The guard was nowhere in sight. Instead there were two men huddled around the well, looking down. One of them, an unpleasant-looking man with longish, greasy hair, hoisted a sack up onto the edge. The old, wiry one was busy untying a small cloth bag from his belt.
Ulfar looked around. There was nobody near him. Even the walls seemed empty. Slowly the situation became clear.
Everyone was down by the harbour.
Ulfar took a deep breath and shouted as loud as he could, ‘THE WELL! ALL TO THE WELL!’ The old, grey-haired man whirled around, grabbed a fist-sized stone off the ground and hurled it at Ulfar. Pain exploded in his head and his knees buckled. Try as he might, he could not remain upright. Sinking to the ground he saw the grey-haired man approach him, kneel and draw a short skinning knife. Ulfar blinked as a ghost-like form emerged sneering behind the grey-hair, steel glinting in the moonlight. The surprise on the old man’s face as the dagger punched into his back matched Ulfar’s.
He saw the old man go down, saw the long-haired, rat-faced devil grinning behind him. The long-haired warrior dragged the older man over to the well, shifted him quickly and grabbed his ankle. The knife flashed again, this time near the old man’s heel. In one forceful motion, long-hair sliced through the tendon.
‘You know what, Ragnar – I think they will catch you,’ he sneered. ‘Unless you can fly. Skuld sends her regards. You will no longer poison the minds of her warriors.’ The long-haired man turned and disappeared into the night.
Ulfar’s head felt like it was about to crack. Stars sparkled in his eyes and his skull pounded.
He passed out.
*
The whetstone punched through the hull with a loud crack. Water bubbled up and met burning wood, hissing and steaming. Audun was already on his way to the far end.
‘Sink the ships!’ he screamed at the top of his lungs. ‘Sink them! Or they’ll all burn!’
Sven came running out of the crowd and towards Audun. ‘Right, son,’ he said, eyes gleaming in the reflected firelight. ‘You don’t have any more big stones and we won’t get her out to sea. We’re going for a dip. You’re front, I’ll go back.’ Audun wanted to ask him what he meant, but Sven was already on his way. Moving with surprising speed he leapt from the harbour to the back of the burning ship, finding a foothold on the slippery boards with ease and grabbing the graceful curves of the rising stern. ‘Come on! I’m not getting any younger!’ he hollered cheerfully at Audun.
Realizing what Sven was asking for, Audun raced down the pier, past the burning midsection of the ship, and searched for the right place to jump. She was rocking gently on the waves now. Sven had found a foothold facing away from the pier and started to tug rhythmically at the stern, throwing his body weight back and forth to gain momentum.
Sweating from the heat, Audun leapt onto the prow, crashing into the planks with little of the old warrior’s grace.
‘Cows on ice stand better than that!’ Sven shouted. A flush of anger propelled Audun into place and he locked eyes with Sven.
As one, they started rocking back.
The broad, shallow hull of the longship pitched to the side but the weight of the ship righted it again, sending the keel smashing into the water. The impact jarred through Audun’s arms and up into his teeth. Sparks flew, fizzed and spat when they hit the water.
Again, they rocked. This time the gunwale lay flush with the water. Audun pulled for all he was worth, hanging off the prow. Water started seeping into the boat. ‘That’s the way, boy!’ He was sure he could hear Sven cackling.
The weight transferred, but the ship had already taken on water that sloshed with them, hissing when it met the flaming mast. The roll was powerful, almost tipping the ship over and into the jetty. He concentrated on finding footholds on the prow, inching higher up to create more counterweight.
The ship tipped over again towards them, and he launched himself, hanging off the prow.
The ice-cold water grabbed at his ankles, his calves, knees and thighs, the shock almost costing his hold.
For a heart-stopping moment the ship rested on its side, keel showing for the whole world to see, mast horizontal with the water – and then it tipped.
Steam erupted as the burning mast was plunged into the water.
Pushing off, Audun swam clear of the capsized ship and towards the harbour.
‘Well done, son. Well done.’ Sven’s bearded face and calloused hand appeared from the pier above, helping him up. Breathing hard, Audun clambered up and stood there, wet and shivering. When he glanced at Sven, the old man didn’t seem to have landed in the water at all. He blinked, shook himself to clear his head, and focused on the task at hand. The Westerdrake. The big ship that they moored at the central pier was by far the largest one, and while the fire had started slowly it was locked in by now. A smell of burning thatch, heated metal and blackened wood rose to meet him. The sail billowed in the hot air. His first step towards the last ship was met with a coarse, pained scream.
‘NOOO!’
People scattered as Harald cannoned through the throng, yelling at the top of his voice. Sprinting towards the pier, he pulled off his shirt as he jumped onto the Westerdrake, thrashing about, beating at the flames. Momentarily stunned, Audun could do nothing but watch as yellow tongues of fire licked at Harald, singeing his hair, blistering his skin. He was jolted into action as the crazed man on the boat shot him a murderous look. ‘Help me, you useless bastard! Get water!’
But it was too late for that. Fire had eaten its way into the mast, bitten into the yard, spread over the sails. ‘Harald! We will have to sink it!’ Sven shouted from the pier.
‘NO! NO!’ Harald screamed, cried, roared in rage. ‘THIS IS THE WESTERDRAKE! BEARER OF ODIN’S WARRIORS! IT DOES NOT DIE!’
A shadow appeared on the pier, walked briskly past Sven and Audun and stepped onto the Westerdrake, into the flames.
Sigurd.
*
Valgard ran towards his house. He’d need more willow bark for pain and chickweed poultice for burns. Most of all he’d need water.
His bucket was empty.
Hut. There would be water in the hut. He could fill up the patients’ bucket later.
No water in the hut. No friend with the foreigner either. Strange.
A filled skin from the well would have to do.
Walking the path he’d walked countless times before, Valgard only noticed the foreigner just before he trod on him.
*
Sigurd stepped towards Harald and put a hand on his shoulder. Audun could not hear what was said but the big sea captain’s head whipped round, face feral and snarling. He smacked Sigurd’s hand away, screamed ‘NO!’ and turned back to the fires.
Sigurd’s hand came down hard on Harald’s shoulder and yanked him around. Contorted with rage and grief, the bare-chested captain’s face looked inhuman. He turned on Sigurd, grabbed a burning oar and swung, screaming.
Two steps and Sigurd was out of harm’s way. Flickering fire lit his face, snapping and crackling drowned his voice. Behind his back he made a chopping motion. Audun did not understand until he heard the thwack of knife meeting wood. Sven had cut the moorings with a wicked curving blade. The fire danced up the halyards, sparks kissing the sky in a dozen places. Resembling a child’s drawing in yellow on black, the ship soon responded to the gentle tug of the tide and started floating out of the harbour.
Flailing madly, Harald went after Sigurd with a vengeance. ‘YOU OLD BASTARD! HOW DARE YOU?’ he screamed. The burning oar drew flaming lines in the night sky, but Sigurd seemed to join with the shadows, always shifting, never in one place long enough for the blow to connect.
As the Westerdrake cleared the jetty Sigurd made his move. When Harald swung the oar, this time he ducked down instead of moving back. Then he launched himself at the big man, landing a series of fierce and fast blows to the jaw and stomach, then a vicious head butt that knocked Harald out.
‘Had to happen sooner or later,’
Sven muttered mirthlessly behind Audun. ‘We were lucky on that one.’
Onboard the Westerdrake, Sigurd was lugging the unconscious Harald towards the gunwale. He rolled the hulking raider overboard and jumped after him.
Sputtering and coughing, Harald came up for air. Sigurd was already halfway to the harbour. Audun watched as the captain swam after the chieftain, powerful strokes propelling him through the water.
‘Time to move, son,’ Sven said at his back. ‘Things could get ugly still.’
Sigurd emerged at the end of the pier, grey hair plastered to his head. Streaks of soot lined his face and he looked like something out of a tale to scare children. He locked eyes with Sven. Audun looked back and forth as something passed wordlessly between the two men. Then Sven flicked his wrist and the knife flew gracefully at Sigurd, spinning blade over hilt. The chieftain snatched it out of the air and turned to the sea. Arms relaxed at his sides, he suddenly looked less like an old man and more like a mountain cat about to pounce. The knife formed a natural claw extending from his right hand. A chill passed through Audun.
‘Killing time,’ Sven muttered.
Harald clambered up onto the end of the pier.
His upper body was covered in burns. Large, red patches of skin, bleeding scars, angry red welts where sparks had landed. Long reddish hair lay slick against his bull neck and square shoulders.
Sigurd’s voice was hard and clear. ‘Harald, son of Jormund. You’ve challenged me, and it’s—’
‘Do it. Do it now.’ Harald knelt and bowed his head.
Sigurd stood for a long while, immovable.
‘Do it.’ There was no hate in Harald’s voice. No anger. Just tired resignation.
Finally, Sigurd spoke. ‘We have sailed together, Harald. Fought together. I saved your life amongst the Danes; you pulled me out of the fires in Jorvik. We are brothers of the edge. I will not gut you here and now like a sodden dog if you show me that I can trust you.’ The flames from the burning Westerdrake outlined Harald’s back, framing his shoulders and head in flickering light. The man looked broken, Audun thought.
‘Swear.’ There was menace in Sigurd’s voice, and Audun suspected the threat had not been empty. He could sense Sven tensing behind him, inching forward.
Harald shifted imperceptibly.
‘Swear, Harald. Swear your loyalty to me and to the town.’
A pause, and then Harald spoke. ‘By Odin the all-father, I swear. I serve Stenvik, I serve you.’
Sigurd relaxed. ‘Rise and look me in the eye.’
Harald rose and Audun caught his breath. The big sea captain’s face was ashen and streaked with tears. He looked like a shell of a man, like someone who had aged by ten years overnight.
Sven broke the silence, his voice gentle. ‘I’ve lost a ship too. But ships can be built. It takes longer to train a captain. Especially a vicious bastard like yourself.’ A flicker of a smile crossed Harald’s face. ‘But now we’ve made sure we still have ships, we need to address the other matter.’
‘What other matter?’ Harald mumbled.
‘Whoever did this also propped up a nidpole in the square.’ Harald stared dully at Sven. ‘There were three lines carved on the horse’s neck.’
Life flashed back into Harald’s eyes.
‘Oh shit.’
*
Ragnar was warm and tired. Something was wrong with his lungs. They rattled and there was something wet in them. It wasn’t so bad, though. He could just take a nap here, just rest a bit in the warmth, and then he could get going. He’d done what he was supposed to do, exactly like she’d told him. And then Oraekja had attacked him from behind. Stabbed him like a coward. He blinked, confused. It didn’t make any sense. He’d done it. He’d walked into the enemy camp, set fire to their ships, poisoned their water and made them run around like headless chickens.
His leg hurt.
He’d felt the tendon snapping back up into the calf when Oraekja cut it and now there was a hole in his leg somewhere, something missing that was supposed to be there. So now he couldn’t stand properly. He’d managed to crawl away from the well, towards the northern gateway. He had to get out of here. They’d be very angry when they found out.
So tired.
The muscles in his back wouldn’t move, wouldn’t help him get up. So he’d just have to lie down here, catch his breath and wait for Skargrim to come. Wait for big brother to rescue him, like he’d always done. He’d never hear the end of this. Fooled by a rat-faced coward.
Ragnar smiled and closed his eyes.
*
The fires onboard the Westerdrake flickered in the distance. The harbour square was once again draped in the moon’s silvery rays. Torches mounted on house corners created circles of warm light.
The nidpole stood in the middle of the square, the horse’s head gaping towards the town walls. Drops of blood had spattered onto the stones beneath it, coloured the rim of the hole and stained the wood reddish-brown.
Word had spread quickly.
Nearly every man in Stenvik was gathered around the pole. The square was packed with people, but none of them stepped within three strides of the horse’s head. Muttered superstitions and fearful whispers swirled, and even the most hardened of warriors scanned the surroundings, ill at ease. Sigurd elbowed his way through the crowd and stepped into the circle around the pole, followed by Sven and Harald. Their faces seemed carved in stone as they looked at the crowd, daring any man to talk in their presence. Slowly the people in the square fell silent. Sigurd turned to the pole and unwrapped the scroll tied to it, reading out loud.
‘Shame shall be called
Upon the land-spirits
who formed the earth
where Stenvik lies
That they may wander
Never to rest,
Until Stenvik is turned
To ash and ruin.’
The silence lasted for a couple of breaths, and then nervous chatter erupted.
The three men in the circle simply waited as the talk died down and worried faces turned to Sigurd. When he spoke, it was almost conversationally.
‘Fear.’
His voice carried all over the square.
‘That is what this is. That is what this is meant to make you feel.’ He rested his hand, almost absent-mindedly, on the pole. A smattering of gasps could be heard.
‘Fear.’
A nervous merchant made to speak. ‘But Sig—’
‘FEAR.’ His voice rang out loud and clear. ‘Fear of the strange, fear of the unknown. Fear of the dark. Fear that Loki himself came down here and raised the pole to call us out, strip us of honour and cast us down, tell us that we should cower in the dark like rats for committing some unnameable wrong.’ His voice grew louder and the grip on the pole grew tighter. ‘But if it was Loki, he might have done well to ask where he’d landed. Because this is Stenvik! And I, Sigurd son of Aegir, have fought with most all of you, your fathers and your sons. And I would gladly face the God of Tricks – and tell him that the men of Stenvik’ – Sigurd’s hand closed on the pole, knuckles whitening. He strained, the pole moved.
‘… do …’ Another pull and the pole inched up.
‘… NOT …’ The horse’s head swayed.
‘… FEAR!’
With a mighty effort Sigurd tore the nidpole free with one hand and raised it straight up, balancing the horse’s head on top.
In the square, hardened raiders, merchants and craftsmen roared as one.
‘STENVIK!’
Standing behind the three leaders, Audun looked at the townsfolk. A frightened, apprehensive mob had turned into a fierce, tough, angry army, ready for anything. Sigurd had won them over.
Only one face lacked the fire and the fury.
Valgard was pushing his way through the crowd, heading towards the three men in the middle.
‘Silence!’ Harald’s voice cut through the noise of the crowd. ‘We will double the guard on the walls. Tomorrow’s morning watch j
oins night watch tonight. Keep weapons close to your beds. Stay cold and focused. We will meet again at first light. Raiders of the Westerdrake, to me!’
The crowd dispersed slowly as it became apparent that there would be no immediate confrontation. Fighters with their blood up returned reluctantly to their sleeping quarters, while Harald’s crew gathered around him.
Valgard slipped through gaps and between bodies. He appeared at Sven’s side and whispered in his ear. A frightening calm settled on the old man’s face. ‘Bring him,’ he said to Valgard and nodded towards the town. Then he laid a hand on Sigurd’s arm.
‘Longhouse. You need to hear this.’
*
Sigurd sat in the high chair on the dais and stared into space, a thoughtful frown carved deep into his face.
Gathered around the table in the longhouse, the raiders of the Westerdrake looked like a pack of barely tamed wolfhounds. Torch-light turned weather-beaten faces into the masks of snarling demons. Above them Harald glowered in his high-backed seat on Sigurd’s right-hand side. Someone was going to pay. Someone was going to pay hard.
‘So now we know,’ Sigurd said finally. ‘Skargrim is on his way. They’ve set fire to our ships’ – Harald’s lip curled in a menacing sneer – ‘raised a nidpole in our square … and while everyone was running down to the harbour, they poisoned the well.’
The assembled raiders exchanged grim looks. A poisoned well meant a full assault. It also meant no prisoners.
‘They dumped horse guts in it.’
Bjorn, a solidly built blonde raider with a nasty scar on his left cheek, snorted. ‘Horse guts? The water will taste like shit, but that won’t kill anyone.’
Sigurd smiled.
From the shadows by the doorway, Valgard spoke. ‘So we’d fish up the horse guts, count our blessings and happily drink water with a bagful of crushed foxbell leaves.’
He stepped into torchlight and a stony silence, guiding Ulfar with him.
‘Tell us what you saw.’
Ulfar described the two men.
‘Where are they now?’ Sigurd snapped.
‘I saw the long-haired one leave,’ Ulfar replied. ‘Not sure where the old one got to. He wasn’t there when Valgard brought me back.’
The Valhalla Saga Page 13
