‘Ah, the life,’ Botolf sighed. ‘Just us and the wild. It’s good, isn’t it?’
Valgard accepted the flask Botolf handed to him. The liquid was sour and burned all the way down his throat, but he bit his cheek and kept a straight face as Botolf smirked. Someone shouted something at the other end of the camp; there was laughter. The fiery drink settled quickly in Valgard’s stomach.
‘You’ll be happy to see the rising sun, Grass Man,’ Botolf said as he rose, and as Valgard shuddered further into his furs he added, ‘Oh, don’t be sour now. Come. You need to claim your prize.’
‘What do you mean?’ Valgard muttered, gritting his teeth to ward off the mounting screams of pain from his spine.
‘The stars are out.’ Grinning, Botolf offered a hand. When Valgard took it, the tall chieftain yanked him to his feet with a strength belied by his skinny frame. ‘Let’s go and get our sweet little flower, shall we?’
They found Thora sitting in a circle of Botolf’s men, telling filthy jokes. Pinkish liquid had leaked into her eyebrows from a small open cut in her forehead. Someone had stuffed it with snow.
One of the men in the circle sported a recently and very thoroughly broken blood-caked nose.
‘Kverulf! What happened to your face?’ Botolf asked.
Thora stopped talking. The tough guys assembled around the fire looked determinedly in any direction but at their chieftain. Some of them were smirking; others were trying hard not to laugh.
‘I’m sorry, my Lord Scrawny,’ Thora said. ‘Kverulf here thought he’d take advantage of little old me while my hands were tied. Only he isn’t too sharp at the counting bit, is he? There’s one of me, but there was only one of him.’ Chuckles around the fire; even Kverulf offered a gap-toothed smile. ‘And of course I told them of our undying love, how you begged me to marry you and all that. My beloved.’
‘Fuck off,’ Botolf said. He couldn’t quite keep the smile out of his voice. ‘You’re coming with us.’ He yanked Thora to her feet and half-pushed, half-dragged her away.
‘Remember to tie her feet and flip her round, chief!’ Kverulf shouted after them, and the rest of the men offered their own encouragement. ‘And watch the teeth! Hers – and yours!’
Roars of laughter washed off their backs as Thora fell into an easy stride just behind Botolf. ‘How far?’ he asked her.
‘Just away from the fires,’ she said.
Valgard hobbled after them, watching closely. There was something in the way they walked … Botolf liked her.
That might make things a little harder.
On the other hand, if his hunch was right, he’d not need Botolf’s muscle – or anyone’s.
‘Here,’ Thora said. ‘Hold on.’ She turned, scanned the horizon and muttered to herself. ‘Yes – there it is. We’re going’ – she pointed up the slope, towards the highlands – ‘that way.’
‘Sure?’ Botolf asked.
‘Get stuffed,’ Thora snapped.
Botolf just looked at her and smirked.
Valgard turned and hobbled back towards his lean-to.
*
Some time later the light changed from dark to a pale milky grey. Valgard dusted the snow off his clothes as he saw Botolf scan the camp; Bug-Eye the trek-master hovered close. Something about the rangy chieftain’s stance dragged Valgard swiftly from slumber, through several shades of pain and into the waking world. Try as he might, though, he couldn’t catch a word of their whispered conversation. He stumbled to his feet and didn’t need to act at all to look feeble and helpless. For a few short moments he thought he might see to his aches, then he counted them and abandoned that notion. Everything hurt, and that was how it would be.
Around him the camp was coming to life. Muttered curses and invocations to anyone or anything promising warmth floated on the air; horses snorted, stamped and shook off blankets of snow. A sudden jolt of panic made Valgard swallow his breath: the prisoner! Where was she? He looked all around – and then saw her crawl out of Botolf’s shelter, hands still bound.
‘We’re going,’ a familiar voice snapped. Botolf stood behind him.
He fought and defeated the urge to jump out of the way. ‘And good morning to you, too,’ he said. ‘So soon?’
‘Fuck off. Piss and shit now, eat on the way. And keep your eyes open.’ With that, the tall man strode off.
Valgard watched him leave. Something was wrong, that much was certain.
*
‘Over there,’ Bug-Eye whispered and nudged Botolf into position.
The chieftain scanned the horizon to the north and lingered only slightly longer on the treeline that the trek-master had indicated. The forest crept alongside their path, a dense mass of frozen branches and snow. ‘Got it,’ he muttered. ‘Who? And how long?’
‘Don’t know. I think they watched us last night.’
‘How close?’
‘Close enough to take a good look, I’d guess, though it’s hard to tell how near, what with the morning snow.’
‘Anyone else know?’
Bug-Eye looked at Botolf and shrugged. ‘Maybe. Maybe not. Haven’t asked.’
‘Don’t,’ the tall chieftain snapped. ‘Just keep an eye on our prisoner. This – I don’t like this. I’ll have a look.’ Valgard watched him turn, scan the line behind them and pick out his first target, a block of a man with hard eyes. Bug-Eye shrugged and dragged Thora back to her place. He was as imperturbable as ever, but Thora appeared revitalised by her night’s activity. She glanced at Botolf’s back and grinned as he engaged in rapid, hushed conversation with the fighter. Words exchanged, the two headed on down the line and by the time they reached the end, there were five of them. Botolf led his little group into the woods, where they vanished.
Valgard walked in silence for a long time. Thora and Bug-Eye seemed to communicate naturally in their own secret language of nudges, grunts and nods, which now and again resulted in the trek-master adjusting their course slightly. Around them, the terrain changed as they moved out of the sheltered valleys, past the pine and fir that bounded the farmland and up into the highlands. Now snow-covered hills and heaths stretched out before them, undulating softly. The land was treacherous, the soft white covering concealing cracks, crevices and boulders all fit for twisting ankles, breaking limbs and wrenching backs.
Botolf didn’t return to the front of the line until long after the sun had crawled over the horizon. Behind him, two of his four fighters dragged a man bound hand and foot. The other two limped along behind them.
Bug-Eye signalled and the line slowed to a halt. Without needing any further commands, the men split up into groups and started tending horses and doling out rations.
Within moments the stranger was thrown at Valgard’s feet. He was a lean thing, and probably younger than he looked. His clothes were old but well mended.
‘Who’s this?’ Valgard asked.
‘Couple of his friends had been watching us,’ Botolf said. ‘Handy little bastards, too.’ Valgard noticed the glares from his soldiers at that. ‘We lost one, two won’t see much any more and I caught this one.’ He reached out, grabbed a fistful of hair and hauled the prisoner up onto his knees. ‘Didn’t I, boy?’ The boy hissed in pain but did not speak. He’d be about fourteen, Valgard thought. That’s a nasty scar on his neck.
‘Oh my,’ Botolf crooned. ‘We’ve got a nice little tough guy here, haven’t we? Tell me, boy: you look like someone with a bit of sense in you. So why were you watching men like us?’
Valgard watched the boy’s face lock in contempt. His gaze drifted past all of them to some unseen place far away.
‘Who sent you?’ Botolf yanked the boy’s hair again, but all he got for his troubles was a sharp, indrawn breath and blood seeping from the boy’s scalp. ‘Right.’ He reached for his knife.
Hands bound behind her, Thora strode forward. She turned to Botolf. ‘Maybe he just needs a woman’s touch.’ Without missing a beat, she levelled a vicious kick at the prisoner’s ribs and
the boy crumpled to the ground, coughing. ‘Right, you little shit,’ she snarled. ‘Talk. It’s your balls next. Who sent you? Was it—?’
The boy coughed in response and spat blood on the snow.
‘Oh, but that won’t do, sweetcheeks.’ Thora knelt by his side. ‘Now you listen to me. Here’s what I’m going to do to you.’ Her lips almost touched his ear as Valgard watched her whispering something to the boy. Then, quick as a flash, she bit down on his earlobe.
‘Stop! Stop!’ he squealed. ‘It was Hakon! He wanted to – he wanted to make sure you were going where you said! I’m sorry!’
‘Hm,’ Botolf said. ‘Right. Let go of the boy’s ear.’
Thora clambered to her feet. ‘You can’t release him. Give me a knife and I’ll gut him for you.’
‘With your hands tied?’
She shot him a weary look. ‘No. I’ll cut myself loose first. And then I’ll stab you in the eye, single-handedly kill all your men, eat the horses I won’t fuck and ride the last one to Valhalla. Give me the knife.’
Without a word, Botolf handed her his knife and turned to Bug-Eye. ‘We’re—’
The scream drowned his words and he whirled back around just in time to see Thora stand up again from the boy’s body with the bloodstained knife clasped in her bound hands. ‘Done,’ she said, shuffling towards the head of the line. ‘Once you dicks have got your fighting gear on you’ll talk a man to death. For proper butchery you need a woman. Now stand up straight, you shit-wipes, and get moving!’ With a deft flick of her wrist, she cut her bonds.
The effect was remarkable. The men around her either stood up straight or shuffled to get out of the way. Valgard glanced at Botolf, who was watching Thora.
‘We marching?’ Bug-Eye ventured.
‘Looks like it,’ Botolf muttered.
As one they turned and walked away from the boy lying in the snow.
*
Valgard shuddered and wrapped the skins tighter around him, but it was no use. The cold had grown worse the higher up they got; there was no cover to be had anywhere. The rays of the setting sun shone on a distant peak. The cold sneaked in everywhere; it bit at his ankles and his ears, it slashed at his nose and eyes. Behind him, he knew without looking, was a line of men doing the same thing as him: keeping their heads down, trudging along, following the leader and trying hard to expend as little energy as possible on every step.
The shouts started as faint noise but grew crisper and louder as they travelled on up the line until he could clearly hear them crying, ‘Wolf!’
By the time Bug-Eye had signalled for the line to stop, the growling could be heard, along with someone’s choked screams. Botolf took off at a run, Thora by his side, and Valgard shuffled after them as fast as he could.
Two of Botolf’s men were kneeling over a fallen warrior.
Valgard pushed them out of the way and immediately regretted it. The beasts had gone for the guard’s face and all that remained was a bloody mess.
Turning away, Valgard noticed the carcasses. ‘Is this all?’
‘Was enough,’ Botolf muttered.
‘There’s only three wolves,’ Valgard said.
‘Ain’t right,’ he heard someone mutter behind him.
‘Why’d they go for us?’ another, unfamiliar voice said.
‘Maybe there are more,’ someone said.
‘Shut it, you piss-babies,’ Thora said. ‘And welcome to the north. If you’re not eating, you get eaten.’ With that, she walked over to the nearest wolf, dropped to her knees and started skinning it energetically. When no one moved around her, she barked, ‘Fine. But you’re not getting any of mine in two days’ time.’
The men glanced at Botolf, who frowned but nodded.
Bug-Eye joined them. ‘Look,’ he said, pointing south. A pair of ravens were circling overhead.
‘That’ll be the boy, then,’ Botolf said. He turned and looked down at the dead guard. ‘Make sure you bury him properly. I don’t care if the ground is frozen. Take enough men to get it done. Put him under rocks.’ Bug-Eye nodded and turned towards the line, picking out men as he went.
Botolf looked at Valgard. ‘This better be worth it, Grass Man. If you’re wrong, I will be happy to tear you apart. For weeks.’
For a moment Valgard wasn’t sure whether he felt colder on the inside or the outside. ‘It’s true,’ he said, ‘and we’re going to find it.’
‘And what is it, exactly?’ Botolf said.
Valgard looked at him and formed the sentences in his head: It is the source of more power than you can imagine. It is the key to eternal life. It is a direct connection to the gods.
Out loud, he said, ‘It is a treasure unlike any you’ve ever seen.’
Which was true, more or less.
After a while, the line started up again and they marched onwards. It took a long time until Valgard felt he was free of Botolf’s suspicious looks.
The sun set and darkness sank over them, strewn with the lights of the gods above. The path had wound alongside a mountain and through a nasty scraping thicket but now they had cleared the forest and were once again forcing their way up an endless hill of some sort, while above and ahead of them, gentle waves of green and purple undulated across the black sky. They’d all been on edge since the wolf attack, but apart from a couple of howls in the distance there’d been no further disruptions. No one was talking – the air was just too cold – and Valgard had long since stopped wanting to think; they just trundled on in silence until Botolf gave the signal and the line stopped. One by one the men broke away and inched towards the edge of the hill.
They were looking down on a valley, sheltered by mountains on three sides and the sea on the fourth. A sturdy jetty had been built, big enough to land two raiding ships. A thick blanket of snow covered everything. Valgard’s heart started beating faster. The mounds on the valley floor must be houses.
Thora had been quiet for a long time too. Now she turned to Botolf. ‘We’re here.’
EAST OF SKAER, JUTLAND. HELGA’S FARM NOVEMBER, AD 996
A cold autumn wind whipped the yard in Johan’s wake, stirring orange and gold leaves into a whirling dance. Helga stood silent for a while, her hands on her hips, watching the big farmer ride over the hill in the distance, hunched over the mane of his horse.
When she finally spoke to Audun, she did so without looking at him. ‘Go back into the shed,’ she said. ‘Look under the big box. If you sweep away the dirt you’ll find a couple of blades wrapped in oilcloth.’ She turned towards him. Her jaw was set. ‘It’ll do you better than … that.’ She pointed to the hammer.
Audun shrugged. ‘Don’t like blades. They break too easy. I know how to work a hammer.’
Helga frowned. Johan’s retreating form was no longer visible, but the tension lingered in the yard. The cold autumn air nipping at them smelled of wet leaves and bark.
‘Where’d you go? Last night, I mean?’
‘Nowhere, I guess,’ Audun mumbled. ‘Needed a walk.’
‘Look – I’m … I spoke too quickly. I shouldn’t have—’
‘No. It’s fine,’ he said. His eyes met hers. ‘I’m just not used to talking that much. I—’
‘Well then,’ she said, ‘best drag your useless arse to work before you get the hang of chatting.’ She winked at him, and received a faint smile in return.
‘Guess I’d better,’ he said. ‘Not gonna earn my keep by telling tales.’
He walked off, still carrying the hammer, and within moments he was hauling timber out into the yard, along with a cutter’s axe. Helga noted that he worked facing the path up to the farm and kept the hammer close.
*
The riders crested the hill just after noon.
Johan rode first, ashen-faced with his arm in a crude sling. Eight of his farmhands rode behind him. They cantered down towards the yard but stopped at a safe distance from Audun. He split a log in two with his axe, put it down and turned to face them.
Helg
a came out of the tool-shed just as Johan raised his voice.
‘You!’ Johan shouted and pointed at Audun. ‘You’re coming with us to Skaer to stand trial for violence! You attacked me unexpectedly, like a coward, and shall be made to pay! You’re coming with us!’
From the doorway, Helga shouted back, ‘What? You’re fucking kidding me! If he hadn’t been there … I’ll—’
Audun raised his arm and Helga’s voice caught. ‘No,’ he said.
Johan looked at him with barely disguised pleasure. ‘Then we’ll take you in.’
On signal, his companions dismounted and walked towards Audun. To a man they were solidly built, raised on red meat and farm-work. Each of them carried a heavy cudgel.
Audun reached for his hammer, but he was too slow.
Helga was already standing between him and the advancing men, who had stopped in a semicircle around her. She sized them up. ‘Every last one of you is closer to death right now than you’ve ever been before,’ she said.
‘Step out of the way, woman,’ Johan said. ‘We’re taking your hired hand.’
She ignored him. Instead she spoke to the farmhands. ‘How many of you have seen Johan Aagard beat the crap out of big men? Beat them until there’s nothing left? Break their spirit? Kick them when they’re down and stomp on them until they cry and shit themselves? My hired hand here,’ she said, ‘snapped your big man’s arm like that.’ She clicked her fingers. ‘My hired hand would have broken his neck if I had asked him to. I didn’t, because I thought Johan Aagard would be smart enough not to return. I told my man to get a blade, but he chose a hammer. Do you know why?’
The men exchanged glances. Helga paused, just to make sure they were hanging on her every word. ‘Because my hired hand said it was more satisfying to feel a man’s bones when they break. How the flesh just … gives way. That is who you are planning on going up against. His name is … Audun Blood-smith.’ She looked at them for recognition, and when none of them moved, she shook her head sadly. ‘You don’t even know, do you? Probably haven’t seen a traveller in months. Imagine. And you want to take him on, just eight of you. His boat was attacked on the way here by two raiding ships – you’ve heard the stories; the raiders are all along the coast. Well, these two aren’t any more, because my hired hand polished them off. He killed every last man.’
The Valhalla Saga Page 49
