The Valhalla Saga 01 - Swords of Good Men

by Snorri Kristjansson

  ‘Off you go.’

  Without a word his three scouts set off at an easy run towards the western gate.

  *

  Valgard woke with a start. His skin felt clammy, his mouth tasted like bile and his body felt like a wrung dishrag. Falling asleep at the workbench hadn’t helped. It had been a bastard of a night. He’d had to go for fresh water for his patients five times. By the last time the well guard was cursing him roundly and threatening to piss in the next bucket.

  But no one had died. Mostly thanks to him.

  In the shed next door he had the pig farmer, who looked like he was going to recover eventually. He might even have had some sense smacked into him. The gods occasionally allowed for fantastic things.

  Lilia … he’d done the best he could. He always did. Harald never let her out of the house when he was ashore, so she would be resting at home.

  The Swede was another matter. Sven had been at him, bandaging, serving him mixtures, steaming plants to make him breathe better, but nothing had worked. His lanky long-haired friend insisted on sitting with him.

  They were all pieces on the board now.

  He tried his best to ignore the pain in his body and clear his head. There would be repercussions after the events of last night. You couldn’t start something like that without damages. Honour demanded it.

  It all started and ended with Harald. He’d succeeded in making the big oaf dependent on him to provide the mixture and patch Lilia up when the bastard went too far. Now Harald would probably be in trouble with Sigurd because of how he had abused the pig farmer. Harald was not one for authority to begin with, but would Sigurd push him far enough? If there was one thing that brute could be trusted to do it was to make a bloody mess of things. But how best to use it?

  With his toe, Valgard tapped the bundle of wood under his workbench. Behind it, the box. He nodded slowly to himself. A lot of pieces were in place already.

  Now he had to figure out in which order to play them.

  *

  Audun looked at the three sleeping forms in the shed.

  The pig farmer in the far corner looked the worse for wear, bandaged almost beyond recognition. Still, he’d live.

  In the middle lay Geiri. He looked peaceful, as if he was only sleeping. A large, purple-green bruise peeking from underneath a head bandage was the only thing that hinted at anything out of the ordinary.

  In the corner his friend from the longhouse lay slumped. Ulfar, his name was. Before he could think about what he was doing Audun had walked over to him, put a hand on his shoulder and shaken him gently. ‘You. Get some proper rest.’

  Ulfar startled, blinked, tried his best to see. ‘Wh-what?’ He shook his head. ‘Must have … fallen asleep. I’m awake now. Geiri? How’s Geiri?’

  Audun kept his hand on the young man’s shoulder. ‘He’s still out. And you’re going somewhere where you can sleep proper, not in a corner like a thrall. Go to wherever you’re staying and get some rest. You might need it. I’ll watch over him.’

  Ulfar looked at him and blinked. After a while, he nodded and stumbled to his feet, standing nearly a head taller than Audun. ‘Thank you. I’ll go sleep for just a little while.’

  He staggered out of the hut.

  Audun looked around then sat down in Ulfar’s place.

  What in Hel’s name was he doing, helping strangers?

  He shook his head.

  No good could come of this.

  *

  Oraekja rolled his eyes.

  A lot of posturing, that was all it was. Stalking behind Ragnar, squeezing in between another pair of pointless, stupid huts, Oraekja meant to scowl fiercely. It came out as more of an annoyed sneer. He knew he had a good scowl though – the kind of scowl a hard bastard would use to silence a room. He’d been practising it for a while.

  But this was just pointless.

  No skulking, no hiding, no dragging people into shadows and stabbing them. He’d seen a couple of girls worthy of his attention but there’d been none of that either. Ragnar would just walk around during the day and look at things.

  It was stupid.

  And he was left trailing after the old man, who would walk around inside the walls like an idiot, just looking. Every now and then he’d see something, a house or a barn or a couple of men walking, look up at the gateway, close his eyes and mumble. Real advanced scout business, Oraekja sneered. He didn’t seem like he was in any rush to do anything to Sigurd and his men. Earlier he’d stopped by a place with long sticks and bales of hay. Bales of hay! What was he going to do – feed them to death?

  ‘When do we move?’ he asked.

  Ragnar sighed. ‘Like I’ve told you, we wait for her sign. Did you not listen to the instructions?’ He turned away and continued walking.

  Oraekja spat and scowled. He reckoned Ragnar was simply scared. He was a scared old man and should make way for the younger generation. Men like him.

  Ragnar was weak.

  Weakling.

  Bloody weakling.

  The blood pumped in Oraekja’s head. He wanted to shout, scream or pick a fight. There was only one thing he could do. He thought of her. Then he went over her special instructions again in his mind. He’d listened well enough to those, and now he was beginning to understand.

  WYRMSEY

  ‘Put some cock into it, you lazy mongrel shit-witted bastard whoresons!’

  Skargrim listened to Thora give the workers a tongue-lashing. As always the vocabulary of his second in command amazed him. She was nothing if not inventive. And the voice on her! Skargrim marvelled at the sheer loudness that fitted inside such a tiny frame. On his instructions she’d set the men to cutting down trees and hewing them down to planks after they were done with the ditch. To the side a platoon of workers was fashioning ropes to bind the logs together.

  As he watched, one of them, a broad-shouldered rower from Thrainn’s crew, threw down his axe. ‘I did not come here to do farm work for a woman!’ he shouted. Skargrim cringed. Thora walked towards him, grabbing a shovel on the way without breaking her stride. Swinging the shovel like a mallet, she thwacked him on the cheek as hard as she could with the flat of the blade. The dull klonk of the shovel blended with the wet squelch of splitting skin. The rower went down in a heap, clutching his face and screaming obscenities.

  ‘Does anyone else of you worthless, rotten, slime-sucking bugeyed dog fuckers—’ Skargrim nodded to himself. He’d seen this before. Like a seasoned skald she had seized the audience’s attention for maximum effect. The brief pause was punctuated with a fierce stamp on the prone man’s crotch. His scream was cut short by a gasp for air as he writhed in pain at Thora’s feet. ‘— want to complain?’ He looked round at the assembled warriors. Thora was neither muscular nor large, but she was quick, deadly with a knife, and Skargrim had never in his whole life met anyone more vicious.

  As he watched, a whole work squad of hardened raiders took one look at the tiny woman standing over their fallen comrade with the shovel casually balanced on her shoulder and found a surprising enthusiasm for woodwork. Thora looked his way and grinned. Skargrim nodded his approval.

  Sometimes life was less about grand, heroic gestures and more about picking the right people to stand beside you.

  Down on the beach Ingi’s men were getting their ships stowed away next to the others, working quickly and efficiently.

  Fifty-eight ships now.

  He shielded his eyes and looked to sea. He could just make out a couple of tiny specks on the horizon.

  Skargrim nodded. That would be Egill Jotunn, then.

  EAST OF HARDANGER HEATH

  ‘What?’ Birkir growled.

  Havar turned towards Jorn and threw down the saddle. ‘This smells of trickery! There’s something brewing! He knows!’

  Runar’s eyes darted around, looking for hidden enemies around their tents. ‘A-a-are you sure ab-buh-bout this?’

  ‘Shut up, all of you. Start packing. We’re going,’ Jorn snappe
d.

  Havar made to protest. ‘But last night you said—’

  Jorn fixed the fat man with a cold look. ‘You know, Havar, for someone with your smarts you can be fairly stupid sometimes.’

  Havar turned bright pink. ‘But you said—’

  ‘— and loud.’ There was steel in Jorn’s voice and he looked pointedly at the soldiers passing by. ‘So how about we talk about this at a later point? When we’re on our way, maybe? Hmm?’ Without thinking he adjusted the chain around his neck.

  Runar placed his hand on Havar’s shoulder. ‘Makes s-s-s-sense, you know. We m-mustn’t l-lose our heads.’ Havar turned away and started packing his belongings, muttering all the while. Runar looked at Jorn and shrugged. ‘Eyes o-open … m-m-mouth shut?’

  ‘Eyes open and mouth shut,’ Jorn repeated and nodded. ‘Indeed.’

  STENVIK

  Harald sneered and spat. ‘So that’s how it is.’

  Rays of evening sunlight caught dust motes circling the rafters in the longhouse. Sigurd sat in the high seat and looked wearily down on him.

  ‘Yes, Harald. That is how it is.’

  ‘So first you tell me we need to keep the peace, especially during market. And then you tell me to go and watch out for trouble. And then, when I decide to set an example so we don’t have drunken farmers stumbling all over town starting fights and groping women, it’s my fault?’

  Standing at Sigurd’s shoulder, Sven crossed his arms over his chest. ‘You know the law, Harald.’

  ‘Oh don’t you start, you old turd. This stinks of your counsel.’

  Sigurd inclined his head slightly and looked Harald straight in the eyes. ‘So, let me see if I understand what you’re saying.’ He held Harald’s gaze. ‘I am unfair, wrong and incapable of leading on my own,’ he said quietly. ‘Is this a challenge?’

  Harald scowled and spat again.

  ‘Is it?’

  Harald’s eyes drifted to the axe on the wall behind the dais. He took a deep breath. ‘No,’ he sneered as he stood up from the table. ‘I’m not stupid. It’s just that in my opinion maybe the old … laws … could stand to be … revised. I will go and see what I have in my house to’ – he swallowed hard – ‘settle the debt of honour.’ He turned and walked briskly to the exit.

  When the dust had settled from the door slamming, Sven sat down on the dais next to Sigurd.

  ‘How long do you reckon that will hold?’

  ‘I don’t know. The only reason he didn’t challenge is that he still remembers what happened last time. I truly don’t know if I could best him now.’

  ‘He’s had time to get stronger and meaner. Some of the stories I’ve heard from the raids are not pretty, Sigurd. Not to mention the girl.’

  A dismissive wave almost hid Sigurd’s expression. ‘What a man does in his house is his business.’

  ‘He’s a brute. Worse, he enjoys it.’

  ‘I didn’t see you complaining when you counted the loot from his last three raids.’

  The two men eyed each other. Sven broke the silence. ‘There comes a time when you have to consider who goes with you on the boat.’

  ‘Well, I’d rather have him with me than against me.’ Sven smiled wanly. ‘I know, I know. He’s always barked, but his bite is getting worse. However, what I say stands. Two days to estimate the severity of the injuries and then I decide on compensation. Fenrir’s mouth stays shut, and I get to keep my arm.’

  ‘Then that’s how it is.’

  Sigurd nodded. ‘That it is. For now.’

  HARDANGER HEATH

  Birkir had to shout to be heard over the wind and the hoof beats. ‘If you whip the horses like this, we’ll be walking tomorrow!’

  Squinting against the wind, Jorn eased his hold on the reins and slowed down to a canter. Havar, Birkir and Runar eased alongside him.

  ‘I don’t want to be a pest,’ Havar began cautiously, ‘but you’ve been riding like death is on your heels. Birkir is right. You’re going to kill the horses. You can’t cross the heath like this. And why are we doing it, anyway?’

  ‘M-m-maybe now would be a good time to tell us what is g-going on?’ Runar ventured.

  Jorn slowed the horse down to a walk and looked round. ‘Yes. Now would be a good time. We are going to Stenvik to talk to them for King Olav, help the villagers prepare for him and be his eyes and ears to make the army’s arrival easier.’ His voice betrayed no emotion but his eyes scanned his fellow travellers.

  Birkir shook his head slowly. ‘Still makes no sense to me.’

  ‘Me either,’ Havar complained. ‘We hate King Olav. Don’t we?’

  Runar looked thoughtfully at Jorn.

  ‘Th-th-that’s a big job.’

  ‘It is, Runar.’ A hint of a smile flashed across Jorn’s face. Runar noticed this and smiled back. Havar and Birkir looked on, confused.

  ‘A l-lot of things can go wr-wr-wrong on big jobs,’ Runar added.

  Jorn put on a convincingly apologetic face. ‘Sadly, they can.’

  Runar’s smile was positively angelic. ‘It is very’ – Runar nodded slowly to himself, taking his time to get the sentence out – ‘dangerous when things go wr-wrong for a whole army that is perhaps made up of people who don’t like each other very much.’

  By now, the smiles had spread to Birkir and Havar’s faces. Jorn nodded sagely. ‘So what I propose we do, boys, is that we get to Stenvik as quick as we can, so that we can make absolutely sure that we’ve done our very best when the King arrives.’

  Within moments they were all back at full gallop.

  STENVIK

  Harald could barely contain his fury. Thick, yellowing nails, broken and bitten, dug into calloused palms. Oft-broken and scabbed knuckles whitened, forearms tensed. He just needed an excuse. Any excuse and he’d take great pleasure in breaking someone’s face. His nostrils flared and a growl erupted from his throat. Muscles bunched in his arms and shoulders. He throbbed with the injustice of it all. How dare he? Sven, that old goat. And Sigurd. He’d just been following bloody orders. Make sure there are no fights in the market, Harald. Keep an eye out for the traders, Harald. He remembered it well. Of course the best way was to show once and for all who the biggest, meanest dog was. Everyone knew that. It was stupid and unfair. He’d been betrayed. And now, on top of everything, he would have to pay them. Those snivelling little toad-faced pansies who had never tasted the blood on the air, mixed with the smell of charred wood and the music of the screams. Fucking earth-humpers who had never gone in at night, never felt the tingle before the fight, never felt the calm before the storm. Never snuffed out the light in someone’s eyes.

  Images came to him. Starlight. Big, bearded men crouching in a longship, gliding silently up a river in green, lush land. Grinning to each other. Fastening axes to wrists with leather straps. Reinforcing shield holds. Checking mail shirts and helmets.

  Praying silently to Thor, to Tyr. To Odin himself.

  Muttering ‘Tonight I may die,’ but never believing it.

  Feeling invincible.

  Despite his mood Harald grinned to himself. On that boat, he knew the rules. He knew the game.

  In Stenvik, he wasn’t so sure any more.

  If only someone would give him an excuse right now.

  He needed it. Either that or some of Valgard’s medicine. He needed something and he needed it now.

  He turned and headed for home.

  NORTH OF STENVIK

  Sigmar gave himself to the movement.

  The ground seemed to whip past him. Bushes turned to green blurs, trees smudged around the edges. His feet hardly touched the earth. Breathe in, three steps, breathe out, three steps. The rhythm took over and then his heart was beating to the rhythm of his feet to the rhythm of the soil and he was alive, he was part of it, part of the rhythm of nature. He ran.

  But anyone could run. Thorvald had taught them how to hunt. To watch. They could run through a forest at full speed and tell you afterwards how many trees they’
d seen, how many bushes, where the deer tracks lay.

  And now Sigmar was thinking, floating on the rhythm. Smelling, seeing, hearing. Working all his senses, searching for anything that would give Thorvald the information he wanted.

  Sjoberg loomed up ahead. A sheer cliff rising some two hundred yards over the sea, it was the best point on their stretch of coast to scout the horizon.

  The climb was steep and they were all sweating freely when they got to the top. They did as they had been taught and loosened up their muscles when they stopped, rubbing their thighs and shaking their legs. Only when that was done did they allow themselves two mouthfuls of water each, holding the precious liquid in their mouths for as long as they could. Too much water did nothing but slow you down and they had much ground to cover.

  Sigmar snapped out an order. ‘Orn. Horizon. Any ships?’

  Little blond, blue-eyed Orn, at twelve the youngest recruit to the scouts for a while, settled in and shielded his eyes from the sun. Aptly named after the eagle, the boy could see for miles. After a little while he turned to Sigmar. ‘There may be something out there but it is very far out. Could have been ships.’

  ‘Go back, find them, try to see where they’re headed.’

  Orn went back to his post. Sigmar watched him frown in concentration. Time passed then he spoke again, voice cracking a little. ‘Out. Far out,’ he said without taking his eyes from the horizon. ‘If I were to guess, I’d say they’re raiders, heading out. Must be out to sea. The only other place in that direction is Wyrmsey.’

  ‘Wyrmsey,’ Sigmar repeated and scratched his head. ‘Why would anyone want to go there?’

  WYRMSEY

  Skargrim sat on his rock and watched the last work being done on the planks. Thora walked towards him, all skin and bones and short, spiky black hair bristling every which way. She was a hard woman, Skargrim thought. There was nothing soft about her at all. He saw the nasty scar on her right cheek and smiled. One of her lovers had decided that it would be a good idea to assert his authority, show the bitch who was boss. He’d come out of it a lot worse than she did. She tilted her head back and looked up at him.