The Valhalla Saga

by Snorri Kristjansson

  ‘Thorvald …’ Sigurd turned to the empty chair. ‘THORVALD! Where is—’ Thorvald burst through the doorway and ran up to the dais.

  ‘Sigmar and the boys are back. They found something,’ he said quickly, words tumbling out.

  ‘Skargrim’s boys? I hadn’t even asked you yet,’ Sigurd replied.

  Thorvald stopped in his tracks. ‘… That’s not what they found. Not at all.’

  Sigurd sized up his scout master. After a silence that seemed to stretch for an eternity he said quietly: ‘So that’s not it. Tell me what you know.’

  Thorvald looked wary.

  ‘If Skargrim is also on the move, I do not think you will like this.’ All eyes were on the dais, willing Thorvald to speak. ‘Every man, woman and child at Gard has been butchered. There were all manner of tracks.’

  ‘Tracks? Tracks of what?’ Sigurd interrupted.

  ‘Men. Lots of them,’ Thorvald said. From the shadows, Ulfar watched the tall, slim man fidget nervously. ‘You know me, Sigurd,’ he continued. ‘I’ve never told an old wives’ tale in my life. And Sigmar is the same. But this … this is different. He said the bodies had been …’ The scout master blinked rapidly.

  ‘Thorvald!’ Sigurd banged his fist down on the chair arm. ‘Get it out!’

  Thorvald recoiled as if he’d been slapped. He shook his head and took a deep breath. ‘Here’s what Sigmar told me. What tracks they could see by moonlight led to the farmstead. Two sets followed by any number of them. Badly mutilated bodies. Sword wounds, broken skulls, split stomachs. Arms, legs hacked off. Fire taken to houses. Someone had taken a chunk out of some of the people.’

  ‘Carrion?’ Sigurd interrupted.

  ‘No. The fires were still burning and there were neither crows nor bite marks. Some of them had been … carved. Like mutton.’

  Sigurd stared at Thorvald.

  ‘So what was it? Who did this?’

  ‘Sigmar doesn’t know. But whoever it was had nearly a good hundred men with them. Maybe more.’

  Sigurd slumped back into his chair. ‘So in the same bloody night I get Skargrim and bloody roving outlaws in the woods?’

  Ulfar leaned towards Valgard. ‘Why is he so angry? Is this a new problem?’ he whispered.

  Without so much as glancing to the side, Valgard whispered back: ‘There’s a handful of desperate men out thieving every now and then, but never this many. Gard is a big farm with over twenty hands and would not be troubled by a normal gang of outlaws. I’ve been saying for a while that we should have gone to look, but nobody listened. Now it seems there’s enough of them to cause trouble, and that they’re heading this way. Why they’re banding together all of a sudden is anyone’s guess.’ Valgard’s eyes were glued to the dais, where an argument seemed to be taking place.

  ‘No, Harald,’ Sven was saying from his place by Sigurd’s shoulder. ‘That’s rash, angry and not practical. We have events, but we don’t really have information of any value yet. We have to find out where and what before we can do anything. We can’t go out into the woods chasing shadows.’

  Harald sneered, but kept quiet.

  At the long table, the raiders of the Westerdrake seemed to pick up on the mood of their captain. Eyes narrowed, lips curled. Several of the men muttered among themselves. Ulfar glanced at Valgard. The thin man seemed miles away, a grin forming on his lips.

  ‘It is such a shame that our leaders are unable to work together,’ the healer muttered.

  ‘It is,’ Ulfar replied at his side.

  The grin turned into a nervous smile as the healer became aware of being watched.

  ‘They’re fine really,’ Valgard blurted out, turning to face Ulfar. ‘I mean, they are the best leaders we could hope for. They just bicker.’ The left side of his face began to twitch. Valgard’s eyes closed and beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. ‘No. No. No,’ he hissed between clenched teeth. His eyes flew open and his breath grew more laboured as he started shaking.

  Without thinking, Ulfar reached for the man’s shoulder to steady him. Like an adder Valgard’s right hand went for Ulfar’s and seized it in a vice-like grip. He could only watch as the thin man seized up, fingers digging into his forearm, unblinking eyes glaring impossibly wide. Spasms racked the thin, reedy frame. Grimaces of pain etched on the healer’s pale, drawn face. He stopped breathing.

  And then, just as suddenly as it had taken hold, whatever had seized Valgard released him again. He breathed out slowly and looked at his hand, clamped on Ulfar’s wrist. Comprehension seemed to dawn and he loosened his grip, stared down at his hand as if it was foreign to him.

  ‘Are you … are you well?’ Ulfar ventured cautiously. Valgard looked up at him and Ulfar caught his breath. For a fleeting moment hatred flashed in the red-rimmed, moist eyes of the pale, thin man. Pure, venomous, murderous hatred.

  Then gratitude slid over Valgard’s face like a well-worn mask, and the healer looked wearily back at him. ‘Well … I have never been particularly well. But I am not dying.’ He affected a smile. ‘Thank you, my friend. Your care is most … touching.’ Suddenly the air in the longhouse felt stifling.

  ‘I owe you my life,’ Ulfar said hastily. ‘And it seems to me that in these times we should really care for each other.’

  Valgard smiled at him. ‘Absolutely, my friend. Take care of each other. Absolutely.’ The smile did not reach his eyes.

  Harald barged past without any regard to obstacles in his path. ‘Fucking greybeards,’ he swore under his breath as he passed Ulfar and stalked out into the night.

  *

  Oraekja swallowed hard and tried to squeeze himself deeper into the shadows. Those bastard scouts had been sniffing about town all night and it had taken all his guile to evade them. He wasn’t a coward – he’d take them all on – but she’d asked him to come back, so he would. He had to.

  A warm feeling spread through him when he thought of her lips, her eyes, her curves.

  He’d heard the cries when they found Ragnar’s body. The old bastard had actually almost managed to crawl away on one good leg, but they’d caught him. Just as he said they would.

  It hadn’t seemed all that right to him once the fury had faded away, but she’d explicitly said Ragnar would have to die. She’d also told him what he’d have to say to Skargrim when he came back.

  If he came back.

  He just needed to find … there. Three farmers loading an ox-cart. There’d been people streaming out since they saw the pole. They knew all too well what it meant, and Skargrim’s name had already been bandied about. The people of Stenvik seemed to have the proper respect for Old Grey-hair. Oraekja decided he’d remember to tell her that. Now, however, he had to leave, and these men would be his disguise. He scanned the area from the cover of the shadows. When he was certain as he could be, he walked calmly around the hut he’d been hiding behind.

  They looked at him with dull suspicion. ‘What do you want?’

  Oraekja put on his most charming smile. ‘Me?’ No response. ‘I just want to get out of this stinking place, to be honest, and I wouldn’t mind doing so with some company.’

  None of them invited him, but the man nearest to the cart relaxed his stance a little. Oraekja did not wait for permission. He stepped to a sack of hay and hauled it up onto the cart floor. A few moments later the three men around him started again, working in sullen silence under the last twinkling stars of the night sky.

  WYRMSEY

  Skargrim could smell the fresh resin on the newly felled logs. Valhalla rose before him, impossibly huge. The walls were made of majestic timbers, latched together to make a hall fit for heroes. He looked round the clearing. Around him the fir trees stood tall, lords of the forest, the treeline dark and menacing. Nature was strong here. The air crackled with raw power, the power of the old gods.

  A crack and a creak behind him, and the doors swung open. Towering slabs of iron-bound wood moved as if mounted on air.

  He turned.

  A wa
ve of light, sound and smell spilled out. The lusty roars of drinking men, roast meat that made his mouth water, flames from giant cooking fires. The hall was bigger than any he had ever seen. Golden light reflected in polished shield bosses, gilded spear points and goblets of finest bronze. Rows of fighters, all merrily in their cups, singing and roaring along. A dais stood at the far end, almost covered in the gloom. On it he thought he could see a tall, grey-clad figure watching from the shadows, face hidden by the brim of his hat.

  The chant rang out into the starry night.

  ‘We fight for the glory of Odin, of Odin!’

  The sound of it filled his head, pumped in his veins. Soon he found himself mouthing along.

  We fight for the glory of Odin.

  Before he knew, his feet had taken steps toward the door. Honour, pride and joy coursed through Skargrim.

  We fight for the glory of Odin.

  With grim satisfaction, he noted that some of the men were sizing him up. There would be a reckoning later. In fact, there was someone that looked like Hedin the Unruly from up north, scowling at him. Big guy, braided beard, hammer at his side. Hovering behind was that dog-faced helper of his, all skin and bones and dark hair. The kind that always has a knife handy.

  We fight for the glory of Odin, of Odin.

  He remembered the swell of the ocean, the ships tied together to create a makeshift fighting platform, the feel of his axe going through Hedin’s collarbone. How his followers had scattered. That had been a good day.

  We fight for the glory.

  The colours, sounds and smells bled into one for Skargrim. All that was left was the thrumming pulse in his blood, the chant, the pride. The knowledge of who he was, what he was and why he was.

  A beatific smile spread on the sleeping raider’s form.

  Skuld looked down on him, smiled back and continued her walk through the camps, past and over the rows of sleeping men. Under her breath she muttered over and over words that hadn’t been heard in the world for a long time.

  NORTH-EAST OF STENVIK

  The blood-red rays of the dawn sun broke through the darkness and shone on the hills, the stray firs and the forest down below.

  ‘L-l-look,’ Runar whispered, laying flat against the ridge, adjusting the recurve bow on his back.

  Jorn peered down into the trees. ‘I see nothing. You’ve stolen my sleep and wasted my time, you idiot. We’re still far away from Stenvik,’ he growled, and made to rise.

  Runar grabbed the young prince by the collar and hauled him back to the ground. Struggling to get the words out, eventually he stuttered: ‘St-st-st-st-stay d-down and l-lll-lllook better!’

  Furrowing his brow, Jorn turned his eyes back to the treeline. As he adjusted to the gloom, he could detect movement. After a while he looked over at Runar, who nodded excitedly.

  ‘Th-th-th-they’re—’ he began, but now it was Jorn’s turn to signal for quiet.

  ‘Noise carries, Runar,’ he whispered, without taking his eyes off the forest. ‘They look to be about four hundred yards away, but I really don’t want to start the day with a foot race.’

  Runar grinned, eyes beaming.

  Jorn trained his eyes on the treeline. Indistinct figures were slowly emerging from the forest. They wore rags, carried a variety of weapons and moved with purpose. Fleet-footed hunters armed with bows set up a perimeter.

  ‘Th-th-th—’ Runar whispered, gritted his teeth in fury and gestured for Jorn to look at him. With exaggerated movements he sniffed and looked around.

  ‘You mean they’re—’ Jorn’s heart leapt. Quickly he checked. Through some blind luck, he and Runar were downwind.

  His heart started beating again.

  Suddenly the group seemed to focus on the treeline. Even the guards on the perimeter gazed into the shadows. Two big, burly men appeared, dragging a struggling, wailing farmer. Behind them a man walked calmly. He had his hair tied up in a ponytail. The farmer cried for help. Runar stirred beside him but Jorn put a hand on the young man’s arm. ‘No. There’s at least thirty of them down there and more are coming.’

  The small procession had now reached the edge of the forest and set about tying their captive to a tree. A scream of pain bounced off the hillside as arms were bent backward and lashed together behind the tree trunk. More of the scruffy forest people kept emerging from the woods.

  ‘They just keep on coming,’ Jorn muttered to himself. ‘There must be at least a hundred and twenty of them.’

  ‘A hundred and f-f-forty-three,’ Runar spluttered.

  Jorn smiled and nodded. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  ‘N-no problem.’

  The leader had taken up a position directly in front of the captive. He seemed to be speaking but Jorn could not discern the words. The farmer shook his head repeatedly. The pony-tailed man stepped closer to the captive. A flash of metal, a cheer from the crowds and the farmer’s tunic fell away.

  A deep feeling of unease crept over Jorn. He looked across at Runar, who seemed to feel the same.

  ‘Th-this is not good, is it?’

  ‘No.’

  The poor farmer was thrashing on the tree now, straining against his bonds. The voice of the leader grew louder. The numbers in his circle swelled.

  ‘T-t-two hundred and twelve now,’ Runar added.

  The leader was shouting single words now. As one, his followers echoed. Jorn felt the dread in the pit of his stomach but he found he could not look away.

  Suddenly the leader plunged a knife into the victim’s shoulder. The screams of pain mingled with the shouts of the gathered men and dragged on as the knife moved from shoulder down to rib, towards the sternum and up to the shoulder again. With a flick of the knife the pony-tailed man carved a piece of flesh out of the farmer’s chest and tossed it back to the two big men standing behind him. Red flowed down the front of the howling, weeping farmer. The knife dug in again and soon another piece of flesh came flying over his shoulder. A faint, metallic smell of blood drifted up towards Jorn and Runar.

  As the farmer’s body slumped against the tree, the man with the ponytail turned to address the group. Jorn strained to hear but as much as he tried he could only discern one word.

  Stenvik.

  Sweating despite the cool morning air, Jorn and Runar stole away as quietly as they could.

  WYRMSEY

  ‘… for the glory …’

  Another man from Ingi’s camp passed him, composed and quiet.

  ‘We fight …’

  All around him, men were moving with determination towards the beach, towards their ships, ready for the assault.

  Tall, broad-chested Thrainn’s men.

  Hrafn’s sealskin-clad warriors.

  Ingi’s army, silent and well-drilled.

  All of them wearing the same, glazed look.

  All of them muttering the same chant under their breaths.

  Skargrim’s heart thumped in his chest.

  Out on the bay, Egill Jotunn’s five black ships already waited, tacked and ready.

  Skargrim glanced up at the rock he had used as his vantage point.

  The morning sun cast its rays on Skuld’s back. Her silhouette looked … older.

  He could not see her face, but he felt her smile.

  JUST OUTSIDE STENVIK

  Oraekja had kept close to the side of the cart as it inched through the eastern gateway. Nobody had asked any questions. He had guessed correctly – they’d found Ragnar by now and were looking for one man, not four traders with an old, creaky cart. The guards had just wanted rid of anyone who wasn’t going to stay and fight. Clear of Stenvik, Oraekja allowed himself to turn around and look.

  Bathed in the rays of the morning sun, the walls around the town looked massive and impenetrable. Huge grass slopes up to the fortified walkway, too steep to charge. No way of getting to the top of the wall, which was manned by a score of spear-carriers. They’d have a lot of supplies in there, too.

  Not so much water, he thought wi
th a grin.

  Still, he couldn’t see how Skargrim’s crew would manage this. Maybe she could. If so, then he’d know soon enough. Skuld would share her plans with him so he could offer suggestions and improvements.

  He smiled.

  It would be good to see Skargrim’s face when he, Oraekja, gave the orders. Now all he needed to do was get to the forest, give these oafs the slip and find a nice hiding place overlooking the beach where Skargrim said he’d land. They drew closer to the treeline, in the middle of a modest caravan. Forty yards now. He wondered what Skuld would be like naked, whether she’d hold him tenderly and gaze deep into his eyes or go wild, screaming and bucking. Maybe both if he did it right. A smirk crept across his pockmarked face. Thirty yards. Thirty yards and he could break free of these plodding farmers, circle Stenvik on the north side under cover of the forest and emerge by Muninsfjell. And then – back to her. Twenty yards. The road snaked in amongst the trees, dipping out of sight. The first cart disappeared around the bend. Fifteen yards. Ten.

  The wrist-thick spear hurtled silently out of the shadow of a cluster of trees and took their old ox just below its head, breaking its neck on impact. A blood-curdling yell from a hundred throats followed, and as the animal hit the ground a swarm of men in rags burst out of the forest, charging the caravan at a dead run.

  Oraekja realized that his life was now measured in moments. He scanned the faces of his fellow travellers.

  Wide-eyed panic.

  Dismissed.

  Cattle.

  Going back was not an option.

  Neither was sideways.

  Oraekja filled his lungs with air, summoned up all the hardest bastards he could ever remember giving orders at sea, and screamed at the top of his voice:

  ‘RUN! BACK TO STENVIK! RUN!’

  STENVIK

  Just one.

  Just one of them.

  Harald clutched the leather bottle so hard that he thought the veins in the back of his hand would pop.