Blood Will Follow

by Snorri Kristjansson

  Only a couple of moments had passed.

  “Goran!” Ulfar called.

  In between the trees, Ulfar saw a flash of white. There was a bone-crunching snap and a scream of pain, and Arnar’s horse went down. The bearded man leapt from the saddle just in time and ran to grab the reins of Heidrek’s panicked animal.

  “You fucking . . . ,” Ulfar muttered. To Inga he hissed, “Stay there! Make yourself small. We’re being hunted.”

  He leapt off his horse and ran to cover behind the nearest tree.

  “Karle!” he shouted. “Fight like a man, you skinny little bitch! I’ll break your arm again, if I need to!”

  An arrow thudded into the tree next to him, setting it vibrating with the force of the impact. A voice rang out, some way away. “I’d fight a man, but you’re less than that, Ulfar Thormodsson. Animals get hunted. I’m going to enjoy this. Alfgeir Bjorne is not here to send you into hiding.”

  Ulfar felt the air move as another arrow whistled past the trunk of the tree. “Fine. If that’s the way you want to play,” he muttered, “then that’s how we’ll play.” He touched the sword at his belt and looked up, then down. Bending his knee and taking care not to reveal any part of his body, he fumbled in the undergrowth until he found what he was looking for. Then he reached up, trying to make himself as tall and narrow as possible—there. A knothole. Just big enough for two fingers. And another, just above.

  Ulfar hauled himself up as fast as he could. He was soon within reach of thick branches on both sides.

  Left—no. Right. He swung toward his right and sure enough, a flash of white sable in the distance, circling away from them. Having had his sport, Karle would no doubt be looking for the perfect shot, something that would start counting.

  Ulfar climbed higher still. Now he was up above the height of two men. Down on the ground, Arnar was busy keeping the horses calm. Goran had made Inga crouch behind a fallen tree for cover, and now they were all scouting the perimeter nervously. Ulfar had to lever himself up half again a man’s height again, until he found a thick enough branch, stretching over to the next tree.

  His plan wasn’t perfect—in fact, it couldn’t really be called a plan at all. But it was better than cowering down on the ground, waiting to be shot. He just had to hope the bastard didn’t look up.

  Even wearing almost glowing white, Prince Karle still did a damn good job of hiding in the undergrowth. Ulfar scanned the ground below—there! The prince was close—too close. Well within range.

  Working quickly, Ulfar leaned against the trunk and freed both hands. He pulled a piece of string off his belt and used it to lash together the three pine cones he’d found on the ground.

  He’d have only one shot at this.

  In his mind he charted the leap and winced. It was going to hurt like a bastard, too. However, surprise sometimes helped.

  Sometimes.

  With all his might, he threw the pine cones arching over Karle’s position.

  The prince’s head whipped round, and a moment later, his body stiffened. In a flash he was up out of his crouch and heading toward Uppsala at a dead run, caring nothing for who might see him.

  Ulfar was left standing halfway up a tree, his mouth agape.

  His eyes narrowed. He clambered down. Goran was waiting for him at the foot of the tree.

  “How’d you do that?” he said, with more than a touch of admiration. “What did you—?”

  Ulfar didn’t reply. Instead he walked straight over to where Prince Karle had been waiting to pick them off. Then he inched outward in expanding half circles, staring at the ground until he found what he’d been looking for, about forty yards away.

  He knelt down, traced a pattern with his fingers and picked up his pine cones. Then he went back to their little clearing. He looked at Heidrek’s body, lying there in a puddle of his own blood. Then he turned to Goran.

  “It wasn’t your idea, was it?” he said.

  Goran looked at him. The guard’s stance shifted slightly, unconsciously anticipating the fight. “What do you mean?”

  “Coming for me. It wasn’t your idea, was it?”

  “I can’t remember,” Goran said. A cloud of confusion crept over his face. “No—wait. I sat with Ingimar. But there—”

  “There was something strange about him. He was older. Thinner,” Ulfar snapped, scouting the perimeter.

  “How do you—?”

  “And let me guess,” Ulfar added. “He had real trouble seeing out of one eye.” Goran and Arnar stared at Ulfar.

  “What did you find out there?” Inga asked.

  Ulfar looked at her, his face dark with anger. “Wolf tracks.”

  Suddenly there was no lack of shadows in the forest. Every noise sounded louder and more significant.

  Arnar broke the silence. “Hrmph,” he snarled, grasping the reins of the four remaining horses. He reached out and pulled Inga up, helping her to mount her horse again. She moved slowly, as if she’d just woken up. Arnar looked at Heidrek’s body and then at his own horse, lying on the ground and twitching in pain.

  “Go,” Goran said.

  As he walked off, Goran drew his belt-knife and sighed.

  A while later, Goran and Ulfar were walking again, following Arnar and Inga, heavy sacks by their sides. They walked in a relaxed silence.

  “. . . like that. Soft, see,” a deep voice rumbled. “Look. Look how her head droops. She likes that.”

  Goran’s eyebrow rose.

  Ahead, blurs of color became shapes.

  Arnar stood by Inga, guiding her hand as she brushed her horse down. A tilt of the head showed the bearded man had noticed their approach, but his eye remained trained on the young woman. “Good, good,” he said. “You’re doing well. Last one,” and with that he moved her hand gently away from the horse’s flank. “See? She’s happy now.”

  The mare shook her head and nudged Inga affectionately.

  Even from a distance, Ulfar and Goran could see something in the young woman’s shoulders soften as the smile lit up her face.

  Beside him, Goran took one step to the right and broke a twig with his foot. “Arnar!” he called, clearing his throat. “We’re back.”

  “About time, too,” the bearded man rumbled. “Need to get going.”

  Later, as the sounds of Karle’s flying arrows faded into memory, Ulfar sidled up to Arnar. “You saved our lives,” he said.

  The bearded man nodded. “Bad business.”

  “Bad business,” Ulfar agreed.

  There was nothing more to add, so he spurred his horse to catch up with Goran.

  They rode together up front in companionable silence.

  After a while, Ulfar spoke. “Tell me about him,” he said.

  “I don’t know,” Goran replied. “He was . . . old?”

  Ulfar raised an eyebrow. “Nothing gets past you, does it?”

  Goran frowned. “I can’t really remember,” he said. “Everything he said made such sense at the time. Find someone, he said, someone who’s a bit of a, you know—”

  “A bit of a cock.”

  The old guard nodded, smiling. “Well, yeah. So, someone like you, and then see if they would pay us to follow them.”

  Ulfar struggled to keep a smile on his face. “Let me guess. He bought you drinks?”

  Goran still looked vaguely confused. “I suppose he must have. My purse is no lighter.”

  “And you passed out and missed the caravan,” Ulfar said. “Funny, that.”

  Goran’s shoulders slumped and he cursed silently. “Who . . . ? Was he—?”

  “I don’t know, but I think he may have been following me for a while. I also think he’s watching us, but I don’t know why.”

  Arnar trotted up alongside them. “Hunh,” he grunted.

  “Good question,” Goran said. “Where are we going?”

  “We’re going to find a friend of mine. He’s somewhere to the south,” Ulfar said.

  “One man? You’re going to ‘g
o south,’ and he’ll just appear, will he?” Goran said.

  “Don’t worry,” Ulfar said. “I don’t think we’ll struggle to find him.”

  They felt the setting of the sun on their skin. The heat went out of the air, and around them everything dampened. Sounds died on beds of pine needles as the horizon crept closer and closer. Overhead, thick clouds drifted slowly across a darkening sky.

  “Do we ride for the edge?” Goran asked.

  “Hm,” Ulfar said. “Yes. We need to get out of here before dark, I think.”

  Soon enough, the party was making reasonable time through the woods. The shadows grew longer around them as the tree growth thinned; they broke out of the woods around Uppsala just as the sun dipped below the edge of the world.

  “There,” Ulfar said, pointing to a pass between two small hills. “Through there, and we’re on the road.”

  “Might be good to stay on this side of that hill, then, just while we wait for daylight,” Goran said.

  Ulfar looked back toward the woods. Somewhere in the back of his head something crackled. His tongue tasted like fresh metal, and he could feel the sword in his gut.

  For a fraction of the blink of an eye he knew everything again—but then it was almost all gone. The only thing that remained was a sense of danger.

  “I don’t know what I like worst, the forest or the road,” Ulfar muttered. “Doesn’t feel right.”

  Arnar dismounted and led his horse toward a thick tree trunk. “Here,” he said. “As good as any.” He pulled out a brush from his pack and started methodically brushing the horse down.

  Inga’s mare followed, and Inga whimpered as she clambered off. “Can’t understand why anyone would choose this over sailing,” she said. “I hurt everywhere.”

  “Just wait,” Goran said, smiling as he pulled the reins to guide his horse to Arnar’s side. “Tomorrow you’ll be crying until well past midday.”

  Inga raised an eyebrow but didn’t answer. Instead she turned to Arnar. The bearded man had produced a hand-ax from somewhere within his packs and was busy whittling branches from a fallen tree behind the thick trunk. He stopped long enough to hand Inga a knife with a big blade.

  Ulfar watched as they fell companionably into work together. He looked at Goran, who grinned. The guard had thrown down his bedroll and nearly finished clearing the space for a small fire.

  At Inga’s feet, innocent-looking sticks were piling up. She took what Arnar passed her, made three or four nicks in the middle of the wood, then laid the stick down carefully.

  “What are these for?” Ulfar couldn’t help himself.

  Inga looked at Arnar, then placed a stick at Ulfar’s feet. “Go on,” she said. Ulfar stepped on the stick—and it broke with a snap. “We’ll place them around the camp when darkness comes,” Inga said. “Any night guests might avoid them—but they might also give us a little bit of a warning.”

  Ulfar smiled his approval, then went to see to the fire.

  The stars twinkled overhead. Goran gnawed on a strip of half-burned, half-raw horsemeat, licking the blood off his lips.

  “So where are we going after we find your friend?” Arnar grunted, half-hidden in shadow.

  Ulfar leaned back. His stomach was full, and now he just wanted to fall asleep and wake up three years ago, when everything had been so much simpler. “North, then west,” he said. “We’re going to find another man and avenge my cousin.”

  “Not a lot of money in revenge,” Arnar said.

  “I have a suspicion that by the time I get to this particular worm, he’ll be lying on a pile of gold,” Ulfar said.

  “Who is he?” Goran said.

  “Inga . . . ?”

  “His name is Valgard,” Inga whispered. Even here, she still glanced furtively into the darkness before continuing, “He’s a . . . healer. Or was. He’s . . . He used to live in my town—Stenvik—only we got turned over by King Olav, and all of a sudden we were thralls in our own homes. All except Valgard, because he’d squirreled away books and a cross so the king thought he was one of them. You know, the Mumblers.”

  “We know the Mumblers,” Arnar said. “That’s one of the reasons I can’t be doing with the Christ thing. All the mumbling.”

  “He . . . went over to their side,” Inga continued. “And how. He was suddenly King Olav’s right hand, and then . . .” She looked at Ulfar, then whispered, “Then he came for me. He said he needed me to find Ulfar and bring him back to Stenvik because—”

  “—because he killed my cousin Geiri and he was worried that I’d find out and come get him, so he wanted Inga to get to me first,” Ulfar finished.

  “Hmpf,” Arnar said.

  “So you owe him,” Goran said.

  “I do,” Ulfar said. His blood felt cold. “I certainly do. But we’ll speak of that later. I’ll take first watch.”

  Above their heads a bloated, pockmarked moon rose and dragged the shadows of the forest with it. It shone down on a fading fire and, soon, three sleeping forms.

  Ulfar looked at the wall of rock-black trees. “I know you’re there,” he whispered. “I know it. And I know you’ve got something to do with this. And when I’m done . . . I’ll come find you.”

  The animals of the night stayed well clear of the travelers’ camp.

  FAR NORTH OF TRONDHEIM, NORTH NORWAY

  NOVEMBER, AD 996

  Spiked sealskin boots crashed through the frozen shell of the snowdrift and sank into the dry powder underneath. Botolf, at the head of the line, picked a careful sideways route down the hillside. Far below they could make out the outlines of Egill Jotun’s longhouse. The horses snorted in protest as they picked their way along the narrow boot-trodden path. A line of muttered curses drifted toward Valgard at the rear.

  Cramps wrenched his legs, jabbed at his spine, and twisted his shoulders a half-inch farther into a solid knot with every step. They’d found little cover on the crest of the hill overnight. The soldiers had lit fires, but they hadn’t helped. The cold had been bitter, sharp, and personal, and Botolf’s men were even more surly than usual. The morning had been difficult.

  “We should sledge down,” one of the men shouted.

  “Or I could just break your neck right now,” Thora shouted back.

  “Shut your hole, you fucking whore!” the man cried, “or I’ll open another one in your belly and f—” The snowball hit him square in the jaw and made him choke on his own spit as he lost his footing. His arms flailed as he fought for balance, then went rolling head over heels, kicking up delicate clouds of powder as he went. Thora stood still, watching the falling man with contempt. Valgard couldn’t help but smile. He looked funny, bouncing down the hill like that. Almost like a kid at play.

  Ormslev shot him a dirty look. “He’s dead,” he said.

  “Wha—?” He didn’t have time to finish the sentence.

  In the blink of an eye, the man was airborne as he bounced off something hard hidden in the snow, and when he met the ground again, his head snapped to one side as the weight of his body landed on his neck. Moments later he was just lying there, a pile of rags halfway down the hill.

  “Anyone else want to take the quick way?” Thora barked over the line. None of the men looked up. Even the horses stayed quiet.

  They inched their way along after that, step by careful step. When they were nearly halfway down, one of Hakon’s men stepped on a sheet of ice hidden by a dusting of snow. Both his feet left the ground, and he twisted in the air. The dull sound of breaking bone as his skull met the jagged, ice-crusted rock cut through the heavy, cold silence.

  Valgard watched the blood soak through the snow and thought of Botolf’s words.

  The north would take them.

  “Watch your feet, you thick-faced lamb-diddlers!” Thora growled. For a moment, Valgard thought she might consider the man’s death a personal affront and go and kill him some more.

  The men stepped over the fallen warrior, careful not to meet the same fate.
/>   “Try not to die of stupid!” Thora growled and turned to Botolf. “Where did you find these idiots?”

  “The waiting line outside your mother’s house?” Botolf shot back. “Give them a break. They’re cold and wet, but whatever they are, they’re not idiots.”

  “How do you figure?” Thora said.

  “For one, they didn’t build their houses this far north,” Botolf muttered.

  Despite the situation, Valgard spotted the odd smirk in the line.

  The valley that had looked so inviting from above was nowhere near as easy to cross as Valgard had hoped. The snow was chest-deep and too loose to walk on. Treacherous rocks and roots hid underneath, but the men didn’t appear to care. They might grouch and grumble, but under Bug-eye’s shouted commands they soon had a work-party going. Valgard stood to the side, hunched over. He was wet and cold and hurting like a bastard. He didn’t even consider offering to help. If he did have a shovel, he’d just be getting in their way.

  While the men worked to clear the snow, Botolf conferred with Thora. The chieftain looked tense; like a caged animal. He was pointing to the far end of the valley and scowling, but the woman didn’t appear to care; she was all smiles, shaking her head and grinning. Botolf motioned for Bug-eye to come over, and the trek-master stood impassively at his side, like an ugly cow, and listened, nodding occasionally. When Botolf had finished giving orders, Ormslev turned smartly and strode toward the work party, pointing, shouting, and gesturing. Valgard followed the chieftain’s eyes. An odd-shaped shadow halfway up the hillside caught his eye. Was that . . . a cave? Something in the valley was worrying Botolf, and Valgard didn’t like to admit how uneasy that made him feel.

  The men fell into a rhythm. Snow flew up above their heads, covering the midday sun. They dug themselves down into the sparkling white snow, and soon nothing was visible but the ridges of the enclosing hills and the blue sky above. Valgard shuffled along behind them, staying as close to the warm horses as he dared. The party trudged along, inch by inch, heading straight for the center of the valley.