The sound of his head smashing into the wood snapped the warriors out of their stupor: there was a great tumult as war-cries went up all over the room and hundreds of warriors decided to charge. Valgard could see the murder in their eyes, smell their desire to tear him apart. Of course. He had offended them – he had defied them. Worst of all, he had frightened them.
And now they wanted their revenge.
The doors to Hakon Jarl’s great hall were made from the biggest, strongest oaks they had been able to find within a day of Trondheim. Each one was easily the width of a man, and they had been crafted together with thick ropes and three-times-quenched steel.
When they splintered and broke, they killed six men.
Botolf and Ormslev pushed through the gap just as Ormar and Jori burst in through the back-room door.
As the blood of the two chieftains pooled around the throne and seeped through the wooden planks of the dais, Valgard leaned back and savoured the panic, the last-gasp calls to Odin and Thor – to anyone.
Too late, he thought as his trolls walked among the best of King Olav’s army. They broke some and bent others too far, but these were tough bastards. He’d get most of them serviceable, and that’d be a fine number.
The light of the fires was reflected in the widening pool of blood by his feet and he allowed himself a quiet moment of appreciation. Things really were going his way now.
Sighing contentedly, he rose, touching the rune bag. He could feel the tendrils of strength within. There was a scent on the air.
‘Fear,’ Valgard said. ‘So that’s what it smells like.’
STENVIK BAY, WEST NORWAY
LATE DECEMBER, AD 996
Black water lapped at the prow of Njordur’s Mercy. The steep black cliffs rose on their left, touching the thick grey clouds and glowering at the ship with unmovable menace.
King Olav pulled his furs close. Six days’ fast sailing had taken its toll on the men, but they rowed on, hunkered down under every layer of warm clothing they could find, no doubt cursing him when they thought he wasn’t listening. He did not doubt that the screams they’d heard from the shore as they left still haunted them.
Behind him, Einar shifted to get a better look. ‘That’s Stenvik, there,’ the young man said.
‘I know,’ King Olav said. ‘I know.’ He had prayed on the water, talking to the skies and begging for . . . What? Forgiveness? That night in Trondheim still weighed on him. It seemed unreal, somehow – the forest, the one-eyed man, the feel of his sword biting into thick, blue flesh . . . and the cries that carried from the shore and hung on the air far longer than they should have.
The gentle hiss of the prow slicing through the waves wiped his thoughts away. The North just wasn’t the right place for him – he’d never have gone there, not this late in the year, if it hadn’t been for Valgard.
King Olav looked over his shoulder again, and cursed himself for it. He’d felt watched the whole trip, as if the sickly healer had been sitting by his side, smirking at his mistakes. He hadn’t even fought his own battles, the weakling; he’d had those brutes do it for him. His ribs ached at the memory of it. The pain in his side had torn his sleep apart; he couldn’t find any comfortable way to lie down, and breathing was difficult. It had been a challenge not to growl at the sailors, but he’d learned a long time ago that kings sat on thrones, and thrones belonged on land. A ship’s captain had to be a good bit more patient. So Olav kept his anger to himself and waited, counting every moment that brought the Njordur’s Mercy closer to shore.
‘That’s strange,’ Einar said.
The young archer by his side had been one of the few bright sparks on the journey, and Olav had quickly begun to feel like he could trust the man. There was something about his quiet reliability that reassured, unlike Hjalti. A chill ran down his spine as he relived the dagger buried to the hilt in the man’s chest, but he shook it off.
‘What?’ he replied, more brusquely than he’d intended.
‘Their torches are lit,’ Einar said.
The sun was hiding somewhere in the clouds, past the mid-point, but not by much – though the light was weak, it was quite enough to see by.
The king squinted and could just about make out the dots of light along the coast. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Maybe old Finn has become afraid of the dark. Maybe the South has made him soft,’ he added with the closest he could get to a grin. It was hard to smile in the cold. He licked the salt spray off his lips and waited.
Einar kept staring. ‘The old town,’ he said at last.
‘What about it?’
Einar turned to look at him. ‘It’s gone.’
*
‘Hold the oars,’ King Olav barked. They’d reefed the sails a while ago; they needed control more than speed right now. Einar stood beside him, arrow nocked, and half of his crew stood behind him, armed and ready for a fight.
‘Are we not out of range, Einar?’ he asked quietly.
‘For most people,’ the young archer replied, not quite hiding a smirk.
Olav could find nothing to smile about. The old town had been levelled: every single structure had been burned to ash; those few beams that had initially resisted showed the white wounds of the axe.
‘Where is everyone?’ he muttered.
‘Movement up on the wall,’ Einar said under his breath. ‘Pikes – quite a lot of them, too.’
King Olav made his decision. ‘Oars!’ he shouted, and as one, the men pushed and pulled and the ship sped forward towards the pier. ‘Eyes open,’ the king barked, and then added, ‘Prepare for anything.’
But Njordur’s Mercy docked smoothly at Stenvik Pier and nothing happened. The thirty armed men were up in a flash, scanning the horizon for enemies and ready to fight – but none rose out of the soggy grey mess that had once been the Old Town. No screaming horde descended on them, no rain of arrows – nothing. The rowers disembarked quickly, strengthening their ranks, but still no one came.
Einar looked at the king.
‘Form up,’ King Olav said, and behind him, the men moved into position and inched towards the walls of Stenvik.
‘Four more steps and we’re in range,’ Einar said quietly at the king’s right-hand side.
‘Halt!’ King Olav shouted. From here, even he could see the row upon row of silent armoured men on the wall. His ribs ached, his stomach was roiling from the sudden stillness of dry land and he could feel a fever coming on.
He turned and looked at his men. ‘Stand your ground. My Lord will protect me,’ he said quietly. Then he walked towards the town, arms outstretched, though there was still no response from the wall. When he was sure no one could see his face, he gritted his teeth to squeeze out the pain and drew as big a breath as he could manage. His voice rang out, loud and strong: ‘I call for Finn Trueheart!’
This caused some movement on the wall and at five points, men stood up from a crouch, displaying bows at the ready, with arrows nocked.
‘Is this how you greet your king?’ King Olav shouted.
‘Stand down! Open the gates! Open the gates or I’ll rip your shitting heads off!’ a big booming voice roared from within, and a small bubble of nervous laughter escaped King Olav’s lips at the chaos erupting on the wall. The archers disappeared as if they’d been cut down. The silent pikemen dropped their weapons and jumped into action and within moments the grating of chain on stone broke the cold silence, the thick wooden gate started to move and a familiar figure emerged on the wall.
‘My king!’ Finn shouted.
‘Hello, Finn,’ King Olav shouted back.
Belatedly, Finn remembered to bend his knee. He was barely visible above the parapet as he gestured to the slowly opening southern gate. ‘Welcome to Stenvik!’
*
The longhouse was much as King Olav remembered it, but the fire and the bro
th warming him outside and in made it finer than any king’s palace. He finished his story, and allowed himself another spoonful.
‘Those bastards,’ Finn growled. ‘Conspiring to kill you all this time? And Hjalti – I cannot believe it. I mean, I can, obviously. If only I’d been there—’
‘If you’d been there by my side they would have gone for you too,’ King Olav said pragmatically, then asked, ‘So, what happened to the Old Town?’
‘I burned it,’ Finn said. ‘They . . .’ He stopped and swallowed, and then went on, ‘They just wouldn’t die, the fuckers – Sigurd and Sven, I mean.’
‘I saw them. I saw their bodies,’ the king said.
‘I know – I saw them too. But after Valgard and I buried them and you left, the old guard started disappearing – the raiders of the Westerdrake. And then . . .’ The big man’s face darkened. ‘We chased them through the woods, up the hills and into the Old Town, and my men died, one by one. Some were trapped in the forest by spiked branches. A number of them fell as they climbed, and more than one was stabbed in the shadows of those shitty old huts. So I burned them.’
Too many questions needed answering. ‘How did they—?’ the king began, but a cough ripped through him, followed by a stabbing pain in his ribs. He gripped the edge of the table and gritted his teeth.
‘You’re hurt,’ Finn said. ‘You – fetch the healers,’ he ordered, and the warrior he’d pointed at disappeared into the darkness.
‘Had to defend myself,’ King Olav said. He felt the snowball rolling down the hill, taking him with it. ‘Had to—’ Cold sweat broke out on his forehead and he tried again. ‘—escape . . .’
‘We’ll sort you out,’ Finn said, reaching over and pouring half of his broth into the king’s bowl. ‘Drink.’
‘I don’t—’
‘Drink.’
King Olav looked hazily at the big man’s face, but there was no malice to go with the edge of command, just a wide-open, worried face. The king allowed himself a weak smile. ‘As you say, chieftain,’ he said, enjoying the time it took Finn to understand the joke.
‘I – I didn’t, um – you need your strength,’ the big man said sheepishly.
‘I know,’ the king said. The broth was delicious, meaty and full of nourishing fat. At the far end of the hall the door flew open and two serious-looking men carrying leather pouches entered at speed.
The king looked down at the spot where he’d sat when he first got to Stenvik – was it really just a few months ago? He remembered the shape of the man kneeling before him, the glint in the eye as the bastard had looked up and thanked God for saving him.
‘Valgard . . .’ he muttered.
Concern clouded Finn’s face. ‘Yes – I didn’t see him. Where is he?’ But King Olav was done talking. Reeling, he slumped backwards into the arms of the healers who’d come up behind him.
*
Thunder crashed overhead and far beneath King Olav’s feet white-tipped waves smashed into the base of the cliff. The wind howled all around him, tugging at him, tantalising with the joy of the fall and the darkness to follow. He looked down and the waves were no longer water but armies: roaring, heaving waves of men, shields locked and charging to meet in deadly conflict. The wind carried their screams as he stepped off the cliff and drifted down, borne by an invisible hand to take his place in the vanguard. The clouds disappeared, revealing a red sun burning in the sky – he felt its heat snapping at him, pinching his skin and covering him almost instantly in a slick sheen of sweat as he stood on the battlefield, holding his sword and staring at the faces of hundreds – no, thousands – of blue-skinned monsters. If he squinted, he could just make out Valgard’s slim shape behind them, surrounded by waves of blue-green light.
The sensation when his army faded out of view was like having his stomach pulled out through his feet. His heart ached, but then the cross started thumping at his chest and King Olav could feel himself growing – growing – stretching to the heavens to meet his maker, getting bigger and stronger and heavier.
The first blue-skin looked up at his form and charged, fangs out and frothing at the mouth.
King Olav lopped his head off in one stroke.
As the current of power ran through him, from his fingertips up through his shoulders and into his head, his heart and the very core of him, the king smiled. ‘You shall be weighed and measured before the Lord,’ he said quietly into the face of the roaring army. ‘And you shall be found wanting.’
Laying about him to both sides he strode into battle, twisting in his sleep.
*
The old warrior stood awkwardly by the end of the table in the longhouse, waiting for Finn to look up. Finally, he cleared his throat. ‘We put the king’s men in the stables last night. Roof’s tight, and we made sure there was plenty of wood – they were cold, wet and hungry.’
‘Good,’ Finn said.
‘Young one – named Einar – said he’d be in charge of distributing blankets and furs. He asked for healers. . . . er, Finn?’
The big man was no longer paying any attention to the soldier. Instead, he was looking at the crooked figure striding across the floor of the longhouse. Finn rose slowly from the seat to the right of the throne. ‘Fine,’ he said absentmindedly. ‘Leave us.’
‘What?’ the warrior said.
‘Leave us, I said,’ the big man snapped, and as the warrior hurried away, out of sight, Finn kept staring at the man he had called king.
King Olav was almost bent over double, favouring his left side. His face was drawn, his skin sallow and his hair hung limply, but there was still that spark in the eyes, a mad glint that demanded – commanded – attention.
‘Finn,’ the king said without ceremony as soon as he was close enough.
‘Yes, my lord,’ Finn replied.
‘You have too many men here,’ the king said.
‘Yes, we do. But there’s little we can do about it,’ Finn replied. ‘If we let a handful go home to their farms we’ll lose half of our army. Everyone else will go as well.’
‘But if we make them stay here they’ll either start fighting amongst themselves, rise up against us or grow thin, sick and dead.’
‘Yes,’ Finn said cautiously.
‘I want a report on everyone and everything you have in this town: all the craftsmen and the materials.’ The king made his way gingerly up to the dais and sat down in the high seat.
When he turned, the breath caught in Finn’s throat.
King Olav smiled. ‘You’re going to build me a ship.’
*
The raw wind pushed the snow up into Finn’s face as he left the longhouse. The faint morning light brought no warmth and Finn felt chilled to the bone. Ship? What the king had described . . . The warrior sighed. He’d said yes, of course – but it wasn’t going to happen. There was no way a thing like that could be built.
Finn’s strides lengthened as he got angrier. Why did this happen to him? What was the reason? He clenched his fist and gritted his teeth. It had been bloody hard, keeping Stenvik from collapsing. The enemy had known it inside out and had used every hidden weak spot to their best advantage – it had been like shoring up a leaky boat in a storm. They’d wounded Gunnar badly on his fourth day in charge, so Finn had taken over. And he was absolutely sure that it was Sigurd and Sven, even though he’d buried them with his own hands. How could you fight men who were already dead?
Head down, Finn barrelled straight into a bony old man and sent him crashing to the ground. ‘Watch where you’re going,’ he growled.
‘My sincere apologies,’ the man said, lying on his back. He was short and skinny – knobbly as an old wind-beaten branch – with white hair that hung in thick, salt-crusted tendrils covering almost half of his face. He propped himself up on his elbow, wincing like someone who had just lost a hard fight.
Finn felt a tingle of embarrassment. Was that was he’d been reduced to, knocking over old white-hairs? He extended a hand and pulled the old man to his feet. ‘No, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t looking.’
‘Something on your mind?’ the old man said.
‘You could say that,’ Finn replied, more bitterly than he wanted to.
‘Hm.’ The old man scratched his head. ‘So what’s going on?’
‘Oh, nothing. I just have to find the materials in the middle of winter to build a . . . a ship.’
The man seemed amused. ‘Plenty of ships down by the harbour,’ he said.
‘Why are you smiling?’ Finn snapped.
‘Oh, no reason,’ the man said. ‘Just find it funny. You must be a fortunate man.’ Finn glared at the man, but didn’t answer, and oblivious to his companion’s rancour, the white-hair continued,. ‘You need a ship built, and you walk into a shipwright.’
Now it was Finn’s turn to laugh incredulously. ‘You’re a shipwright?’
‘Sure am,’ the man said. ‘Just came in on the boat with the king. I should have introduced myself.’
The old man smiled, and Finn felt oddly at ease in his presence. ‘My name is Fjolnir. Why don’t we get started?’
Chapter 11
THE DALES, WEST SWEDEN
LATE DECEMBER, AD 996
The hunting parties returned later that night with even more meat, although none of them could match Audun and Ulfar. With bellies full, the men traded well-worn stories of old victories, applauding new embellishments with raucous laughter. In the shadows, Ulfar’s head dropped to his chest before he started and woke.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘I think it’s time for me to sleep.’
‘Me too, I gather,’ Audun said.
‘Hail the hunters!’ Sven shouted.
‘HAIL!’ the cry went out.
Ulfar smiled a wan smile. The tree, the stag and the walk back had taken it all out of him and he could feel his hips seizing up, along with his lower back. For just a moment he allowed himself to be grateful for the knowledge that the aches would be gone in the morning.
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