The Valhalla Saga

by Snorri Kristjansson

  There was so much she’d forgotten since she became his, but she remembered the pain. The first weeks. When she’d cried and screamed. He’d enjoyed that. He’d enjoyed gagging her, watching her thrash about, watching her blue-grey eyes scream at him, seeing her cry and hate herself for crying. He’d relished breaking her, reducing her to this. A spark in a shell. A spirit trapped in a woman made of stone.

  And the stone woman did his bidding, out of fear. Fear of the pain. She kept his house; she tried her best to give him sons. She didn’t let him see her cry. Not that he’d care. Not that he wouldn’t occasionally make her do it for his own enjoyment. The stone woman watched him go to sea; the stone woman stood on the pier and waited for him to come back.

  She hated the stone woman with all her heart.

  But right now, the stone woman was her prison. She was forced to sit beside him, wait until he woke up, do as he wanted.

  Her thoughts went unbidden to the man with the green eyes. Man? Boy. Man–boy. She smiled inside. A current of thrill or fear ran through her, crackling with his words.

  He’d called her a gem. Her, a gem in Stenvik.

  Wasn’t that true, though?

  Didn’t the tiniest, shiniest jewels come from the stone?

  Lilia stood up, turned away from Harald and allowed her mouth to form the word.

  Ulfar.

  The wolf in man’s clothing.

  Her spirit flew inside her stony cage and for a breath-taking moment she was alive again. She felt her skin. She tasted the air. She felt like sparkling, shining and twirling. Everything seemed new. The wooden walls, the gilt decorations, the tapestries. She turned to take it all in and met Harald’s eyes.

  Harald’s open eyes, looking at her from the bed.

  Cold.

  Calculating.

  ‘What are you so happy about, then?’

  AT SEA BETWEEN MOSTER AND STENVIK

  Skargrim brushed the salt spray from his face and admired the view from the prow of the Njordur’s Mercy. In the distance, Wyrmsey rose out of the mist. The big cliff on the south end could have been a head; the long, curving beach to the north might have been a tail. The locals didn’t like it because it looked like the Wyrm rising.

  Let the stupid old sailors cling to whatever stories they want, Skargrim thought. He believed in the old tales as much as the next man, but in this case he knew. This was no monster, merely a rock – and Wyrmsey had what he needed. A fearsome reputation, distance from prying eyes, and a sheltered beach with room for ships.

  Many ships.

  He felt a feather-light touch on his arm and a tingling sensation in his body. She was behind him.

  He turned.

  As always when he spoke to her he was convinced that there was no one else in the world, just the two of them.

  She smiled demurely at him.

  ‘You’ve done well, Skargrim. We will camp here and wait. When will they come?’

  ‘Soon,’ he muttered.

  ‘And have you sent the message I asked you to send?’ she asked, still smiling.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes I have. The men will be in place when they need to be, waiting for the signal.’

  She nodded. ‘Loki will be pleased. We will do his work, and he will reward us. He will reward us well.’ Her smile stayed with him as she turned away and walked back to her lodgings at the stern.

  Skargrim shook his head to clear the fog. Behind him, another eleven ships sailed towards the beaches of Wyrmsey.

  STENVIK

  The calfskin map traced a rough outline of the coast.

  Sigurd’s knife pointed at Moster. ‘This is where Friar Johann’s church is.’

  ‘Was,’ corrected Thorvald.

  ‘… was.’ Sigurd amended, a hint of a grin playing on his face. ‘Can’t help it – brings back memories.’

  ‘Those were different days, were they not?’

  ‘They were. They were indeed. There were many good men who went over to stay. Many others went up to Valhalla when the Saxons fought back. That’s why it seems strange to me that he’s supposedly on the move. I thought he’d seen enough of it.’

  ‘Apparently not,’ Thorvald mused. ‘But we don’t know. So. Stenvik, Moster. If it really is him, he would be coming from Oppland’ – Thorvald marked out a spot to the far north – ‘and going … ?’

  ‘That is the question I’d like to pose to Mimir’s head if I could.’

  ‘So where do I send them?’

  Sigurd looked at the map. ‘If he’s coming straight … you go here. Sjoberg.’ He marked out another spot with the point of his knife, then thought better of it. ‘That makes little sense, though. If he’s coming straight, he wouldn’t have razed Moster.’

  ‘Assuming he did.’

  ‘Assuming that. So where is he going?’

  ‘I will send Sigmar and two men of his choosing to Sjoberg, aim at having them there for midday, then tell them to go swiftly to here, here, here’ – Thorvald marked out points in quick succession, forming a perimeter around Stenvik – ‘and here.’

  Sigurd nodded his approval. ‘Just remember, let them look and learn but stay away. We need information, not dead heroes.’

  ‘Understood.’

  Thorvald hurried out of the longhouse.

  ‘We need to know what’s out there,’ Sigurd muttered to himself. He sheathed his knife and rolled up the map. ‘And we don’t need bloody Skargrim with a raiding party.’

  The last rays of the evening sun slanted in through a venting hole and caught on a worn, dully grey battleaxe, mounted behind the high seat.

  *

  The fading daylight in the little hut did the clothes no kind of justice. The trousers were of finest linen, a vibrant blue with silver thread, woven and fitted to measure. The coat had started out as simple grey wool, but was now a dark-as-night purple, shining with silvered buttons from neck to waist. The cloak was a rich dark red, embroidered with gold filament. Ulfar fastened it with a commanding, strong brooch cast in silver and gold, intricate designs flowing into and out of each other.

  ‘You really are serious about this, aren’t you?’ There was not even a hint of mockery in Geiri’s voice.

  Ulfar ignored him in favour of his own reflection in a convex silver disc. He adjusted his hair, looked at the reflection, adjusted it again and combed his locks meticulously to the left, then the right, then the left.

  Geiri’s hand landed on his shoulder. ‘If she likes you, she likes you. Stop preening. Let’s go.’

  Ulfar blinked and shook his head briefly. He noticed Geiri, made to speak, changed his mind then croaked: ‘Yes. Yes, let’s go.’

  He half-stumbled out of their tiny hut. His cousin followed and tried hard not to laugh.

  *

  Stenvik changed with the light, Ragnar noted. Three of the gates had closed already, and the south gate would be the only one left open. Already workers and traders were streaming down to the old longhouse to eat and drink.

  He looked over his shoulder. The boy trailed him reluctantly, the foul mood etched on his face like piss in snow. The old scout thought about things he could care less about and placed Oraekja’s feelings somewhere between flies on cowshit and a bad rash.

  Ah. There it was.

  The horse pen.

  Ragnar looked up, approximated the position in relation to the gates and committed the location to memory. He did not look forward to this, but she said it had to be done.

  So it would be.

  He signalled to Oraekja, turned and started making his way south.

  *

  Market season could go hang, Audun thought. The old longhouse was too crowded by far tonight. He glared at the assembled crowd to dissuade anyone from coming too close. Halfway in, a group of men had gathered around one of the tables. Sitting with his back up against the wall, old Sven looked calmly upon the black and white pieces on a Tafl board. Opposite him, his adversary looked sweaty, red-faced and in no control of his forces. Sven leaned
slowly forward, made a simple move and smiled. ‘And that is the end of that, my friend. I believe that’s one bowl of stew and one mug of mead on you for me.’ The man quickly vacated the seat and Sven’s piercing eyes searched the crowd. ‘Anyone else, while the last victim goes and gets food for the old and needy?’ There were snickers in the crowd and one man took a step forward.

  ‘Welcome, son!’ Sven asked. ‘Who do I have the fortune to game with?’

  ‘The name is Ivar, and I’ll beat you, old man. Your beard will fall off when I’m done with you.’

  ‘My beard most definitely will fall off,’ Sven agreed as he calmly reset the board. Ivar sat and Sven looked him over, taking his measure. ‘… eventually.’

  Glaring, Ivar made the first move. Sven looked at him and feigned surprise. ‘Oh – did I insult you? I didn’t mean to. You have my apologies.’ He made his move. ‘I made a solemn promise that I wouldn’t – last time I fucked your mother.’

  The crowd roared with laughter. Ivar made to rise but got his feet tangled. Sven quickly extended his arms to calm him down. ‘A joke, son. A joke.’ He withdrew his arms and folded palms in a gesture of peace. ‘An evil attempt by an old cheat to get under your skin and make you do something stupid. Take it as a lesson from the sad, shrivelled husk that I have become. Two, in fact. First – never play angry. Second – cheat whenever you can.’ With that, he opened his hands and revealed Ivar’s king. Hissing, Ivar snatched his piece from Sven’s palm and put it back in the centre of the board. He made his move and Sven countered with poorly concealed delight.

  Audun watched the exchange from his corner and tried to remember a time in the last year when Sven had had to pay for his mead and meat. But then again, such was life. They played, they lost, they bitched. And none of them had the sense to walk away from a fight they couldn’t win.

  He’d seen that pig farmer get mauled in the market today. Two of the young ones off the Drake had held him while Harald went to town on the bastard. There was yet another case of a fight you couldn’t win, he thought. Still, the man was an idiot and a drunk. You could argue he’d been getting what he would eventually deserve.

  Audun frowned into his mug.

  It hadn’t been a fair fight though.

  Either of the young fighters would easily have been a match for the stupid farmer and Harald would have taken all three of them.

  Not fair at all.

  But that was what happened when you didn’t keep yourself to yourself.

  Trouble.

  He tried to think about something else, move his mind away from the sickening spectacle, the brutality, the sounds and smells of it all.

  The two foreigners entered. They scanned the packed room, their eyes coming to rest on his table.

  *

  Waves of laughter, shouts and bad singing washed over Ulfar and Geiri when they entered. Jugs of ale slammed on tables, women shrieked and cursed at men with roving hands.

  ‘There’s nowhere to sit,’ Geiri said.

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong again, cousin. Our quiet friend in the corner seems to have room for us.’

  ‘Hm. Leave the talking to me, then.’

  *

  The shorter one approached and leaned in, while the other seemed to scan the room.

  ‘Hello, friend. May we share your table?’

  Audun shrugged and tried his best to look through the man, but the obvious hints seemed to go above and beyond him. The stranger sat down happily next to him and introduced himself. ‘Geiri, son of Alfgeir. Travelling from Svealand to see the famed and beautiful fjords. What is your name?’

  ‘Audun.’

  ‘Well met, Audun.’ He motioned to the other foreigner, the taller one. ‘Ulfar, go get us three mugs.’ The one called Ulfar looked back at the shorter one for a moment longer than necessary before he left. Audun smiled to himself. It seemed quite clear who was used to giving the orders in this little marriage.

  ‘What do you do, Audun?’

  ‘Smith.’

  *

  ‘Very good!’ Ulfar heard his friend exclaim as he walked away. So that was what he called sensible, was it? Blatant, that’s what it was. That boy had no shame. Ulfar scanned the hall again. Full of big men, no sign of Lilia. A couple of farmers, from out of town by the look of it, sitting by themselves with mugs in hand and murder on their minds. He followed their stares to two burly fighting types and made a note of not being in the way when the time came. Getting to the mead was quick enough. He turned back with full mugs and headed for the corner table. Walking across the hall he couldn’t help but catch an impressive string of curses bursting out of the middle of a small group of men by his side, followed by a shout.

  ‘Cheat!’

  Suddenly his section of the room went quite quiet. Ulfar ambled away from the confrontation and set the mugs down gingerly on Audun and Geiri’s corner table. His head buzzed. They were playing Tafl! He had to sneak a look. From somewhere in the throng a deep, calm voice spoke.

  ‘Now, son. We wouldn’t want to make this a matter of honour, would we? Twelve men around you watched the game. Did any of them see me cheat?’

  Silence.

  Ulfar found himself craning to see.

  The men made way for someone standing up.

  ‘There has been trickery at this table,’ the man spat.

  ‘Now that I won’t deny, my boy,’ the old man by the wall said amicably. ‘There’s been plenty of trickery. But I didn’t cheat.’ His eye caught Ulfar’s. A brief flicker of recognition flashed across his face. ‘How about you, stranger? Would you care to sit down to a game of Tafl with a cheating old trickster?’ He winked.

  Ulfar nodded and occupied the open seat.

  Settling, he smiled at the friendly old man.

  ‘What are the stakes?’

  ‘If you lose, you buy me mead. I’ve already had my stew and two mugs.’

  ‘And if I win?’

  There was badly suppressed laughter around the table.

  ‘If you win?’

  Ulfar concentrated and cleared everything from his face but innocence and curiosity. He smiled earnestly at the old man.

  ‘If you win …’ he said, ‘I’ll shave.’

  Exclamations and laughter erupted around the table.

  Ulfar took his time to consider this before he nodded. ‘Accepted. Let’s play.’ He looked at the board. It was bigger than he was used to and the pieces looked slightly different, but apart from that it was close enough. He made the first move quite casually. The old man countered without thinking. Three moves in and Ulfar recognized a classic beginner’s trap. He sidestepped it neatly and added a twist of his own – a sneaky diversion he’d discovered the hard way while playing an Arab in Hedeby. The old man went for the corner piece that would land him squarely in the trap but stopped, hand in mid-air.

  Their eyes met.

  Suddenly the face of the cheerful grandfather was nowhere to be seen. Instead Ulfar saw his opponent for what he was, a grizzled fighter who had survived to old age on cunning, guile and very little mercy.

  Out of respect, Ulfar dropped his act. He’d spent most of his and Geiri’s journey earning drinking money playing Tafl, eventually saving enough to buy the clothes he was wearing. However he suspected it would be both unfair and unwise to act the fool in this town.

  The old man nodded slowly and grinned. ‘Sven.’

  ‘Ulfar.’

  ‘It seems someone has had a very good night’s sleep,’ Sven said. ‘You play louder than you talk.’ He decided against the corner move that would have spelled his doom and instead countered with a clever spacing ploy that Ulfar had not seen before. Ulfar found he was smiling, too. After months of sweeping the floor with Geiri and whoever else, it looked like he’d finally found a worthy adversary. He looked towards the corner to signal to his friend that he was playing, but Geiri was deep in conversation with the surly blacksmith.

  The pieces on the board begged to be moved.

 
; *

  Valgard entered the hall and frowned.

  There were precious few seats left. One was available next to the two farmers who had helped him earlier – red-face and fatty. He took one look at them and decided to sit elsewhere.

  Moving quickly toward the cauldrons he asked Einar for a bowl of stew and perched near a group of pedlars from the north-east. He’d eaten four spoonfuls when a large hand landed on his shoulder.

  He knew perfectly well whose hand it was, but allowed himself another mouthful before turning around and looking up.

  Harald’s face was hard to read.

  He crouched down towards Valgard, the smell of the mixture unmistakable on his breath. Moving a little too close to Valgard’s ear he whispered: ‘Could you have a look at Lilia for me? She …’

  ‘Is she ill, Harald?’

  ‘Yes. She’s … yes. She’s ill. Or she may have fallen and broken something. I don’t know. Go have a look.’ Valgard looked at him, willing him to say more. Harald’s face seemed to set. ‘She’s at home. Go.’

  Valgard bit his tongue. ‘I will, Harald. She will be fine, no doubt.’ Harald shrugged and returned to his seat, tucked away in the shadows. Valgard got up, a sinking feeling in his stomach. What had that bastard done to her this time? He forced all memories of past visits to Harald’s house out of his head and focused on the exit, distracting himself by looking at the patrons up against the wall.

  He saw Sven sitting at the games table and nodded to him, but got no response. The old man seemed thoroughly absorbed in the game. Someone seemed to be giving him a run for his money for a change. Valgard decided not to dwell. There were more pressing things to attend to.