Valgard did not move. “What do I want?” He smiled. “I only want what’s right—”
“Big breath for bad words. If I was—”
“—for the old gods.”
Hakon Jarl frowned. “What?” Valgard met his gaze. “What do you mean?”
“What I say,” Valgard said.
Moments passed like winter nights.
“I am listening,” Hakon said at last.
“King Olav has given me fifty of his best men to go ‘collecting.’ He has told me that we are to find anyone who worships the old gods and gut them on the spot for not paying their taxes.” Hakon Jarl’s grip on his ax tightened, but he didn’t say a word. “I want another fifty of your trusted men to come with me. I want to have them dispose of Olav’s murderers in their sleep, then go around the valleys and the highlands to raise an army for you. I will deliver your message. You are the ruler Trondheim deserves, and I believe you should have all the help I can give you.”
“Hmh,” Hakon Jarl said. “And what would you do with an army raised in my name?”
Valgard looked straight into the ice-blue eyes of the old chieftain. “Kill King Olav,” he said.
Botolf watched as the silent workers finished packing bags and preparing the last of the horses. The trek-master, an ugly, fish-faced man named Ormslev, waved a hand in his direction, then headed off with his men.
When Skeggi finally arrived, Botolf was alone.
“So, what’s this?” the big raider growled.
“What’s what?”
“This.” Skeggi pointed at the horses, laden down with baggage.
“Looks like horses,” Botolf said.
“Fucking cute. Where are you going?” The big man stalked toward the tethered animals.
Botolf stepped to the side. “Pleasure trip. Thought I’d see the countryside since I’m this far north.”
“Don’t lie, you skinny turd.” Skeggi walked around the horses, inspecting packs. “You don’t need this many blades to go and see anything. Unless you intend to kill it.”
“Don’t spook the mares, now,” Botolf said.
“Fuck you. I’ll spook anything I want. Always have.” Skeggi stepped in between the animals and tugged at a saddle; the horse snorted and tried to step out of the way. The other animals shifted and stamped.
“I know,” Botolf said softly. He moved around toward the horses. When he got to the animals beside Skeggi, he reached for the reins.
“So what’s going on?” Skeggi snapped over his shoulder, ripping open a saddlebag and growling at the frightened horse. “Whatever it is, you’re not going without me. I can smell it on you, you little bastard. You’re on to something. You’ve got a plan—a scheming weasel plan. You’re going for an easy kill somewhere. What is it? Tell me!”
He didn’t see the loops until they fell over his head.
The horses whinnied and reared to get away from the pain in their mouths as Botolf gave both sets of reins a sharp tug. Skeggi’s face went red, then purple, as the ropes pulled at his neck from both directions. He kicked, hissed, and spat, clawed at the ropes digging into him, and tried to loosen them, but that only made the horses back up harder. The tortured wheezes from his crushed windpipe grew fainter. His eyes rolled up into his head, and the life left his body.
The horses still tossed their heads and snorted, tugging on the lifeless body until precise strokes from Botolf’s sword cut it loose.
As Skeggi’s corpse hit the ground, Botolf started muttering soothing noises to the startled animals.
They settled down once he’d dragged the heavy body away, and none of them reacted when he brought out a wooden mallet and a horseshoe from the back of the barn.
NORTH OF TRONDHEIM, NORTH NORWAY
NOVEMBER, AD 996
The lines of smoke were only visible when the grayish-blue sea was behind them. Trondheim was already fading into nothing, just dots of brown and green on a vast white carpet that sparkled with the early rays of morning sun.
“Fucking shithole,” Thora muttered. She staggered and righted herself, swinging her bound hands for balance.
“Where are you from, then?” Valgard asked.
“Another fucking shithole,” she snapped.
The snow hung heavy all around them, piled on the green branches of pine trees, covering rocks and potholes, muffling sound, and throwing the feeble light back at them. The party marched in the thick, woolen silence.
The sun climbed higher and higher still. The cold air burned Valgard’s lungs, but he had decided he would put up with anything because this was it. This was his chance. If he could find it—and harness it—
“Here.” The trek-master, an odd-looking man with a fat lower lip and bulging eyes, appeared by his elbow, showing Valgard his fingers. A glob of something sat there, looking like week-old snot.
“Oh. Yes. Thank you.”
“On your face.” The man grabbed his hand, slathered the glob on it, shrugged, and walked away.
His stomach turned. It smelled like . . .
“Seal fat. Old seal fat,” Valgard muttered. “I’ve really been missing out.”
He took a deep breath through his mouth and started slathering it on his exposed skin. As the grease covered his flesh, he almost thought he could feel the warmth returning. As they crested the hill, the bay spread out before them; the boats were already waiting to take them to the other side.
“So where now?” Botolf asked. The soldiers trudged along behind them, huddled in their thick furs and pushing one another to win the coveted spots between the horses. They’d lost sight of the water early in the day as they headed north, as near as they could, staying out of snowdrifts and out of sight. Old habits died hard.
“Untie me,” Thora said, turning to Botolf. “Do it, and I’ll make it worth your while, big man.”
Botolf smiled. “Nice try, bitch, but you still have teeth. You’ll know we’re in real trouble when I do untie you. Now tell us.”
“Or what? I’ll have an accident like that big, fat bastard?”
Botolf fixed her with a level stare. “I don’t know what you mean. Poor Skeggi had his head kicked in by a horse. That’s why his face was so badly smashed.”
“Did you bring the mallet?”
“If you keep talking, you’ll find out,” Botolf replied.
Valgard watched as a grin slowly formed on Thora’s face. “I like you, Scrawny. I’ll kill you last.”
Botolf smiled back. “Look forward to it. So where are we going, my queen?”
Thora stopped and peered upward, looking to the skies. “I think we’re roughly right, but I won’t know for sure for a half-march. Ask me again when the stars are out.”
“Fair enough.”
Thora twisted to look at Valgard. He noted that she didn’t struggle for balance at all this time. “So, Slimy. What are you here for?”
Valgard looked at her with all the contempt he could muster. “Tell us about Skargrim’s fleet. And about the other woman.”
“I asked you a question,” Thora snapped. “You’re forgetting—”
Valgard stepped up quickly and jabbed her in the throat with his knuckles, just above the collarbone. He felt oddly calm as he watched her struggle to regain control over her lungs. “Hard to breathe?” he asked, and jabbed again. Her eyes screamed at him, but her face had started turning red. He shrugged it off. “Oh, yes. I forgot.” She tried to evade him as he grabbed for her hair, but he was quicker. He yanked her to her knees and forced her face-down into the snow.
“You’re getting enough air,” he said calmly, keeping his knee on her back. “You’re not going to die.” He twisted her head around so she could see him. “Unless you keep flapping your mouth like that, in which case I will slit your throat when I fucking feel like it. Understood?”
“Valgard . . . ,” Botolf said.
Thora coughed and spat. “Understood,” she wheezed, blinking away tears.
“Good,” Valgard said, pulling her to h
er feet.
She coughed again, hawked, turned her head carefully, and spat away from him. “Just wanted to check,” she said when she turned back.
“Check what?” Valgard said.
“That you have a dick.” She grinned. “I like ’em better that way.” Botolf snorted. “So if you boys are done playing for now, we should keep moving. We have a ways to go, and it gets cold up here at night.”
“Due north?” Botolf asked.
“Due north,” Thora said.
The shadows grew longer around them as they marched, and Valgard winced. Every single part of his body hurt. Walking was painful, but stopping and starting again would be a lot worse. Jagged peaks had risen out of the clouds in the distance, illuminated by the setting sun, and the cliffs were closing in on both sides. They were moving up out of the valleys and into the highlands. He noticed some of the men conferring in hushed tones.
“Time to stop, I reckon,” Botolf muttered through the layer of cloth that covered his face. He gestured toward a shadow below the cliffs on the right-hand side.
Valgard shrugged, and Botolf, taking that for agreement, raised his hand. Ormslev, the bug-eyed trek-master, appeared by his side. Valgard could not hear their conversation, but he watched nonetheless as Bug-eye nodded crisply and started barking orders. The formation broke up into individual piles of cloth and fur. A group of men brandishing axes went to the perimeter and started shoveling snow with the flat of the blades. Within moments, piles had been formed into blocks and blocks into walls.
As the horses were led into the enclosure, Valgard realized what Botolf was doing: the shadow below the cliff was hard ground, sheltered from wind and snow, and the new-built walls would take care of the rest.
The pale sun set on fur-covered fighters huddled around miserable fires. Sheets of cloth had been strung out over spears set at angles to make a windbreak against the worst of the weather; a light, silent dusting of hard frost had already colored them white.
“Ah, the life,” Botolf sighed. “Just us and the wild. It’s good, isn’t it?”
Valgard accepted the flask Botolf handed to him. The liquid was sour and burned all the way down his throat, but he bit his cheek and kept a straight face as Botolf smirked. Someone shouted something at the other end of the camp; there was laughter. The fiery drink settled quickly in Valgard’s stomach.
“You’ll be happy to see the rising sun, Grass Man,” Botolf said as he rose, and as Valgard shuddered farther into his furs he added, “Oh, don’t be sour now. Come. You need to claim your prize.”
“What do you mean?” Valgard muttered, gritting his teeth to ward off the mounting screams of pain from his spine.
“The stars are out.” Grinning, Botolf offered a hand. When Valgard took it, the tall chieftain yanked him to his feet with a strength belied by his skinny frame. “Let’s go and get our sweet little flower, shall we?”
They found Thora sitting in a circle of Botolf’s men, telling filthy jokes. Pinkish liquid had leaked into her eyebrows from a small open cut in her forehead. Someone had stuffed it with snow.
One of the men in the circle sported a recently and very thoroughly broken blood-caked nose.
“Kverulf! What happened to your face?” Botolf asked.
Thora stopped talking. The tough guys assembled around the fire looked determinedly in any direction but at their chieftain. Some of them were smirking; others were trying hard not to laugh.
“I’m sorry, my Lord Scrawny,” Thora said. “Kverulf here thought he’d take advantage of little old me while my hands were tied. Only he isn’t too sharp at the counting bit, is he? There’s one of me, but there was only one of him.” Chuckles around the fire; even Kverulf offered a gap-toothed smile. “And of course I told them of our undying love, how you begged me to marry you and all that. My beloved.”
“Fuck off,” Botolf said. He couldn’t quite keep the smile out of his voice. “You’re coming with us.” He yanked Thora to her feet and half-pushed, half-dragged her away.
“Remember to tie her feet and flip her round, Chief!” Kverulf shouted after them, and the rest of the men offered their own encouragement. “And watch the teeth! Hers—and yours!”
Roars of laughter washed off their backs as Thora fell into an easy stride just behind Botolf. “How far?” he asked her.
“Just away from the fires,” she said.
Valgard hobbled after them, watching closely. There was something in the way they walked . . . Botolf liked her.
That might make things a little harder.
On the other hand, if his hunch was right, he’d not need Botolf’s muscle—or anyone’s.
“Here,” Thora said. “Hold on.” She turned, scanned the horizon and muttered to herself. “Yes—there it is. We’re going”—she pointed up the slope, toward the highlands—“that way.”
“Sure?” Botolf asked.
“Get stuffed,” Thora snapped.
Botolf just looked at her and smirked.
Valgard turned and hobbled back toward his lean-to.
Sometime later, the light changed from dark to a pale milky gray. Valgard dusted the snow off his clothes as he saw Botolf scan the camp; Bug-eye the trek-master hovered close. Something about the rangy chieftain’s stance dragged Valgard swiftly from slumber, through several shades of pain, and into the waking world. Try as he might, though, he couldn’t catch a word of their whispered conversation. He stumbled to his feet and didn’t need to act at all to look feeble and helpless. For a few short moments he thought he might see to his aches, then he counted them, and abandoned that notion. Everything hurt, and that was how it would be.
Around him the camp was coming to life. Muttered curses and invocations to anyone or anything promising warmth floated on the air; horses snorted, stamped, and shook off blankets of snow. A sudden jolt of panic made Valgard swallow his breath: the prisoner! Where was she? He looked all around—and then saw her crawl out of Botolf’s shelter, hands still bound.
“We’re going,” a familiar voice snapped. Botolf stood behind him.
He fought and defeated the urge to jump out of the way. “And good morning to you, too,” he said. “So soon?”
“Fuck off. Piss and shit now. Eat on the way. And keep your eyes open.” With that, the tall man strode off.
Valgard watched him leave. Something was wrong, that much was certain.
“Over there,” Bug-eye whispered and nudged Botolf into position.
The chieftain scanned the horizon to the north and lingered only slightly longer on the tree line that the trek-master had indicated. The forest crept alongside their path, a dense mass of frozen branches and snow. “Got it,” he muttered. “Who? And how long?”
“Don’t know. I think they watched us last night.”
“How close?”
“Close enough to take a good look, I’d guess, though it’s hard to tell how near, what with the morning snow.”
“Anyone else know?”
Bug-eye looked at Botolf and shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. Haven’t asked.”
“Don’t,” the tall chieftain snapped. “Just keep an eye on our prisoner. This—I don’t like this. I’ll have a look.” Valgard watched him turn, scan the line behind them, and pick out his first target, a block of a man with hard eyes. Bug-eye shrugged and dragged Thora back to her place. He was as imperturbable as ever, but Thora appeared revitalized by her night’s activity. She glanced at Botolf’s back and grinned as he engaged in rapid, hushed conversation with the fighter. Words exchanged, the two headed on down the line, and by the time they reached the end, there were five of them. Botolf led his little group into the woods, where they vanished.
Valgard walked in silence for a long time. Thora and Bug-eye seemed to communicate naturally in their own secret language of nudges, grunts, and nods, which now and again resulted in the trek-master adjusting their course slightly. Around them, the terrain changed as they moved out of the sheltered valleys, past the pine and fir that bounded t
he farmland, and up into the highlands. Now snow-covered hills and heaths stretched out before them, undulating softly. The land was treacherous, the soft white covering concealing cracks, crevices, and boulders all fit for twisting ankles, breaking limbs, and wrenching backs.
Botolf didn’t return to the front of the line until long after the sun had crawled over the horizon. Behind him, two of his four fighters dragged a man bound hand and foot. The other two limped along behind them.
Bug-eye signaled and the line slowed to a halt. Without needing any further commands, the men split up into groups and started tending horses and doling out rations.
Within moments the stranger was thrown at Valgard’s feet. He was a lean thing, and probably younger than he looked. His clothes were old but well mended.
“Who’s this?” Valgard asked.
“Couple of his friends had been watching us,” Botolf said. “Handy little bastards, too.” Valgard noticed the glares from his soldiers at that. “We lost one, two won’t see much anymore, and I caught this one.” He reached out, grabbed a fistful of hair, and hauled the prisoner up onto his knees. “Didn’t I, boy?” The boy hissed in pain but did not speak. He’d be about fourteen, Valgard thought. That’s a nasty scar on his neck.
“Oh, my,” Botolf crooned. “We’ve got a nice little tough guy here, haven’t we? Tell me, boy: You look like someone with a bit of sense in you. So why were you watching men like us?”
Valgard watched the boy’s face lock in contempt. His gaze drifted past all of them to some unseen place far away.
“Who sent you?” Botolf yanked the boy’s hair again, but all he got for his troubles was a sharp, indrawn breath and blood seeping from the boy’s scalp. “Right.” He reached for his knife.
Hands bound behind her, Thora strode forward. She turned to Botolf. “Maybe he just needs a woman’s touch.” Without missing a beat, she leveled a vicious kick at the prisoner’s ribs, and the boy crumpled to the ground, coughing. “Right, you little shit,” she snarled. “Talk. It’s your balls next. Who sent you? Was it—?”
Blood Will Follow Page 18
