Live in dying
Ever losing
Soul and spirit
Changers, movers
Starkad’s brothers.’
She moved a step closer. ‘I have woven the thread of Skargrim. I have cut the thread of Egill Jotunn. I have spun the Einherji into the great web.’ Another step. She gazed at Ulfar and Audun. ‘What would you have me do with your threads?’ Close enough for them to smell, she reached out and touched the two fighters.
The ship swayed gently.
Audun reached for the leather thong that held his mallet to his belt. He loosened it, grabbed hold of the heavy iron hammer and hit Skuld in the head with all his might, just as Ulfar ran her through.
The body collapsed as life disappeared, withering before their eyes. At once the ship felt warmer. Ulfar was already making his way into the small boat.
Audun looked down on the dead woman, reached for her white shift and wiped the blood off the hammer with it. ‘I don’t know about the boy,’ he added quietly, ‘but you’re a bit late to curse me, woman.’
STENVIK
Thorvald died quickly. Sven had seen him snap; seen the rage take over and banish the fear. He’d known the scout master was dead before he’d taken his first step towards the monster. Credit to him, he still moved well and fought like a mountain cat. He’d even landed a few blows with his axe as he rushed out, some of which would have crippled a normal man.
But the beast was not to be slain. Instead it seemed to grow stronger. Every move was faster than the next; every swipe more horrendous.
The fourth swing had connected and split Thorvald in two at the waist.
Blood had pumped out of the scout master, spattered the monster’s face, flowed freely towards the rest of the advancing force. The monstrous creation hadn’t even seemed to notice.
‘Blow the horn,’ Sigurd snarled.
‘We can’t! That beast will kill us all!’
‘If we’re going we’re going together. DO IT!’
Sven took a step back to comparative safety, reached into the folds of his tunic and pulled out a small horn. Putting it to his lips he blew three short, loud blasts followed by a long one.
The defenders started shouting and banging weapons on shields, making all the noise they possibly could. Some even took a couple of steps towards the encircling attackers, intent on making this a last stand.
A scream of pure pain cut through the din.
The blue-grey warrior dropped his weapon and shield. He staggered to his left, then to his right, all the time wailing with the voice of a hundred dying men. Then the light went out of his eyes and he toppled over, hitting the stones with a crash.
The noise was such that no one noticed the people silently emerging behind the raiders. At the sound of the horn every resident of Stenvik that could still stand, the old and the young, the weak and the sick, those wounded in battle; anyone who could still wield a weapon had stepped out of the huts and houses at the edge of town. Led by Jorn of the Dales, they fell on the invaders from behind.
Beside Sven, Sigurd roared.
‘ATTACK!!’
The defenders charged, and Stenvik was no longer a town. It was a seething mass of blood, fury and death. Suddenly numbers did not work to the attackers’ advantage; the people of Stenvik knew their home inside and out and would come at the raiders from all angles, chipping away, fighting with reckless abandon.
Sigurd cleaved through seasoned, hardened fighters like wheat on a field. His axe seemed to move constantly, carving and cutting, slicing and slashing. Sven moved with him and covered his back.
Skargrim looked all around, trying desperately to make sense of the situation. Suddenly they were set upon from all angles. Those of his men that had been forced in between the houses for lack of room were disappearing in a rising wave of screams and clashing steel. On the other hand not many of the raiders of the Westerdrake seemed to be falling at all. He turned to Thora, grabbed her with both hands and brought her face to his. ‘Take care of him for me, Thora. Please. Make sure my son lives to avenge me.’ She stared blankly at him for a moment, awash with bloodlust. ‘Go.’ She blinked, nodded, turned and headed towards the southern gate, weaving between the fighters. On the west side cries of ‘Thrainn is dead! Thrainn is dead!’ and ‘Jorn! Jorn of the Dales!’ went up, along with sounds of heated battle. In the square south of the longhouse Skargrim’s troops suddenly found that they were fighting on equal terms. The big, grizzled sea captain dispatched a pesky defender with a brutal downward blow. Retreat was not an option. They’d never get the ships under way.
Sigurd Aegisson stepped into the gap, axe in hand. He swung and connected with Skargrim’s shield, taking the top off it with the first stroke. Fighting to stay alive as the chieftain pressed the attack, Skargrim moved out of the deadly arc.
And then, suddenly, he understood.
He saw Hrafn, saw the mad raider cackling, thoroughly in the grip of battle frenzy, fighting three of Sigurd’s defenders. Two fighters charged at his men from the south gate; the stocky one wielded a hammer, the tall one a slim longsword. On the roof of the longhouse a scrawny boy was aiming and firing, killing with nearly every arrow.
In the end the gods didn’t really care who won. They didn’t want the head of the King. This was all the Old Gods wanted. Blood, chaos and fury. Souls to Valhalla.
Several horns sounded, along with more screams and sounds of fighting. The moment it took Skargrim to realize that they were coming from outside, from the east, was the moment he couldn’t spare.
Sigurd’s axe smashed into his shield arm, breaking bones, splitting skin and shattering links in his armour. Furious, Skargrim screamed and launched himself at the smaller man, but the chieftain of Stenvik had anticipated the move. He’d spun, staying on the side where the shield hung limp and strapped to the big raider’s broken arm. The blade of Sigurd’s axe sang as it sealed Skargrim’s fate.
*
Lilia awoke with a flash of pain. The hut was dark. She must have passed out after she staggered home. A coarse, rough hand held on to a fistful of her hair. She fumbled for her knife, but something heavy landed on her wrist. ‘No you don’t,’ a deep voice growled.
She was pulled to her feet and dragged out of her home.
OUTSIDE STENVIK
King Olav’s army had combed the forest, flushed out the outlaws from the positions indicated by Ingi’s scout, and killed them all. Approaching Stenvik, they looked upon what had no doubt once been imposing town walls. Now the last rays of the evening sun fell upon a mound of grass strewn with corpses, stained with blood, steeped in death.
When they rode in through the south gate they fell silent. There were bodies everywhere. Old men, boys, warriors, women. They rode through a big square with what might once have been market stalls. Piles of corpses had been stacked to the side; many men had died here.
‘Clear the way!’ Finn roared. At his command a group of twenty soldiers moved ahead and started shifting bodies out of the King’s path.
The road led north, to the longhouse.
And they started seeing the people left alive. Tired, bloodied, wounded people. Some were limping towards a makeshift tent where a thin, pale man seemed to be dressing wounds; others were struggling to open the doors to the longhouse. Again, bodies everywhere. Some of the people were walking around, spears in hand, occasionally stabbing at prone forms on the ground.
A column of King Olav’s most devoted warriors followed Finn, with the King riding in their midst. A handful of bloodstained fighters started forming a line between the King’s advancing soldiers and the longhouse.
They did not look friendly or overjoyed to see them.
‘Who is your chieftain?’ Finn shouted.
An old, weary and grey-haired man moved to stand in front of the line. He nodded silently, leaned on the haft of his axe and fixed Finn with a cold look. Finn stared back into the eyes of a killer and had to curb himself from taking a step back or going for his sword. Instead he di
smounted and offered a hand.
‘Well met, Sigurd Aegisson.’
‘Well met,’ the man replied without moving. Surprised and embarrassed, Finn stumbled into the speech he had prepared. ‘King Olav Tryggvason wishes you to know that it is a great honour—’
‘Yes. I’m sure he does,’ the man replied. ‘I do not wish to interrupt, but could you maybe put some of your men to work helping us? As you may see we have a town full of dead bodies, no water and little food. I have already spent time on one of your messenger boys and am in no mood to spend any more on you.’
Finn stared at the old man, and for a moment he thought he saw a flicker of something in his eyes.
Contempt?
‘I don’t know if—’ he started. Then he stopped, because the greying man with the big axe wasn’t listening. He was looking over Finn’s shoulder.
‘Thank you, Finn,’ said King Olav. ‘I will talk with Sigurd.’ Red-faced, Finn retreated and took his place behind the King. Around them the people of Stenvik had slowly stopped what they were doing and were gathering behind their chieftain. The doors to the longhouse opened and a woman peered around them, shouting for someone named Lilia. She disappeared back inside. Soon a handful of other women emerged and then the doors were shut again. Archers were climbing down off the roof of the longhouse.
King Olav dismounted and stood face to face with Sigurd Aegisson. The King nodded towards the chieftain. ‘Your actions this day are those of a hero, Sigurd.’
‘Hero …’ The chieftain smiled wearily. ‘There are a lot of heroes in this town …’ He looked at the man in front of him and added: ‘… my King. Most of them are dead.’ Picking himself up, the chieftain continued. ‘But welcome to Stenvik. This is what we have to offer. We have a lot of roasted meat that will go bad if no one eats it. We have no water. We have many wounded, children without fathers, houses that need repair and two smashed gates.’
As he looked around, King Olav’s eyes followed his. Behind them, the King’s army filed in.
‘On the other hand, we have recently come into possession of quite a number of longships,’ Sigurd added with a feral grin.
King Olav nodded slowly. ‘I can see where you stand, Sigurd, and there is no doubt that your alliance with me has brought this on the town. As Christians’ – Sigurd grimaced; the King ignored it – ‘we are bound by the word of the White Christ to help one another in times of need. We will soon have—’
‘WARRIORS OF STENVIK!’
A booming, gruff voice rang out over the town, interrupting King Olav. Heads turned, seeking the source.
‘THIS – IS – WRONG!!’
STENVIK
Home.
This was not good at all.
Home. Get home.
Valgard rushed through Stenvik as fast as his breath would allow, tears streaming down his cheeks. He could see any number of ways that this would play out, and none of them looked good.
Now he had to put his trust in the contents of the box.
Tired, shaking, and trying his best to remember words in a foreign language, Valgard hurried home.
*
Confusion spread like a ripple in a pond.
The voice was a man’s, but coming neither from the people amassed behind Sigurd nor the army behind King Olav.
It came from the top of the eastern wall, where a burly man stood, lit by the rays of the evening sun. His arm was wrapped around a woman, his hand in her hair. She seemed to be struggling to escape.
‘You cannot give this town away, Sigurd Aegisson! You cannot just hand it over to that upstart puppy king and his White Christ!’ the man on the wall roared. Finn sensed the tension rising around him and saw some of Stenvik’s warriors glancing at each other. ‘I’ve watched you and Sven destroy my town. I’ve watched you piss on my father’s legacy, on his father’s legacy. BUT I WILL REDEEM US!’ The big man reached into the folds of his tunic and pulled out what looked like a piece of wood. There was no glint of metal to suggest it was a weapon. ‘You are about to sacrifice my town, so I must sacrifice that which is most dear to me.’ The woman kicked and struggled, but to no avail. He had her pinned. Out of the corner of his eye Finn recognized Runar, sitting on top of the longhouse with an arrow nocked. Finn traced Runar’s glance to a tired and bloodied Jorn, who was signing for him to hold.
‘STENVIK BELONGS TO THE OLD GODS!’
Staggered roars of approval from the men of Stenvik turned to shocked cries as the man on the wall jammed the piece of wood into the side of the woman’s neck and tore through her windpipe. He grabbed her by the hair, jerked her head back as he held her body over the wall and let blood stream from her cut throat down onto the ground.
King Olav and Sigurd Aegisson turned to face each other.
Over the King’s shoulder Finn saw the spark of realization in the grizzled chieftain’s eyes, saw the fluid motion as he stepped back and the axe that swept up to block the King’s sword. As one, the King’s soldiers drew their weapons and Stenvik descended into chaos. Wading over dead bodies, the King pressed the attack against Sigurd. The chieftain parried the first three blows. Then the arrow took him in the shoulder. Up on the longhouse roof, Runar was firing indiscriminately at Stenvik’s fighters.
A bearded, scrawny and furious old man rushed at the King, screaming at the top of his lungs and wielding a knife in each hand. Finn drew his sword and stepped in to cover the King’s flank. The old man struck like an adder and Finn had to retreat in a panic. There was no doubt – the whole town was bewitched, under some kind of mad blood-spell. Finding power in the purity of his belief, Finn struck back faster than he thought possible, slashing across the old man’s chest.
The fighter coughed and blood spattered his beard. Taking two steps back he sized Finn up. ‘Not bad, son. Not bad at all. You hit hard for a fat little seal,’ and quick as a flash he threw his left-hand knife underhand at Finn’s leg.
Finn felt the point slam into his thigh just above the knee, just below the edge of his mail coat. Something ripped.
He brought his sword up on reflex to block the old man’s assault but he would not hold out long on one leg.
‘HELP!’ he shouted.
‘And you sound just like your mother too,’ the old man snarled. Three arrows punched through the old warrior’s hand, knee and shoulder in quick succession. He snarled as he fell. Limping, Finn turned to the longhouse.
Runar waved at him. Finn saluted weakly. Turning, he was just quick enough to see Sigurd Aegisson stumble and fall. King Olav levelled the point of his sword at the chieftain’s throat.
*
Ulfar had only one thought in his mind.
Harald would die.
Bounding up the broken steps, he drew his sword. When he reached the top of the wall he turned and moved towards the hulking sea captain, stepping carefully on the blood-slick planks. Harald turned, saw him and dropped Lilia’s body. Ulfar watched her topple over the wall and fall silently to the ground. There was no scream of pain. There was no crash. Instead she landed with a dull thump and lay still, a discarded carcass.
Ulfar recovered just in time to deflect Harald’s first blow. The burly fighter was on him, slashing and hacking madly with a big, heavy sword. Ulfar danced and dodged Harald’s frenzied onslaught. ‘YOU RUINED IT!’ the big man shrieked. ‘This is ALL YOUR FAULT! If you hadn’t come here she wouldn’t have died! You killed her! You did! You did!’ The words melded together into a torrent of wide-eyed snarling insanity, followed by blows that grew ever heavier. Ulfar stepped backwards into a pool of blood, his foot flew out from under him and his head smacked into the wooden fortifications.
Blur
Ears ringing
Something walked over him.
Something big.
Couldn’t see.
Sword.
There.
Get up get up get up
Someone on the walkway.
Fighting.
Hammer.
Audun.
<
br /> Embracing Harald.
Ulfar shook his head and blinked furiously. Harald and Audun were locked in a crushing embrace. The point of Harald’s sword jutted out of Audun’s back. Audun’s head was smashing into Harald’s face. The big sea captain buckled. Audun had him in a crushing hold and head-butted him again. And again. And again. Harald seemed to sink into himself, his face a bloody pulp. The point of his sword disappeared into Audun, who staggered backwards. The big sea captain fell to the ground and lay still.
Audun seemed to struggle for balance. One step forward, then one step back. He turned and looked at Ulfar.
‘I … can’t follow you around all the time …’ he wheezed and smiled.
‘You idiot,’ Ulfar muttered, voice shaking. ‘You bloody idiot.’
Audun’s eyes rolled up into his skull.
Ulfar rushed forward and caught the blacksmith before he fell. ‘No. No no no no no.’
Audun died in his arms.
Supporting the weight of the stocky blacksmith, Ulfar looked over the inner wall. Beneath him King Olav’s soldiers were busy rounding up the people of Stenvik, stripping able-bodied men of weapons, forcing proud warriors to their knees. To the north and south archers clambered up the broken steps, but no one seemed to take notice of them.
Audun’s face looked surprisingly serene in death. Ulfar adjusted the body so he could lay his friend down to rest.
He felt the first thump as Audun’s heart started beating again. The blacksmith’s eyes flew open. He gasped for air, face contorted in agony. Ulfar saw King Olav’s archers take up positions on the wall on either side of them. He saw the sun dipping below the horizon in the west, casting long shadows across the land. Then he dragged Audun to the outer edge of the wall and found a spot where the spikes had been broken. Holding on to his friend, he let himself fall.
Epilogue
‘You are an asset, my good man.’
‘Thank you, my King.’
King Olav nodded graciously and leaned back on the high seat in the longhouse. ‘It was an absolute pleasure to find you here. It pained me to discover that the old ways were still alive in Stenvik. It gave me no choice. I had to fight and subdue Sigurd Aegisson, a man I respected.’
The Valhalla Saga 01 - Swords of Good Men Page 30
