he felt the ribs crack. After a moment he rolled off, drew a deep breath and screamed. All he could hear was the rattle of Ivar’s breathing and the throbbing in his own ears. No one moved to help him, so he dug his fingers into his tunic, clutching the material near the shoulder. The sleeve came off, though not easily, and Ulfar bound his leg tight just above the wound, just like he’d seen Sven and Valgard do.

  Breathing quickly, he reached for the knife and pulled it out. The blade slid free smoothly, coated with his own blood.

  “Fucking bastard bitch,” he muttered.

  The bubbling slowed down to a trickle as he tightened the knot, cut off some extra material from the bindings and stuffed it into the wound. It’d hurt like a bastard to remove, but he wouldn’t bleed to death. Not today.

  After a while on the floor, he levered himself up.

  “Thank you for helping,” he snarled at the nearest man, then caught himself. The faces in the king’s hall were all studiously not looking in the direction of the dais.

  Ulfar turned around.

  “Welcome home, cousin,” Prince Karle said. Dressed in his white sable and linen shirt, he looked like a shard of winter. He stood at one end of the room, flanked by three young men Ulfar thought he recognized. The names eluded him. The prince stepped toward him. “You’re causing trouble again,” he said.

  “Was him,” Ulfar said. A cold chill went through him. “Was him started . . . ,” he tried again, but the words didn’t come out right. A spasm racked him, and he had to reach for a table to steady himself.

  “Of course it was,” Karle said. “Our very own Ivar tried to kill a foreigner”—he spat the word out—“for no reason. Of course, you’re guilty of attacking a man of Uppsala in the king’s hall,” the prince shouted. “And of beating a woman! You should be ashamed of yourself,” he added. “There’s only one way this will go.” The prince walked slowly toward Ulfar. “As the king is not here, nor our beloved friend Alfgeir Bjorne, it is I who will decide your fate.”

  Ulfar reached for the words again, but he couldn’t speak. There was something wrong.

  “What? I don’t understand you,” Prince Karle snarled.

  Ulfar’s stomach turned and pearls of sticky, cold sweat glistened on his forehead.

  “Speak up if you want—”

  “Guest’s rights,” the voice boomed. Arnar stepped forward, placing himself between Ulfar and the prince’s men. Up close, he was truly a substantial man. “We claim the right of guests as spoken of in Havamal, as ordained in the Voluspa, which any good host gives freely. We have shared your food. We have drunk your mead. And fine mead it is, too!” he exclaimed to the gathered men, to scattered but growing cheers. “We have toasted the health of the men of Uppsala, and we ask nothing in return but to be tried as true and free men.”

  Ulfar wanted to shout, to scream and jump at the same time, but his body wouldn’t obey him. A strong and bitter taste was the only thing emerging in his mouth.

  Poison.

  Prince Karle’s face soured. “Take this bag of road-shit with you from the hall, and do not plant his shadow on our lands again. The king forbids it!” With that, the prince and his men turned and walked away.

  “Don’t run forward and back at the same time, Ulfar Thormodsson,” Arnar rumbled, looking at the gray-faced man currently clutching a table for balance. “You’re going to need some fresh air.”


  “Excuse me,” said a woman’s soft voice behind them. “Would you help me bring him to my quarters?” Ulfar tried to turn but couldn’t. A cold claw of fear scraped his bones.

  “Are you going to look after him, slip of a thing like yourself?” Arnar said.

  “I will,” the woman said.

  “Of course I’ll help. He’s a lucky lad, our boy!” The bearded man stepped in, put his arm around Ulfar’s chest, and took his weight. Ulfar tried to speak, but his mouth was woolly and dry. The colors of the hall were starting to fade. “Is he a friend of yours?”

  “A bit more than that,” the voice said. There was a note of mirth in it.

  “Oh?” Arnar said, walking Ulfar toward the front door.

  A woman’s face appeared at the edge of Ulfar’s vision: blonde, tiny. There was something achingly familiar about it. Something painful.

  The woman looked at him, concerned. “He’s my husband.”

  Ulfar lost consciousness.

  OUTSIDE STENVIK

  EARLY NOVEMBER, AD 996

  The ships rounded Muninsfjell, and dark clouds crept over Stenvik Forest to meet them. Finn stood in the bow, straight-backed and still, like he’d seen King Olav do. The men had accepted his command, but he kept thinking he heard them speak behind his back. He did not need to turn and check; he knew the other ten ships were trailing in his wake.

  A half-hearted cheer went up from the rowers behind him as Stenvik came into view. No one wanted to admit it, but the morning they set out, the ground had been covered with a thin glaze of frost, and Finn suspected that the men felt they had not so much left as escaped the freezing cold of Trondheim. There were no ships in the harbor. Finn gave commands; half of his fleet veered to the left and aimed for the soft beach to the west of the town.

  “Sail!”