The Valhalla Saga 01 - Swords of Good Men

by Snorri Kristjansson

  Hrafn was the first up the planks, cackling madly.

  Runar stood, drew a bead on him and loosed. Whooping, he knew the moment it left the string that the arrow flew true. The cheer turned into a shriek as Hrafn, running at full speed, somehow shimmied past the line of the deadly missile that should have punched clean through his throat.

  He hardly even slowed down.

  Firing three quick shots in succession at the waiting warriors, Runar put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. Thorvald’s head whipped round, sweat pouring off the old man’s face. He read the situation in a flash.

  ‘BACK! BACK!!’

  As one the archers turned and fled for the steps. Hrafn jumped up onto the wall to see the last of them disappear with surprising speed down towards the ground. He got to the top of the stairs just in time to see the warriors on the ground remove the planks that the archers had used to slide down.

  The stairs had been smashed.

  Instead of regular steps, a treacherous, uneven, rocky slope and grim defenders with long, thick spears awaited the raiders. Hrafn grinned and ducked as two arrows flew over his head. ‘Not bad, Sigurd Aegisson. Not bad,’ he chuckled to himself, seeking cover behind the inner wall.

  *

  Back in the embrace of stone and blood.

  Skargrim’s nostrils flared as he tried to ignore the stench of death. All around him his warriors were clearing out the corpses of Egill’s men, each grabbing a fallen raider and dragging him out of the tunnel.

  Looking up, Skargrim noted the broken murder-hole covers with some satisfaction. Stenvik was going down hard … but it was going down.

  *

  ‘WE HAVE THE WALL. SEEK COVER!’ Hrafn shouted. Two of his fighters had already fallen to well-placed Stenvik arrows – their archers had been swift to find where the invaders’ heads would be briefly visible above the parapets. Now the groove between the inner and outer wall was slowly filling with Hrafn’s men, crawling on hands and knees. ‘KEEP DOWN!’ he shouted again, grinning. Plans were all well and good, but it wasn’t a proper scrap unless they changed a little. ‘STAY WHERE YOU ARE!’ he bellowed. Crouching down, he made eye contact with his warriors and motioned for them to start crawling, head down, following the groove towards the north side of the wall.

  *

  Skargrim’s blood boiled. The silence in the gateway was oppressive, broken only by the grunts of the corpse-bearers. One of the men pulled a body from the top of the pile and rays of light leaked through the barricade.

  Stenvik.

  Sigurd.

  ‘COME ON, YOU BASTARDS! WORK FOR IT!’ Thora screamed, setting off a chain reaction of growls, shouts and insults through the entire tunnel. As four more corpses were pulled away the last obstacle came into view. A wooden cart filled with rocks and turned sideways across the opening. Roaring, Skargrim waded over the corpses and barged into the cart.

  It didn’t move.

  Cursing and slipping on the blood-slick stones, he pushed again. Nothing.

  He found a foothold, bent his knees and pressed for all he was worth. The cart moved, but rocked back. Skargrim pushed harder. This time the wood creaked and the cart moved further. All around him he could sense more space as the corridor cleared.

  One of his men joined him on the cart, and then another. Together they pushed and the cart rocked. As it balanced on a wheel, more people joined and pushed. The cart fell with a loud crash, shattering and spilling stones over the road. Skargrim charged roaring into Stenvik.

  Three of the arrows missed him, another four thudded into his shield. The last one grazed his elbow. Blood oozed slowly out of the wound as Skargrim’s men poured through the southern gate, spreading out.

  A chill of foreboding filled him. He looked down at the blood, already thickening. A drop fell off his elbow.

  If you give to the land …

  The drop hit the ground and a blast of cold air swept in from the harbour, followed by an inhuman scream.

  Something was coming.

  *

  Audun could feel it. After yesterday’s events everything had changed. Or everyone, rather. No one knew how to talk to him after he’d shown what he was capable of, after he showed the people of Stenvik that he was a berserker. They hadn’t asked him to hold the line with them but had hinted that his presence would be welcome. Just before they hurried away.

  He felt sick. There was death all around him and he could feel the murder in his blood like a disease. His body didn’t feel right; didn’t feel all his after yesterday’s killings. Audun tried his best to quell the rising bile, but found himself wanting to vomit, drink water and hide under a pile of furs for a week. But for some reason he couldn’t quite comprehend he was here instead. Hiding behind some huts at the edge of the square, observing from afar.

  The men in the market square looked uneasy and as sick of killing as he was. Thorvald’s archers were retreating, firing at the raiders coming over the wall. From his vantage point to the side he followed the fighters’ eyes towards the barricade he’d helped assemble.

  The cart was moving, rocking back and forth.

  It was a good cart, he thought wistfully. He could maybe have been a bit more generous on the wood on the aft axle, but despite its flaws it had done what it had been made to do. Audun smiled to himself.

  The cart tipped but did not rock back. Instead it kept tipping until it was tipping over, falling and crashing to the ground.

  Skargrim charged into Stenvik.

  All eyes were on the big, grizzled captain as Runar and a handful of archers let fly.

  When they heard the strange sound Audun looked at the men in the market square. Faced with Skargrim on the ground, raiders on the wall and possibly something unknown like the berserkers, they exchanged worried glances.

  All of them, except one.

  Harald smiled a hunter’s smile as he slowly inched from his position with the raiders of the Westerdrake and towards Ulfar.

  Audun cursed and moved into the market square, following Harald’s path.

  *

  Harald watched as another arrow thudded into Skargrim’s shield. The big captain’s hand closed on the hilt of the sword. Roaring, he charged the defenders’ ranks. His men followed and the Vikings flowed into Stenvik.

  The square was battle, blood and chaos.

  He grinned. This was good. The dagger by his breast pulsed hot and heavy. This was how it should be. From the blood the strong should rise and serve the gods. He spotted an opening and stabbed hard, his sword piercing the throat of an unfortunate raider and sending him down. One more for Valhalla.

  They’d been right to meet them this early on – the invaders couldn’t use their numbers yet, but he could see the defenders would be pushed back. To his left Sven shouted: ‘They’re coming over the wall!’ The old bearded fucker was still alive, fending off two of Skargrim’s men with good footwork. He was a hard man to kill, Harald mused, but the battle wasn’t over yet. ‘Ulfar, go help to the east! Slow them down!’ Sven shouted. Ulfar broke off at once from the group and set off towards the east wall. Harald grinned, banged the pommel of his sword on a raider’s helmet and stepped from the front line to follow Ulfar. The rules for this fight were going to be different.

  *

  Sigurd wrenched his axe from the broken head of the dying fighter before him, never taking his eyes off Skargrim. A circle had formed around them, roughly the reach of their weapons. Many warriors had died already inside that circle.

  Skargrim nodded at Sigurd and smiled. It was not a friendly smile.

  ‘Sigurd.’

  ‘Skargrim.’

  Without warning the huge Viking captain launched himself at the chieftain of Stenvik, swinging to kill.

  *

  Hrafn motioned silently to his fighters crouched behind the inner wall and watched them pass the signal on. It was time.

  He held his breath for one moment … two … and when the first warning cry sounded from the north side of town
he climbed over the inner wall and dropped the twenty-five feet to the ground. All over the eastern Stenvik wall, from the southernmost point to the northern one, fierce raiders in sealskin coats did the same. Landing lightly, Hrafn saw the faces of the poor archers that had been set to watch one point on the wall, only to be faced with their field of vision filling with enemies. Not long now, he thought. Not long … there.

  ‘RETREAT! BACK TO THE LONGHOUSE!’

  Echoes of panic.

  Hrafn smiled.

  *

  Runar didn’t give himself time to think.

  Move, stop and shoot.

  Move, stop and shoot.

  He vaulted a fence, turned and squared his feet. Like he’d been taught long ago, he took the moment to control his breath, size up the onrushing warrior, draw and shoot.

  The arrow glanced off the nose guard, punched through his enemy’s left eye and dropped him dead.

  Move, stop and shoot.

  Back to the longhouse. That was the idea.

  ‘How are we doing?’ someone shouted just behind him.

  Runar turned. ‘I’m f-f-f-fine,’ he replied, adding, ‘He’s not,’ as he pointed to the collapsed man with an arrow sticking out of his skull.

  ‘I can see that,’ said the tall young man and smiled. Suddenly someone cannoned into him from behind and felled him to the ground.

  Move, stop and shoot.

  Runar turned and ran for cover. He had orders; they were to get back to the longhouse. Some people had to learn the hard way that you shouldn’t stop to talk in the middle of a fight.

  *

  The first blow knocked the wind out of Ulfar. It was followed by a flurry of hard punches. A meaty hand grabbed his hair, turned and twisted hard. Lying on the ground, Ulfar found himself staring at Harald’s face, bright red with rage.

  ‘She’s mine!’ he screamed. ‘Mine! Always!’ Stunned, he looked into the furious sea captain’s eyes. There was nothing human there any more. Ulfar tried to roll out of the brute’s grip. No luck. Harald had him pinned and he knew it. A triumphant smile spread on his ugly face. ‘No you don’t. And when I’m done with you she won’t like you at all. Because you won’t be pretty.’

  The straight right broke Ulfar’s nose easily. As his head snapped back, Harald let go of his hair and grabbed his throat with the left hand, squeezing hard. Pain shot through Ulfar, veins pumped in his throat. He couldn’t swallow. Couldn’t breathe.

  ‘Mine,’ Harald hissed. Black spots appeared in Ulfar’s eyes. ‘She’s mine and I can do what I want and you’re not going to—’

  Harald’s eyes rolled up into his head and closed. He went limp. Instinct brought Ulfar’s hands up to ward off the big man’s falling body.

  Harald’s weight shifted off Ulfar. Big hands grabbed him and lifted him up. Through a haze he sensed he was being helped to stand by strong arms. He coughed hard and sucked the life-giving air back into his lungs. ‘We can’t stay here,’ Audun said. ‘The fight will come to us and that bastard will wake up sooner than later. Follow me.’ Dragging Ulfar, dazed and coughing, he headed for the broken steps. All around them man-shapes darted between houses and huts; retreating archers and spearmen, fierce raiders giving chase.

  A ring of blades tightened around the longhouse.

  *

  The battle raged in the market square.

  Skargrim knew his men were as tough as they came, but the raiders of the Westerdrake were fighting for their lives, their town and their chieftain. The two groups were locked together in the confines of the town, refuting the invaders’ greater numbers.

  Sigurd stood in the middle of the line blocking their path to the longhouse. They had traded murderous blows, delivered hits that would have floored lesser warriors. Bleeding freely from a cut in his left arm, Sigurd ducked a swing and instead kicked at his opponent’s shield, throwing him off balance. Recovering with stunning speed, Skargrim avoided the sweep of Sigurd’s big battleaxe.

  A sudden bellowing roar echoed through the southern gateway. The raiders’ rearguard rushed into town, not looking forward but over their shoulders.

  And Skargrim saw fear on Sigurd Aegisson’s face for the first time.

  *

  ‘We have to run. There’s too many of them,’ Audun said. Standing on the south-east corner of the wall they could see the warriors closing in on the longhouse from all sides, weaving through Stenvik, moving between houses, chasing the archers and spearmen. ‘We can’t win this fight, Ulfar.’

  ‘Wait.’

  The roar echoed through the gateway and caused a commotion in the market square. Sigurd’s line broke and retreated towards the longhouse, but Skargrim’s men did not give chase and turn it into a rout. They were too busy getting out of the way.

  A warrior walked into Stenvik.

  His skin was blue and grey. The torn chain jerkin he wore was crusted with ice and blood. He wielded a sword in one hand and a big wooden shield in the other. Moving stiffly, he staggered towards the soldiers defending the longhouse.

  Ulfar shook himself, blinked and looked at the fighter. At the air around him. He looked away, towards the pier. Then he turned to Audun. ‘Come with me.’ And with that Ulfar vaulted up onto the raiders’ platform, heading down.

  *

  ‘Run, you bastards!’ Sven shouted.

  Sigurd’s men did not need to be told twice.

  When that … thing had emerged from the gate even the most hardened of warriors had stepped back. Now the men regrouped in a tight circle around the longhouse as Thorvald’s archers climbed up onto the roof. So far everything was going as they’d expected.

  Apart from this, whatever it was.

  It looked only marginally human. The eyes glowed icy blue, the hair hung limp on the skull. Purplish-green bruises, cracked skin … it looked like a corpse left outside in winter. It moved like one, too. However there was no mistaking its intentions. Bellowing again, it staggered towards the longhouse. Skargrim’s men followed at a safe distance.

  Behind Sven bowstrings sang and arrows flew towards the abomination, burying themselves in its body, neck and arms.

  It didn’t notice.

  Warriors emerged at a safe distance behind the creature. Some came down the roads from the gates, others from between huts and houses.

  The longhouse in the centre of Stenvik was surrounded.

  STENVIK, THE OLD TOWN

  The sleek ship lay at anchor a few boat lengths off the pier. There was no guard in sight. ‘Whoever was here seems to have left in a hurry,’ Audun whispered.

  Ulfar put a finger to his lips, and then bent down. He felt around by the ground until he found what he was seeking. ‘Come here,’ he whispered back. Audun knelt next to him. ‘Here – feel this.’ He moved the blacksmith’s big hand over … nothing.

  ‘Are you … well?’ Audun muttered, concerned. ‘Did you hit your head when—’ He stopped talking. Ulfar looked at him and nodded.

  ‘You feel it too. The air is colder just … here. Orn told me he’d seen something that suggested witchcraft, and I’m willing to bet that the source is on that ship.’

  Audun frowned. ‘What do you mean by witchcraft?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Ulfar said. ‘But I saw that thing coming into Stenvik and I don’t think they’ll stop it without our help. If you want to chop down a tree you don’t go for the branch – you go for the root. Are you with me?’

  Audun looked at him, rose and moved towards the ship. Together they found the rowing boat. ‘Something smells a bit strange here,’ Audun offered.

  ‘That would be the last passenger, I guess,’ Ulfar replied. The stocky blacksmith shuddered and put his energy into rowing. They were at the ship’s side in moments, boarding easily. ‘Keep in mind that whatever is on this boat will be … evil …’ His voice trailed off when he saw her.

  A woman stood by the mast.

  Tall, blonde and exquisite, she was the very picture of beauty. There was a faint, shimmering silver light
glowing around her. ‘Welcome, Audun Arinbjarnarson. Well met, Ulfar Thormodsson. I have been waiting for you.’ The stocky blacksmith and the tall young nobleman exchanged puzzled looks. The woman continued. ‘It was foretold that two mighty warriors would stand after Stenvik. The weave said one would be quick to think and swift on his feet, the other full of anger and the strength of many men. Together these warriors would defeat a mighty foe. So I chose five of the fastest and strongest Vikings I could find and went to war against King Olav. I thought two of them would fit the description, one way or another.’ She walked towards them, picking her way over the polished planks of the Njordur’s Mercy. ‘But Stenvik has proved more … stubborn than I’d expected. They’ve forced me to call on an Einherji – the souls of the dead come to fight in the body of a willing sacrifice. The brave men of Stenvik will try, but he cannot be slain by mortal hands. All souls released in battle will make him stronger. And now I will make you an offer.’

  She smiled and looked them in the eyes. ‘Join us. Join Skargrim’s host, the warriors of Finnmark, the brave men of Trondheim. Stand with us and the Old Gods against King Olav. Stand … with me.’

  Audun looked at Ulfar, then back at the woman. ‘That would mean that the men of Stenvik would be killed.’

  ‘Their souls would live on in Valhalla and drive on my Einherji against King Olav.’

  ‘What happens to the Einherji if you die?’

  The woman paused, looked to the sky and seemed to listen for something. Then she turned her attention back to them. ‘The threads say two warriors will walk away from Stenvik, and I cannot change that. But I can tell you this. If you slay a weaver you shall be cursed to walk the earth, men of war for evermore. You will never rest, never know the peace of death. You will live with pain.’ She took one more step towards them, smiling, hands held out in supplication, her voice soft and soothing.

  ‘Strong, the living

  Drawn to struggle

  Weak men’s champions