The boy coughed in response and spat blood on the snow.
“Oh, but that won’t do, sweetcheeks.” Thora knelt by his side. “Now, you listen to me. Here’s what I’m going to do to you.” Her lips almost touched his ear as Valgard watched her whispering something to the boy. Then, quick as a flash, she bit down on his earlobe.
“Stop! Stop!” he squealed. “It was Hakon! He wanted to—he wanted to make sure you were going where you said! I’m sorry!”
“Hm,” Botolf said. “Right. Let go of the boy’s ear.”
Thora clambered to her feet. “You can’t release him. Give me a knife and I’ll gut him for you.”
“With your hands tied?”
She shot him a weary look. “No. I’ll cut myself loose first. And then I’ll stab you in the eye, single-handedly kill all your men, eat the horses I won’t fuck, and ride the last one to Valhalla. Give me the knife.”
Without a word, Botolf handed her his knife and turned to Bug-eye. “We’re—”
The scream drowned his words, and he whirled back around just in time to see Thora stand up again from the boy’s body with the bloodstained knife clasped in her bound hands. “Done,” she said, shuffling toward the head of the line. “Once you dicks have got your fighting gear on, you’ll talk a man to death. For proper butchery, you need a woman. Now stand up straight, you shit-wipes, and get moving!” With a deft flick of her wrist, she cut her bonds.
The effect was remarkable. The men around her either stood up straight or shuffled to get out of the way. Valgard glanced at Botolf, who was watching Thora.
“We marching?” Bug-eye ventured.
“Looks like it,” Botolf muttered.
As one they turned and walked away from the boy lying in the snow.
Valgard shuddered and wrapped the skins tighter around him, but it was no use. The cold had grown worse the higher up they got; there was no cover to be had anywhere. The rays of the setting sun shone on a distant peak. The cold sneaked in everywhere: it bit at his ankles and his ears; it slashed at his nose and eyes. Behind him, he knew without looking, was a line of men doing the same thing as him: keeping their heads down, trudging along, following the leader, and trying hard to expend as little energy as possible on every step.
The shouts started as faint noise but grew crisper and louder as they traveled on up the line until he could clearly hear them crying, “Wolf!”
By the time Bug-eye had signaled for the line to stop, the growling could be heard, along with someone’s choked screams. Botolf took off at a run, Thora by his side, and Valgard shuffled after them as fast as he could.
Two of Botolf’s men were kneeling over a fallen warrior.
Valgard pushed them out of the way and immediately regretted it. The beasts had gone for the guard’s face, and all that remained was a bloody mess.
Turning away, Valgard noticed the carcasses. “Is this all?”
“Was enough,” Botolf muttered.
“There’s only three wolves,” Valgard said.
“Ain’t right,” he heard someone mutter behind him.
“Why’d they go for us?” another, unfamiliar voice said.
“Maybe there are more,” someone said.
“Shut it, you piss-babies,” Thora said. “And welcome to the north. If you’re not eating, you get eaten.” With that, she walked over to the nearest wolf, dropped to her knees, and started skinning it energetically. When no one moved around her, she barked, “Fine. But you’re not getting any of mine in two days’ time.”
The men glanced at Botolf, who frowned but nodded.
Bug-eye joined them. “Look,” he said, pointing south. A pair of ravens were circling overhead.
“That’ll be the boy, then,” Botolf said. He turned and looked down at the dead guard. “Make sure you bury him properly. I don’t care if the ground is frozen. Take enough men to get it done. Put him under rocks.” Bug-eye nodded and turned toward the line, picking out men as he went.
Botolf looked at Valgard. “This better be worth it, Grass Man. If you’re wrong, I will be happy to tear you apart. For weeks.”
For a moment Valgard wasn’t sure whether he felt colder on the inside or the outside. “It’s true,” he said, “and we’re going to find it.”
“And what is it, exactly?” Botolf said.
Valgard looked at him and formed the sentences in his head: It is the source of more power than you can imagine. It is the key to eternal life. It is a direct connection to the gods.
Out loud, he said, “It is a treasure unlike any you’ve ever seen.”
Which was true, more or less.
After a while, the line started up again, and they marched onward. It took a long time until Valgard felt he was free of Botolf’s suspicious looks.
The sun set, and darkness sank over them, strewn with the lights of the gods above. The path had wound alongside a mountain and through a nasty scraping thicket, but now they had cleared the forest and were once again forcing their way up an endless hill of some sort, while above and ahead of them, gentle waves of green and purple undulated across the black sky. They’d all been on edge since the wolf attack, but apart from a couple of howls in the distance, there’d been no further disruptions. No one was talking—the air was just too cold—and Valgard had long since stopped wanting to think; they just trundled on in silence until Botolf gave the signal and the line stopped. One by one the men broke away and inched toward the edge of the hill.
They were looking down on a valley, sheltered by mountains on three sides and the sea on the fourth. A sturdy jetty had been built, big enough to land two raiding ships. A thick blanket of snow covered everything. Valgard’s heart started beating faster. The mounds on the valley floor must be houses.
Thora had been quiet for a long time, too. Now she turned to Botolf. “We’re here.”
EAST OF SKAER, JUTLAND. HELGA’S FARM
NOVEMBER, AD 996
A cold autumn wind whipped the yard in Johan’s wake, stirring orange and gold leaves into a whirling dance. Helga stood silent for a while, her hands on her hips, watching the big farmer ride over the hill in the distance, hunched over the mane of his horse.
When she finally spoke to Audun, she did so without looking at him. “Go back into the shed,” she said. “Look under the big box. If you sweep away the dirt you’ll find a couple of blades wrapped in oilcloth.” She turned toward him. Her jaw was set. “It’ll do you better than . . . that.” She pointed to the hammer.
Audun shrugged. “Don’t like blades. They break too easy. I know how to work a hammer.”
Helga frowned. Johan’s retreating form was no longer visible, but the tension lingered in the yard. The cold autumn air nipping at them smelled of wet leaves and bark.
“Where’d you go? Last night, I mean?”
“Nowhere, I guess,” Audun mumbled. “Needed a walk.”
“Look—I’m . . . I spoke too quickly. I shouldn’t have—”
“No. It’s fine,” he said. His eyes met hers. “I’m just not used to talking that much. I—”
“Well, then,” she said, “best drag your useless ass to work before you get the hang of chatting.” She winked at him and received a faint smile in return.
“Guess I’d better,” he said. “Not gonna earn my keep by telling tales.”
He walked off, still carrying the hammer, and within moments he was hauling timber out into the yard, along with a cutter’s ax. Helga noted that he worked facing the path up to the farm and kept the hammer close.
The riders crested the hill just after noon.
Johan rode first, ashen-faced with his arm in a crude sling. Eight of his farmhands rode behind him. They cantered down toward the yard but stopped at a safe distance from Audun. He split a log in two with his ax, put it down, and turned to face them.
Helga came out of the toolshed just as Johan raised his voice.
“You!” Johan shouted and pointed at Audun. “You’re coming with us to Skaer to stand
trial for violence! You attacked me unexpectedly, like a coward, and shall be made to pay! You’re coming with us!”
From the doorway, Helga shouted back, “What? You’re fucking kidding me! If he hadn’t been there . . . I’ll—”
Audun raised his arm, and Helga’s voice caught. “No,” he said.
Johan looked at him with barely disguised pleasure. “Then we’ll take you in.”
On signal, his companions dismounted and walked toward Audun. To a man they were solidly built, raised on red meat and farmwork. Each of them carried a heavy cudgel.
Audun reached for his hammer, but he was too slow.
Helga was already standing between him and the advancing men, who had stopped in a semicircle around her. She sized them up. “Every last one of you is closer to death right now than you’ve ever been before,” she said.
“Step out of the way, woman,” Johan said. “We’re taking your hired hand.”
She ignored him. Instead she spoke to the farmhands. “How many of you have seen Johan Aagard beat the crap out of big men? Beat them until there’s nothing left? Break their spirit? Kick them when they’re down and stomp on them until they cry and shit themselves? My hired hand here,” she said, “snapped your big man’s arm like that.” She clicked her fingers. “My hired hand would have broken his neck if I had asked him to. I didn’t, because I thought Johan Aagard would be smart enough not to return. I told my man to get a blade, but he chose a hammer. Do you know why?”
The men exchanged glances. Helga paused, just to make sure they were hanging on her every word. “Because my hired hand said it was more satisfying to feel a man’s bones when they break. How the flesh just . . . gives way. That is who you are planning on going up against. His name is . . . Audun Blood-smith.” She looked at them for recognition, and when none of them moved, she shook her head sadly. “You don’t even know, do you? Probably haven’t seen a traveler in months. Imagine. And you want to take him on, just eight of you. His boat was attacked on the way here by two raiding ships—you’ve heard the stories; the raiders are all along the coast. Well, these two aren’t anymore, because my hired hand polished them off. He killed every last man.”
“Sure,” one of the bigger men said. “Sure he did.”
Helga looked him in the eyes. “Do you want to bet your life on it?” The man stared back at her. “Do you want to bet the breaking of your jaw? The sound of the smashing of your knees? The shards of bone slicing through your arm? Do you?”
She turned and took them all in, a queen before her court. The youngest of them shifted uncomfortably. “Look at yourselves. Look at how . . . ready you are. You’ve got your little sticks, your chests are all puffed up, you’re ready to go. And you’re big lads; you could do some damage, absolutely. But how many of you have killed a man? I know you’ve cracked some heads, but how many of you have broken necks? How many of you have stomped a man’s life out and then done it again, just moments later?” She paused for effect, then added, “Now look at him.”
They all did—and she knew she had won.
Audun stood there beside her, completely relaxed. There was no emotion to him, no flush of fire. He just stood there, hammer in one hand and ax in the other, surrounded by a pile of split logs. He eyed up his opponents like a man ready to do a job—and one by one, Johan’s farmhands realized what they were up against. They started inching backward, like men who have just noticed that the dog is foaming at the mouth.
“Get him!” Johan screamed, his voice breaking with fury. “There’s eight of you!” But none of his men took their eyes off Audun as one by one they mounted their horses and rode away. Johan shot her a filthy glance and followed, muttering.
Helga finally allowed herself to exhale.
Behind her she could hear a hammer being carefully placed up against logs.
“Thank you,” Audun said quietly.
Heart thundering in her chest, Helga swallowed. “I . . . It was nothing.” She didn’t dare turn and look at him.
The next thing she heard was the sound of an ax smashing into wood.
They did not speak of Johan again for the remainder of the day. As the sun set, Audun did his customary rounds, checking on shutters and testing latches. His stomach had grown used to regular mealtimes terrifyingly fast, and now it was growling at him to hurry up and get back to the house.
It was his turn at the pots. He tasted the stew, added some chopped onion-grass, and stirred, checked again. When it tasted right, he glanced at Helga. “You know him. Do you think he’ll come back?”
She winced. “No. He’s been shamed in front of his men; he can’t come back now. Even if he were to catch me alone and . . . get what he came for, he’d be condemned. And I’ve not shown him all my tricks just yet,” she added with a cold smile.
“Good,” Audun said, peering into the pot. He was getting better at cooking and finding to his surprise that he rather enjoyed it. The room was nicely warm, and Helga was good company. He had told her more about himself than he’d told anyone before or likely would again, though he could still not bring himself to speak about what had happened on the wall. For some reason, he didn’t mind; he didn’t think about it so much when he was with her.
It was a strange state of affairs, and one he couldn’t remember experiencing before.
For the first time in his life, Audun felt . . . happy.
EAST OF SKAER, JUTLAND.
JOHAN AAGARD’S FARM
NOVEMBER, AD 996
The hooves of a tired horse scraped on freshly frozen ground. The rider’s hood was pulled up to ward against the bitter night wind.
“Who’s there?” The farmhand’s challenge came from the pool of torchlight by the door. Metal clinked as the rider dismounted and pulled back his hood. The farmhand’s face went pale. “I’m—I—I’ll go and get him.” He ducked back inside and returned a while later, followed by Johan Aagard.
“Ustain! Well met!” The farmer’s face was drawn and gray. He cradled a small leather sack in the crook of his bandaged arm.
“Johan,” the rider replied. The flickering torchlight made the shadows dance on his face. The hint of a smile disappeared quickly. “You’re not that happy to see me. What happened to your arm?”
The farmer ignored him. “I’ve had terrible luck with my workers. His majesty will understand that I simply have none to spare.”
“As usual.” Ustain grinned.
“As usual.” Johan grimaced and threw him the sack.
The thick-necked man caught it effortlessly, rattling the coins within. “I just hope you make it past spring,” he said. “Without losing any of your sons.” Johan swallowed and winced. “Well? Are you going to offer me shelter, like a good host?”
“I am, of course,” Johan said. “Anything for the king’s recruiter. I—” He stopped to think. “I can maybe even offer you a little more than just shelter.”
Ustain raised an eyebrow. “Really? Sounds like fun,” he said, ducking ahead of Johan into the welcoming dark of Aagard House.
EAST OF SKAER, JUTLAND. HELGA’S FARM
NOVEMBER, AD 996
Audun liked the rising sun. There was a particular taste to the air during the retreat of cold darkness; the dark-blue sky was growing paler as he awaited the inevitable rising of the golden orb. This morning brought a crisp, clear sky and light that bounced off the vibrant leaves in Helga’s woods. At least that’s what she’d called it when he’d asked: My woods, she’d said. My horse, my land, my hired hand.
He’d smiled at that. Smiled and nodded.
Audun took a deep breath, filled his lungs, with air and held it. As he let it out, slowly, he spotted the rider on the hill, and his muscles tensed.
The man just sat there, watching their farm.
“Helga. Rider,” he shouted.
She ran out of the house. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, I was sure he’d—That’s not Johan.”
“Anyone you know?” Audun said.
“No . . . ,” Helg
a replied, immediately scanning the horizon.
The man had set his horse off at a walk toward them. They watched his approach. Forty yards away, he raised his hand in salute.
“Well met, stranger!” Helga shouted.
“Well met!” the man shouted in return. He dismounted, tied up his horse, and walked toward them. He favored his left leg and stooped slightly, but the soft rustle and clink of his chain mail carried loud enough. His thick traveler’s cloak just about covered a longsword and a knife with a long, thick blade. A shield was bound to his back, and a hood obscured most of his face. When he was about twenty yards away, he stopped. “Helga Alfrithsdottir?”
Helga smiled at him, without warmth. “Do you need to ask, soldier?”
The man straightened at that and pulled back his hood. His skin was red, dry, and flaking badly, stretched tight over a bony face. He smiled at her, revealing yellowing teeth. “No, my lady. I am Ustain, and I have come—”
“I know full well why you’ve come, and the answer is no,” Helga snapped. “The answer is no, and that is final.”
Ustain looked at her and cocked his head. “Really?” he said. “Are you absolutely sure? Because last time you said you were alone and getting by just fine.”
Helga just glared at him. “You can’t have him. He stays. I don’t care what you say.”
“Well, I am sure the king would like to hear what you have to say. I will make a point of coming back here in spring so we can talk more about this. How’s that? Or—you can help with my noble King Sweyn Forkbeard’s efforts and send”—he smiled—“your hired hand.”
Helga went white with fury. “That—that—bastard. He told you, didn’t he? He sent you here. I’ll gut him—I’ll fucking slice his knees open—I’ll do him so bad he won’t—”
Audun’s hand on her shoulder was warm, firm, and heavy. “Helga,” he said, and the words caught in her throat. “You know . . . you know I cannot stay.” She looked up into his earnest, open face. He smiled sadly at her. “We both knew this was coming. One way or another.”
Blood Will Follow Page 19
