The Valhalla Saga

by Snorri Kristjansson

  ‘Make them pay.’

  Oraekja stared at him and seemed to wilt, to push back into the skins. Skargrim didn’t care. He rose without a word, turned and walked off the Njordur’s Mercy back onto the rowboat. A single thought echoed in his head, thrashed and roared like a trapped bear.

  Revenge.

  STENVIK

  ‘This is it.’ Thorvald’s voice was cold, distant. Skargrim’s raiders were lining up by the harbour, behind a protective wall forming slowly as warriors linked their shields.

  ‘It very well might be, yes.’ Sigurd looked to the south. ‘But you know, my friend, I won’t be able to see my enemies for the thundercloud above your head. Why don’t you take your anger out on those bastards instead? I challenge you to hit one of their shields from this distance.’

  ‘They’re too far away.’

  ‘Come on, Thorvald. You taught all those boys to shoot. No one’s ever bested you at the bow. Have you forgotten? Or are you scared you can’t hit it from this distance?’

  Thorvald wheeled on Sigurd, face contorted in fury. ‘They’re too – far – away!’ he snarled.

  Sigurd stepped in close, grabbed the scout master’s tunic by the neck and twisted hard, pulling the tall man’s face down to his own. Stunned, Thorvald struggled for breath. Quietly and calmly Sigurd whispered: ‘Shoot. Or so help me I’ll push you over the wall when the first charge comes, make it look like an accident, say you died a hero and use your bloody corpse and stamped-on head to rally the men. Because right now you’re absolutely no use to me whatsoever.’

  He let go and Thorvald recoiled as if he’d been slapped.

  Sigurd just looked at him.

  ‘Well?’

  THE OLD TOWN

  Thrainn had picked a hundred of his men, Hrafn another hundred. Some of them carried big iron picks, hammers and wedges to complement their weaponry, tools to break down the gate. Ingi’s men stood silently by, all carrying massive round shields for the shield wall. Egill had supplied fifty of his black-clad warriors, all standing to attention and carrying compact recurved bows, ready to provide cover fire. The remainder of their force was arranged in groups led by named and proven men, ready to charge into the breach when the first wave was done. Skargrim’s warriors stood by and awaited his command.

  He’d stormed ashore barking orders like a foul-tempered northern gale. Ingi had wanted to know what she’d said about commanding the forest people and got a vicious glare in return. Not even Thora dared ask him what had happened onboard the Njordur’s Mercy. Whatever apprehensions the fighters might have had about charging Stenvik, more than one of them thanked their gods that they were on Skargrim’s side today. Wearing his double mail shirt and adorned helmet, he looked like an iron giant.

  Pacing between the men, Skargrim was about to sound the charge when the first arrow thudded into the shield wall. Taken by surprise, the shield carrier lowered his guard a couple of inches. The next one tore into his throat, just under the jawbone. He collapsed, gurgling and clutching feebly at the shaft that protruded from his neck.

  ‘LINK UP! MOVE!’ Ingi’s men adjusted with frightening efficiency, ignoring the dying man and re-forming the shield wall. Alert to the danger, the wall was up when the third arrow buried itself several inches into overlapping shields.

  The fourth came from above, only moments later. One of Thrainn’s men was unlucky and had his foot nailed to the ground. His screams drowned in the battle cries of the raiders charging.

  STENVIK

  Thorvald stepped back and exhaled, sweating profusely. He turned to Sigurd. ‘Thank you,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m here now.’

  Sigurd looked back at his scout master and closed his mouth slowly. Two shots in quick succession, the third straight up in the air and the fourth before the last arrow had even reached its apex. ‘I’ll say you are.’ He slapped Thorvald on the shoulder. ‘Now get some of your boys shooting like you just did and we might still live through this one.’ Turning, he roared at the men on the wall.

  ‘READY!’

  THE NJORDUR’S MERCY

  Oraekja could not remember feeling this good. He was warm, he was comfortable, and safer than he could ever have imagined. The sea rocked him gently, but he paid it no heed. He had eyes only for Skuld. Nothing else mattered. Even the battle cries seemed muted somehow, like they were filtering through from another world.

  He felt his body respond to her presence, felt it shed the fears and horrors of the forest. His strength returned quickly now that he was in his rightful place beside her. Leave the fighting to Skargrim and the animals. He’d be just fine commanding from here. And soon it would be time to claim his prize, the one she’d all but promised before he set out. Right here on these lovely soft furs would do nicely. Still, he could wait a little bit. The anticipation would be at least as sweet as the act itself, he thought.

  Her beauty seemed to grow as the fighting intensified. Oraekja leaned back on the furs and gazed up at her immaculate skin, twinkling blue eyes gazing towards the shore, her lips pursed in thought.

  Absolutely silent.

  In fact, she hadn’t spoken or even acknowledged him since Skargrim left for the shore. She’d just tilted her head slightly and closed her eyes, like she was listening to something. Worry lines had scarred her face and made her seem different for a moment. Older than he remembered, somehow. But he wasn’t sure. He’d been really tired, and maybe he’d nodded off briefly at that point. He thought he’d heard her mumble some words, but she hadn’t woken him. She probably sensed that he needed his rest.

  But now he felt ready. It was time to claim his throne.

  ‘What’s the plan then?’

  She didn’t answer. It didn’t even look like she’d heard. He giggled nervously. ‘Now that I am back, you can tell me everything you want. It is only right, I think. So what’s the big plan?’

  Still she ignored him.

  This wasn’t right. This wasn’t like he thought it would be. Reaching out, he grabbed her.

  ‘Hey!’

  He pulled at her arm, meaning to turn her around so she would face him.

  She didn’t budge. It was like trying to move a boulder.

  Without thinking Oraekja strained against her, pulled as hard as he could. His face turned red and veins throbbed underneath his skin. A faint metallic taste seeped into his mouth and breaths came in spurts. This was not right at all. Her flesh was warm to the touch but he could not move her no matter how he tried.

  Slowly, as in a dream, her head turned towards him. She looked him in the eyes and smiled. And with that, she showed him who she really was. What she was.

  His grip on her arm grew slack, as did the muscles in his face. He wanted to speak, wanted to apologize, wanted to beg, cry, dive overboard and swim for shore, but his body wouldn’t let him. Looking at her, seeing past the surface for the first time, Oraekja was overcome with blind, animal terror.

  She smiled. ‘Do you love me?’

  He nodded, tears streaming down his cheeks.

  ‘Would you do anything for me?’

  He nodded again. There was nothing left now but to say yes.

  ‘I need you, Oraekja. The threads are tangled, so we will need you to carry our strength.’ He gazed at her, blinking through the tears, understanding nothing. ‘But for that you will need rest. Now sleep.’ She put her hand on his arm, her touch a gentle autumn breeze.

  His world went dark.

  STENVIK

  Ulfar sprinted past Valgard’s hastily erected healing station, past the groups of reinforcements waiting at the foot of each step, past Audun wrestling a cart into a slot next to the western gateway. He vaulted up the steps two at a time, to find Sven above the southern gateway.

  ‘Welcome back, son. I trust you’ve spent your time well?’

  Ulfar hid his blushes by shadowing his eyes from the setting sun and leaning as far as he could over the south wall. ‘Yes. Yes I have.’

  Coming towards them up the southern roa
d was an imposing line of metal, shields, spears and swords.

  ‘They’ll be going for the gateway,’ Sven offered as an explanation.

  ‘Then why aren’t all our men down there?’ Ulfar said as he turned to look at Sven, who just grinned back.

  Movement caught his eye as Harald emerged along with five other Westerdrake raiders. They all carried thick spears, half a man’s length. ‘Time to go fishing,’ the captain growled, nodding to Sven. His men sought out the big wooden shields set into the planks, lifted them and disappeared from sight.

  Ulfar blinked. Then he blinked again. ‘Where did they go?’

  ‘We have a little surprise prepared for our guests,’ the old fighter said offhandedly. ‘You might want to take cover now, though.’ He dropped down to a crouch with surprising ease. Ulfar looked out to the south just in time to see swift, black-clad figures dart between the houses of Old Stenvik.

  The first hail of arrows was off the mark but did enough to unsettle the defenders on the wall.

  ‘HOLD FIRM!’ Thorvald’s voice rang out. ‘HOLD FIRM!’

  A piercing scream cut through the din and Ulfar peered above the parapet. A black-clad raider stopped between huts in mid-run, an arrow buried deep in his thigh. When the next arrow pierced his armour at the armpit, he stopped screaming and sank to the ground. From the south-western corner, Runar saluted to Thorvald, already nocking another arrow. ‘Th-th-they s-sound real nice, d-d-don’t they?!’ he shouted across the wall with a smile.

  ‘Are you going to let our guests have all the fun?’ Thorvald roared at his men. As the scout master’s archers returned fire, Ulfar looked over at Sven, crouched behind the parapet. ‘So. Skargrim’s gatebreakers are approaching and we’re trading arrows with archers we can’t see. If this were Tafl I would say that we’re short on initiative.’

  Sven frowned. ‘You have a point there, son. Any suggestions?’

  Ulfar was cut short by a single voice.

  ‘MOOOOVE!!’

  As the word floated on the eastern wind the forest came alive.

  THE NJORDUR’S MERCY

  Skuld’s lips moved continuously, forming words that had not been heard in the world for a long time. Occasionally her hands would pass in intricate patterns over Oraekja’s sleeping form as the ship rocked gently on the sea, waves lapping at the side.

  On the battlefield an almost invisible, silvery grey tendril of mist snaked and weaved away from every man in death’s embrace, towards the Njordur’s Mercy.

  STENVIK

  It looked like the forest itself was closing in on Stenvik. Sprinting ahead, outlaw spear-throwers launched their thick heavy missiles at the walls. A handful of defenders were struck down, falling to their deaths on the ground below as a group of outlaws approached the foot of the wall.

  ‘FIRE!!’ Thorvald’s voice boomed on the walls. Chosen archers dipped down at once below the parapet, picked arrows specially stuck into the wall by their post and waved them once, twice, over small torches. Touching them to the flame until the bundles of kindling tied to the shaft flared up, they fired the burning arrows straight into the bundles of hay placed strategically in front of the wall. The ground seemed to burst into flame at the feet of onrushing outlaws. The ragged men screamed in rage, danced around the fires and cursed the defenders to death and beyond. The unlucky ones got trapped in the rush and burned badly, writhing in agony at the foot of the wall.

  But the charge did not falter. Soon Stenvik’s walls were crawling with outlaws, scaling the nearly sheer grass-clad surface from the southern gate eastward to just beyond the northern gate.

  ‘Well,’ Sven said stoically. ‘If there was at any point a choice, there isn’t any more. Get up, son. No more thinking or talking. It’s killing time.’ Within moments he was gone, a short broadsword in his right, a wicked-looking curved knife in his left.

  Ulfar peered over the parapet just in time to see Skargrim’s gatebreakers disappear from view underneath a densely packed shield wall firmly placed at the outer gate of the southern wall.

  The leading outlaw lunged at the top of the wall on the east side to plant his hand on what he thought was solid earth. Punching straight through the turf, the spike underneath went through his shoulder. Screaming like a stuck pig, the first vagabond over Stenvik’s walls was brained with an axe and left hanging as a bar to the others.

  The fighting was fierce on the wall, but the warriors of Stenvik matched the onslaught of the undisciplined robbers. In between volleys to keep Skargrim’s men in check, archers would pick off climbers, arrows ripping through cloth and flesh. The young and the old on the wall pelted the outlaws with stones, breaking skulls and faces.

  Ulfar had his hands full. Equipped with an old, makeshift shield from Sven and a throwaway sword, he found himself dancing along the groove in the top wall, leaping in where openings appeared. As he ran to cover the eastern wall a raider from the Westerdrake standing beside him caught an arrow in the neck just as an outlaw vaulted over the corpse of one of his brothers, impaled on the wall spikes. The wiry and bloodied fighter rounded on a young boy with blonde hair. The boy dropped his bow for a knife at his belt.

  With few qualms about honour, Ulfar clobbered the outlaw in the back of the head with his shield and watched him collapse like a sack of potatoes.

  ‘Give me a hand,’ he said to the boy as he grabbed the enemy. Together they hoisted him up to the top of the wall.

  ‘Wait.’ Ulfar stopped in mid-push as the boy drew his knife and slit the outlaw’s throat before pushing him over. Ulfar’s eyebrows shot up and the boy smiled. ‘Makes it slick and harder to climb. Get down,’ and the boy dived under the parapet, pulling Ulfar with him. In half a breath, three arrows whistled past at chest height.

  Standing up, Ulfar nodded at the boy. ‘I owe you my life.’

  ‘We’re even. Name’s Orn.’

  ‘Well, Orn – you’ve got good eyes. Thank you for sharing them.’ Orn nodded once, smiled and grabbed his bow. Out of the corner of his eye Ulfar could see Thorvald directing reinforcements to where the raider had fallen, while Sven gestured and sent a group of men with bows, long spears and what looked like scythes away from the eastern steps towards the market square.

  ‘THEY’RE THROUGH THE OUTER GATE!’

  The men on the wall stole looks towards the inner gate on the south wall. Knowing that Skargrim’s raiders were in their gateway showed it for what it was – just a thin layer of timber between their families and death.

  ‘HOLD, YOU BASTARDS! IF THEY COME OVER THE WALL IT’S OVER! HOLD THE WALL FOR STENVIK!’ Sigurd roared at the top of his voice, leading by example. The blade of his axe, the front of his tunic and his forearms were spattered with blood and gore.

  Ulfar saw Sven look down on the south gate, eyes gleaming.

  *

  It had been hard work, shifting the chopped timber out from under the shield wall by hand. They’d felt every arrow thudding into the wooden barriers between them and certain death, felt the heat of bodies pushed, crushed together under the shields.

  But the gate had given way, they’d hacked through and now they were crowding into the gateway. Outside the smell of war and death had mixed with the screams of dying outlaws to boil their blood. In comparison, the stone corridor seemed hushed. The cold stones were a blessing.

  ‘Fucking tomb,’ Thora muttered next to Skargrim, pulling him to the side to let the gatebreakers through.

  The gateway was filling up fast. Warriors eager to get out of the hail of stones and arrows pushed in at the back. Soon there was very little room to move.

  ‘GET BACK!’ Skargrim roared. ‘GIVE SPACE, YOU FOOLS!’

  About three feet ahead of him Skargrim saw a little dirt bounce off a raider’s helmet. Somewhere in the back of his head Oraekja’s words echoed. Ragnar told him he should have looked up …

  ‘What the—’

  The first heavy spear came down like lightning, smashed a clavicle, punctured a lung and disappeared back u
p into the hole in the roof as the raider ahead of Skargrim sank to the floor, blood pumping out of his neck. The second struck almost simultaneously on the other side of the corridor, skimming a helmet, carving open a raider’s face and punching through his chest beside his sternum. ‘SHIELDS! UP! SHIELDS, YOU BASTARDS!’ Thora screamed at the top of her voice, but it was too late. The spears struck again and there was no space to move, only the screams of dying men.

  Fear and blood gave Skargrim strength. He tore the shield off the back of a man in front, pushed two men to the side and jammed the murder hole. His teeth jarred with the impact as the spear punched into the shield once, twice. Skargrim counted, timed and pulled the shield away at the last moment. The wielder of the spear, expecting resistance, lost control for an instant and the spear slipped out. Skargrim reached up, grabbed the shaft just below the tip with both hands and wrenched with all his might.

  The spear was his, along with a very satisfying thud and curse on the other side of the timber.

  His victory didn’t last long, though.

  Piercing screams came from the gate as the front row, the gatebreakers with their tools, all dropped to the floor. Skargrim could see the pools of blood spreading, the hidden holes in the gate where the spears stuck out.

  The command made his mouth taste of bile, but there was nothing for it.

  ‘BACK! GO BACK! RETREAT! BACK TO THE HARBOUR!’

  He turned around, snarled at the men in front of him and led them at a dead run out of the gateway, through the splintered gate, past Ingi’s shield wall and back to the old town. Behind him he could hear the rumble as the south gate opened. The screams of his men, the sounds of murder being done.

  Tendrils of shimmering, silver-grey mist streamed with Skargrim, out to sea.

  *

  There was no order given that Ulfar could understand. One moment the outlaws were all over their walls, snarling and feral. The next they simply turned around and fled.