He could feel something drift towards them from the shore, over the sea, into the boat, closing in on him.
It flooded into his eyes, ears and mouth, filled him. Oraekja screamed as the silver shimmer encased him. No sound escaped his lips.
STENVIK
The wall was crawling with outlaws.
Ulfar took the last steps three at a time and jumped straight into an uneven fight. Four scrawny men in rags surrounded a young, blond boy swinging an axe in a panic. Ulfar’s borrowed sword took the first forest man in the neck, dropped him at once. Two more snarling heads could be seen emerging over the parapet so Ulfar took a step in towards the dying man’s falling body and hoisted it over the wall, taking the climbing invaders by surprise. They cursed loudly as they tumbled backwards under the weight of the corpse.
The remaining three on the wall turned towards the new threat. One of them had his face shattered by the blade of the youth’s axe for his troubles. Ulfar ducked a quick lunge by the nearest fighter and shouldered him in the sternum. Quick slashes, thrusts and a cut, and the two young men were the ones left standing.
‘That makes two, foreigner,’ said Orn.
‘You’re welcome,’ Ulfar replied, swiftly grabbing a bag full of small stones and throwing it with all his might at the face of a climbing outlaw. ‘TO THE WALL! ENEMY ON THE WALL! ALL TO THE WALL!’ he screamed at the top of his lungs. All he could hear from the darkness was grunts and metal clashing on metal. ‘TO THE BLOODY WALL!!’ Orn echoed. The door to the longhouse slammed open and Sigurd was visible in the pale torchlight. ‘NORTH!’ Ulfar shouted and watched the chieftain set off at a dead run towards them. Raiders piled out after him, carrying an assortment of weapons.
A blood-curdling cry erupted from the outlaws, reverberating around Stenvik.
They were all over the walls.
Orn and Ulfar turned back to back and fought the onrushing invaders. A menacing brute brandishing a thick spear advanced on them from the east, two axe-wielding warriors from the west.
On instinct, Ulfar nudged Orn. ‘I’ve always liked two better than one. What do you think?’
‘Agreed,’ the scout muttered under his breath.
‘GO!’ Ulfar shouted, spinning around to Orn’s side. Taken by surprise, the axemen hesitated for a moment, adjusting to the situation.
They died quickly.
Retracting his bloodied sword, Ulfar felt a firm shove take him off balance, nearly throwing him over the outer wall. The spear passed just under Orn’s arm where Ulfar’s ribcage had been a moment ago. Infuriated by the slip-up he spun around. The spearman behind them had gambled on the lunge and was pulling his spear back when he saw Ulfar’s face. He had managed to drop the spear and draw a dagger when the sword punched through his stomach and upwards into his heart, gutting and killing him instantly. Ulfar used the momentum to toss the man over the wall, where curses and shouts told of more climbers.
Screams drew the two men’s attention, and Ulfar turned to scan the walls.
Raiders of the Westerdrake were charging up the western and southern steps from below, but the outlaws were not giving way as easily this time around. With the high ground and an assortment of spiky weapons, they did not yield an uncontested inch to the defenders.
Only the eastern wall seemed to be won.
Sigurd and a handful of raiders had beaten back the forest people, moving steadily outward, re-manning the wall. Suddenly the outlaws found themselves pinned between advancing blades.
‘STENVIK!’
Pushing his own men aside, Harald stormed up the western steps. A ragged, slim fighter threatened him with a spear, but the captain batted it effortlessly away and brained the attacker with a hand axe. Within a couple of steps he was in the enemy’s midst, snarling and ferocious. He was a sight to behold. Every movement had one purpose and one purpose only: pain. Judging by the rapidly thinning ranks of outlaws on his part of the wall, Harald was doing well.
‘Ulfar!’
The urgency in Orn’s voice tore him away from the hideous spectacle. Another wave of attackers was climbing up the north wall with murder in their eyes.
NORTH OF STENVIK
‘Ready the troops.’
‘At once, your highness.’ Finn was already moving through the makeshift camp, making up a mental list of the chieftains he’d need to find. The scout had staggered into their guards in the middle of the night. Finn had to admire the man’s toughness: he was short and stocky, looked more like a sailor than a woodsman and breathed like he’d run all night and possibly all day, but he still insisted on delivering the message to King Olav in person, muttering something about orders from his captain.
There had been a strange expression on the King’s face when he’d emerged from the tent. He’d only told Finn to ready the troops and bring the commanders to him. With chieftains and warriors of note in tow, he turned back to King Olav’s tent to find the King waiting and ready.
‘We waste no time on big words. Stenvik is under siege. Rouse your men and move out now – we march to their rescue in the name of the Lord.’
Chieftains from the entire eastern half of the country turned silently and set about following the orders of the King.
The army was on the move before sunrise.
STENVIK, THE OLD TOWN
Skargrim was almost invisible in the shadow of the old longhouse. He stood stock-still and listened to the sounds of battle: clashing swords, screams, dying men.
Egill Jotunn approached him from behind.
‘It seems strange to hold back when there’s killing being done.’
‘I know.’
‘Still, I think you’re right. We can’t see in the dark, we don’t know each other’s men on sight and we’d lose more than we’d gain.’
‘The night is good for many things, but not for this. Not now.’ They stood together in silence for a spell. Then Skargrim spoke again. ‘It sounds like the woodlice are giving them a proper fight this time.’
‘That it does. As for tomorrow …’
‘Yes?’
‘I’d like you to come take a look at something,’ Egill said. Skargrim turned, looked up at the looming giant and nodded. They walked away from the walls, towards the campfires.
STENVIK
The ravens circled lazily overhead, specks of cawing dark in the first rays of the morning sun.
Bodies lay strewn on the trampled grass at the foot of the wall, sometimes piled two or even three high. Women and children moved with purpose on the parapets, scrubbing and cleaning where they could, throwing straw over pools of blood where they couldn’t.
In the market square Valgard worked on. The sounds of last night’s slaughter in the dark had nearly driven him mad at first, but soon even they had faded into ugly background noise. He’d been at his post throughout, with three warriors nominally supposed to assist him. He knew what it was about, though. They thought he was so weak that he would not be able to defend himself if a single outlaw were to get over the wall.
The line of wounded had seemed endless.
He had men with clean wounds, blood flowing freely from gashes in their shoulders, arms or sides. Others came in with broken forearms or limping on one foot. It was an endless parade of horror, pain and suffering.
And through it all Valgard had worked.
Bandages and water. Salve and ointment. Binding, healing, sometimes even passing a hand over a nasty wound and mumbling something incomprehensible if he thought it would make the man feel better. Some he could heal, some he could save. Some were beyond helping.
‘You’ve done well, son.’
His heart skipped a beat. He hadn’t heard Sven come up behind him, didn’t know how long he’d been there. Somewhere in the back of Valgard’s throat a lump started slowly dissolving.
‘Th-thank you. I’ve done what I could,’ he stuttered.
‘How does it look?’
Valgard reeled off numbers. ‘Fifty-six wounded as far as I can gather, of w
hich forty-two are out of combat. I’ve lost twenty.’
Sven nodded. ‘It’s been hard to get a head count. There are a lot of men missing, I fear.’
Valgard trembled. The blood came back to him, the endless wounds, the gritted teeth of the men trying their hardest not to scream. ‘Bjorn … Bjorn came in … he held his stomach in like this … with the right hand. I looked at the wound … but it was too deep. I couldn’t do anything, Sven. And he … he knew.’ Valgard swallowed hard. A single spasm raced up his spine and smashed into his skull, showering the inside of his eyes with stars. With every muscle in his face tightening, he breathed deep before he continued.
‘He looked me in the eye and smiled. Then he very slowly changed so he was holding in his guts with his left hand … drew his sword and went back up on the wall.’
‘He killed four of the bastards before they got him,’ Sven said quietly as he put an arm around Valgard’s sloping shoulders. ‘You’ve done well, son.’
Valgard blinked and gritted his teeth until he felt they would explode in his mouth.
‘Thank you, father.’
*
‘Sigurd!’
‘What?’ the chieftain snapped.
‘You might want to come here and have a look,’ Sven replied. Something in his voice halted Sigurd’s stride across the market square.
‘What’s so important?’
Sven nodded towards a corpse that had been thrown to the side of the square and covered with sackcloth. Sigurd raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘This is the dead poisoner, is it not?’ Sven nodded. ‘Well, unless he’s about to stand up and dance, I couldn’t care a handful of lamb shit about him. Sven, I’ve not slept for a while now. I’m going to catch some rest. Why are you of all people bothering me with this?’
Sven didn’t answer.
‘What? What’s so special about him, then?’ Sigurd asked, annoyance rising.
Without a word, Sven walked to the body and pulled the sackcloth away.
Sigurd looked at the face, greying features contorted by death into a frosty smile. His eyes widened as recognition hit home, and he took an involuntary step backwards, as if to distance himself from the corpse.
Sven looked Sigurd straight in the eyes. ‘I don’t know about you, but I reckon this will mean a little bit of extra trouble.’
Recovering, Sigurd looked down at the corpse, then back at Sven. ‘That depends.’ A sudden flicker of a smile danced in his eyes as he drew his knife. ‘That depends entirely, my friend.’
*
There was not much left to do.
Audun worked the whetstone, trying to clear his mind of the grisly clean-up in the tunnel. The closed space, the heavy stones and the smell of the blood-sodden earth had almost overwhelmed him.
Almost.
It had taken all his willpower. Pushing the thoughts away, he worked on the sword. Despite the circumstances he could not but marvel at the thing he held in his hand.
It was a fine weapon.
Sometimes he wondered about the metal and exactly how much he controlled it. This one had turned out longer than he’d wanted it to be, so he’d had to make it slimmer to compensate. It would need a good edge which would have to be maintained, and it would not be useful for anything but killing. Its wielder would not need to be strong, but if he was fast and agile he would be deadly. He’d known for a while whose sword it was.
*
The sounds of axes hitting wood drifted in from the raiders’ camp and echoed across Stenvik, regular and rhythmic.
Sigurd stood over the south gateway, looking down. The grassy walls were now coloured a dull reddish-brown with outlaw blood. Corpses lay strewn at the foot of the wall like a giant’s scattered toys.
Beyond, the old town was buzzing with activity.
‘What are they up to?’ asked Thorvald. He scratched his greying head, the toll of the night visible on his face.
‘Whatever it is, they’re going to need to sharpen their axes again before they’re done,’ Sigurd replied. The sound of wood being chopped was punctured by shouted commands. A woman’s voice cut through the noise and some of her words reached the men on the wall.
Thorvald looked at Sigurd and raised his eyebrow.
‘I never knew you could fit a hatchet up there,’ he said.
‘I guess you can do anything if you’re determined enough,’ the chieftain replied. ‘I’d like to know what exactly they’re chopping.’
‘Could they be building a fire?’
‘Hardly,’ said Sigurd. ‘I don’t know what they’d burn. It’d take ages to burn down any of our gates and they’d have a tough time getting the kindling in place.’
‘And there’s not that much wood in the houses, really,’ Thorvald added.
‘This is not good,’ Sigurd declared. A thundercloud was forming on his face. ‘This is not good at all.’ He turned to Thorvald. ‘Get Sven. Get Ulfar and Jorn too. And then I need you to ready and equip every single man in the village who can hold a bow.’ The scout master turned and set off.
*
‘It’s a damn shame about that Swedish boy,’ Valgard said after a while.
Sven snorted as he rolled up bandages. ‘You know what, son? I can actually think of more pressing problems.’
‘I guess. But where does this end, though? I mean … His next of kin should be pressing for honour, but there’s none of them here. And who would they prosecute? The two fools who started the fight both seem to have vanished – I drank with them a couple of days ago but haven’t really seen them since. I guess … when it comes down to it Harald is at the root of this, isn’t he? Has the pig farmer come forward?’
‘Hand me the poultice jar, will you?’ Sven glanced at Valgard without stopping his work. ‘I suppose he is. But the situation doesn’t exactly lend itself to tribunals, does it? With the two fools gone and all. I saw that farmer yesterday and asked him whether he would be claiming his rights; he was surly as a boar and told me to piss off. I just don’t see it happening. Ulfar would have to make a claim on Geiri’s behalf, Sigurd would have to agree, and we’d somehow have to survive long enough to deal with it without getting massacred by bloody Skargrim and his monsters.’
‘Mm,’ Valgard replied. ‘I see what you mean. Still, it’s a damn shame.’
‘SVEN!’ Thorvald’s voice rang out. Sven was moving before he’d finished the word. Before he left he turned to Valgard. ‘Don’t die. I’ll be very angry if you do.’
Valgard mustered a smile as the old man hurried towards the scout master, but his head was in another place altogether. He stalked around the table in his mind and threw the board against the wall. Pieces scattered across the floor.
Curse it. Curse it all.
King Olav was on his way, bringing with him the end of hope. When the King’s army occupied Stenvik, Sigurd would be permanently installed as chieftain, Harald would get older and worse and his idea, his plan to occupy a place as the chieftain’s trusted adviser and second in command, would be blown to the winds. His back ached, but he ignored it. Until now he’d tried to be gentle and pull.
Maybe it was time to push.
*
As Ulfar ran towards the stairs to get to Thorvald, Audun closed in and grabbed his arm. Ulfar started to speak, but something in the blacksmith’s eyes stopped him.
They stood together for a moment in silence.
Then Audun handed Ulfar a sword in a strange old scabbard.
‘What’s this? I have a sword already.’
‘Have a look at this one,’ was all Audun said.
Ulfar grabbed the handle. It fitted his hand exactly. ‘Hm. Feels good …’ he drew the sword. ‘Whoa. Long.’ He moved his hand experimentally, swung a couple of times. Then he fell silent, turned and looked at Audun.
After a long spell he bowed his head and said simply: ‘Thank you.’
Audun nodded in return. ‘Note the inscription.’ Ulfar looked at the hilt, at the runes for vitality and speed. ‘Be quick a
nd live, Ulfar Thormodsson,’ Audun said quietly.
‘I’ll remember that,’ Ulfar replied.
ONBOARD THE NJORDUR’S MERCY
Voices.
Screaming, screaming at him. Ordering, begging, cajoling, cursing. Telling him to let them go, leave them be. Like the talons of a bird raking his bones, they were making his blood go cold. A sickly smell filled his nostrils, a smell of dying flesh.
Oraekja’s eyes flew open. Hides above him, above them blue sky. He tried to move his head, to look around, but nothing happened. The world felt like a block of ice: cold, translucent, immovable. Floating on memory, absolute terror possessed him. He screamed, ears ringing, blood pumping pure fear through his body.
She leaned over into his field of vision and looked at him, a soft, tender smile on her lips. ‘No one can hear you, you know.’ She looked down at his chest, towards his legs. Then she smiled and nodded. ‘Not yet. But they will.’ She turned towards Stenvik. ‘They will.’
She faded from view as he passed out again.
STENVIK
Shadows danced on the wall, following Sven’s every move. Pacing back and forth, the energy in the steps belied the age of the body. ‘He’s taking his time with that timber, our Skargrim,’ Sven muttered.
‘He wants us to brace ourselves until we’re tired,’ Sigurd answered. ‘Then he’ll hit us with whatever he’s working on just as we’re hoping the night will shield us, and he’ll hit us hard. This is him fighting with us in here.’ Sigurd pointed to his head. ‘This is where he wants us to be soft.’
Sven did not break his stride. ‘I’d not mind him here on this wall. Then we’d see who’s soft and who’s hard.’
‘Not a bad idea at all,’ Sigurd said. ‘Let’s smack the hive and see what flies.’ With that he walked towards a dirty sack stowed away on the south wall just above the gateway. Grabbing it, he stepped up onto the outer wall.
The Valhalla Saga Page 25
