The Valhalla Saga

by Snorri Kristjansson

  ‘Tight-fisted bastard,’ Storrek muttered.

  ‘And that is not worthy of a man of your . . . influence,’ King Olav said. ‘Speak to Hjalti on your way out. But please don’t punch him in the mouth.’ The king smiled. ‘If you do he’ll be useless on the door.’

  Storrek Jarl struggled to his feet, still eyeing King Olav with suspicion. ‘And that’s it?’

  ‘That’s it,’ King Olav said. ‘We will of course entertain you and your men for as long as you wish.’ The king spread out his hands to indicate the great hall. ‘Udal is coming, and Gunnthor is already here. I would very much like to hear tales of the area, if you would humour me.’

  ‘I will think about it,’ Storrek Jarl said. He turned and shuffled off, motioning angrily for his attendants to keep up.

  King Olav watched him leave, reached down to his knee and squeezed it as hard as he could, until he thought his fingers would snap. He drew breath, once, twice, then exhaled slowly.

  ‘Is everything well, my Lord?’ Hjalti said, hovering nervously at his shoulder.

  ‘It is,’ Olav said through gritted teeth. ‘It is.’ At the far end of the longhouse, the door slammed on Storrek Jarl’s followers. ‘Or will be,’ the king added.

  *

  ‘Look! There it is!’ Heimir shouted.

  ‘Shithole,’ Udal Jarl said, spitting for emphasis.

  ‘Look at all those houses,’ Heimir said. ‘How does it even smell in the summer?’

  ‘Trust me, son,’ Udal Jarl said, ‘you do not want to know. Do you remember what to say?’ The wind picked up again, slicing at the back of their ears.

  ‘Yes, Father,’ Heimir said, screwing up his face in a grimace of mock honesty. ‘We are honoured and grateful to meet you, King Olav.’

  ‘Good. Come on then. Let’s get a move on. Maybe they’ve got some half-warm piss in a mug at the king’s table.’

  Suddenly Udal’s horse bucked and twisted to the side and the jarl pulled hard on the reins. ‘Whoa! What’s the matter with you, eh?’ The animal tossed its head and snorted, eyes rolling and nostrils flaring. ‘Did the North Wind get to you?’ The horse snorted, neighed and shook its head violently. ‘Come on, boy. Come on,’ the Jarl whispered into the animal’s ear. ‘You’re not going to throw me. Not me. Not after all these years.’

  Just as suddenly as it had begun, it was gone again. The wind died down and Udal’s horse whinnied in protest at the pull on the reins. ‘He must smell King Olav’s pansy arse,’ one of the men quipped.

  Udal Jarl shrugged as he guided the horse down the hill towards Trondheim. ‘Probably.’

  His son and his men walked behind him, the wind at their back.

  *

  A while later, Hjalti stepped cautiously towards the dais and the motionless figure of King Olav. ‘He’s here, my Lord,’ he said. ‘Udal Jarl.’

  ‘Send him in,’ the king said without looking. ‘And get the boy to put more peat on the fire. Wind’s picking up again. And Hjalti – we will require mead to be brought to the table. Fast as you like, when I call for it.’

  ‘Yes, my Lord,’ Hjalti said. He turned sharply and strode towards the longhouse doors.

  Olav blinked and looked around at the hall. It couldn’t be called great any more by any stretch; the greying timbers would need to be replaced in a couple of summers and the roof needed re-thatching in at least three places. There was a certain smell of decay to the place that was hard to isolate. He thought of Hakon Jarl. ‘As with the lair, so with the bear,’ he muttered.

  At the far end, the doors opened and a large, red-haired man with an unmistakeable air of command strode through. Olav rose and very quietly allowed his hand to drop down by his side, brushing his belt.

  ‘King Olav!’ Udal Jarl shouted.

  ‘The same!’ Olav hollered in reply. ‘May the men of Udal Heath be welcome in my halls!’

  ‘Thank you, my King,’ Udal said as he walked up towards the dais. ‘We’ve come a long way to meet you.’

  ‘So I gather,’ he said, stepping down from the dais and moving to grasp the chieftain’s hand. Udal Jarl was half a head taller than him and at least two hands wider, and even through the wet wool and snow Olav could smell his rotten teeth. The big man looked down on him and smirked, as if the king had been weighed, measured and found wanting.

  ‘It is interesting to see you, finally,’ the jarl said. ‘Your stories travel fast.’

  ‘So does a fly in summer, but in winter there are none around,’ the king said. ‘Stories are stories. We are above such things.’

  ‘Hm,’ the jarl said. ‘Allow me to introduce my son. Heimir!’

  A red-haired youth with broad shoulders and a straight back stepped up to the jarl’s side, and nodded curtly at the king. ‘I am Heimir, son of Udal, son of Thormar of the Heath. It is an honour to set foot in your halls, my King.’

  ‘More so for the visit of proud, strong Northmen like yourselves,’ he replied, noting the cloud of confusion briefly passing across the young man’s face. ‘Sit! Please, sit! Hjalti – mead!’ Moments later two young men appeared, set down six mugs on the table and hurried away, disappearing out of sight behind a pillar. The men of Udal spread out behind their jarl and his son. ‘Welcome!’

  ‘Thank you,’ Udal Jarl said. ‘We left as soon as we heard of your landing.’

  ‘No mean feat, coming this far in winter.’

  ‘Well – no. But it is a poor chieftain who doesn’t come to see his king,’ Udal said. ‘A poor chieftain indeed.’

  The king smiled and raised a mug. ‘To Udal!’

  Quick to react, Heimir grabbed a mug and raised it. ‘To the North!’ Udal and his men followed soon after.

  The king lifted the wooden mug up to his lips, drained it and slammed it on the table. ‘Hjalti!’ Six more mugs appeared quickly. ‘To cooked words and raw flattery!’ he shouted.

  ‘Hah!’ Udal barked. ‘To rich kings and poor chieftains!’

  Down went the mead.

  ‘Hjalti!’ the king roared, one hand under the table to steady himself. Moments later, more mead arrived. ‘To cold winters and hot women!’

  Udal downed his mug and banged it on the table. ‘To Thor’s—’

  Quick as a flash, King Olav smashed a heavy hunting knife, point first, into Udal’s mug and nailed it to the table. Udal recoiled, almost losing his balance.

  ‘No,’ the king said, voice firm and eyes steady. ‘Not in this house. Not any more.’ Behind him, Hjalti, Einar and ten of their chosen men stepped out of the shadows, swords very visible at their hips. ‘We can drink, you and I. We can sing songs together. But you will not salute the Old Gods in my house, and your son will not go on with the old ways.’

  Udal rose from his bench. ‘I see,’ he said, ‘what my king is made of. So be it.’

  King Olav did not rise. ‘You are welcome to stay with us as long as you wish,’ he said. ‘Gunnthor and Storrek are here. We’ll eat reindeer, I am told. And’ – he glanced at the handle of the knife, then looked Udal straight in the eye – ‘we’ve got more mugs.’

  Moments later, when the door slammed on the red-haired chieftain’s retinue, Hjalti moved to the king’s side. ‘You’ve shamed him in front of his men,’ he said. ‘He will never forgive you. He will hate you for ever, and seek to destroy you.’

  ‘Excellent,’ King Olav said. When he rose he was smiling. ‘That is exactly what I want him to do.’

  Hjalti and Einar watched King Olav walk up onto the dais and sit down in the high seat, surveying the hall before him. The sound was very faint, but the king was unmistakeably humming a tune.

  Sensing that they were not needed, the raider and the young archer made their way towards the exit. ‘Do we tell him about the dogs?’ Einar said.

  ‘He’s in a good mood. It can wait,’ Hjalti said, tugging absentmindedly on his beard
. ‘It can probably wait.’

  *

  ‘Do it!’

  ‘Get a move on, fishwife!’

  ‘You fight like your mother!’

  The cries bounced off the walls of the great hall. Excited by the visitors, the men had quickly formed a wrestling ring and now bets were flying and coins were changing hands. Gunnthor’s men – two of them, neither a day younger than their chieftain – had politely declined to participate, but the followers of Udal and Storrek grappled enthusiastically with all comers.

  King Olav surveyed the room.

  ‘They seem happy to bark at each other,’ Hjalti said at his shoulder.

  ‘They are,’ the king replied, ‘but there are too many of them, they’ve got too little to do and the space is too small.’

  Hjalti hesitated. ‘Do you – do you want me to clear some out? Move them, maybe, to other houses?’

  He looked at Hjalti then, studying him like a collector would a rare specimen, and sighed. ‘No, Hjalti. I can name every man in this hall. They have marched with me across half of Norway and halfway to the winter sky. Every last one of them would step in front of a spear for me, and most of them have, at one time or another. They have done so because I have given them a part of myself. I have given them a reason to live. I have kept them close. I’ve got them now. So what happens if I push them away into the snow and the cold in a strange place?’

  ‘You . . . lose them?’

  ‘Quicker than you’d think. I saw a lot of captains make that mistake out west.’

  ‘So we keep them in, then?’

  ‘Keep them in. Where are our friends?’

  ‘Udal is over there—’ Hjalti pointed to where the big red-bearded chieftain sat, yelling encouragement at the wrestlers. ‘Gunnthor is there—’ With one of his followers at his shoulder, the old jarl had found a nice corner where he appeared to be regaling some of the locals with a story. ‘And Storrek is there.’ Sitting midway between the two, Storrek was nursing a mug and talking to a grey-haired man.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Um . . . there is one more thing I need to tell you,’ Hjalti said, clenching his fists.

  ‘What’s that?’ King Olav said, his eyes trained on Storrek and the grey-haired man.

  ‘Today, just after Udal came in, there was a . . . well, something happened with three of the dogs.’ The story tumbled out of him. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. The wind changed and it was like they smelled something. They fell on each other, snarling and biting – no provocation, nothing. I know those dogs, too. They got on just fine yesterday, and the day before that.’

  ‘Anyone near them? Anyone hurt?’

  ‘No – and the moment they started, no one wanted to go anywhere close.’

  ‘And the dogs?’

  ‘Well, here’s the thing: they ripped each other apart! The big one, the black Dane, was the last one standing, but when the others were dead he started biting and tearing at his own flesh until he bled to death. We couldn’t believe it.’

  ‘Hm.’ The king’s gaze strayed to the rafters. ‘That’s unusual. Have you—?’ Shouts from the far end cut him off and his head snapped back to search for the source of the noise.

  ‘What the—?’ Hjalti exclaimed.

  ‘Sigthor!’ King Olav shouted, but to no avail. At the far end of the hall a great block of a man with a bushy beard and long, thick blond hair had risen. The man he’d smashed to the floor with his mug was writhing in agony beneath Sigthor’s feet. The big man clambered up onto the table.

  ‘HE HAS RISEN!’ he bellowed.

  ‘Come on then!’ one of Storrek’s men shouted back from the wrestling ring. His shirt was off and clumsily carved runes decorated his muscled torso.

  Sigthor roared and jumped off the table. Mysteriously, even in the packed hall, space seemed to appear around him. ‘HE COMES!’ he said. ‘HE COMES FOR YOU!’

  ‘Well, he should get on with it,’ the wrestler shouted back to gales of laughter from the men.

  Olav’s legs had started moving before he had even quite decided what was happening. ‘Go and get the others,’ he growled at Hjalti before grabbing his mailed gauntlets off the table and pushing his way through the crowd.

  ‘Come on then!’ the wrestler shouted. He was out of sight now that King Olav was down on the ground. ‘Come on, you big fu—’ The crowd recoiled as one at the wet crunch, then shouts of outrage rang out in the hall.

  ‘Weapon!’

  ‘Rule-breaker!’

  ‘Watch out!’

  The crowd parted and suddenly Olav found himself face to face with Sigthor, who was coated in the blood of the wrestler. The man’s corpse lay on the ground, discarded like a broken toy. The head was split open, the face a bloody mess.

  Sigthor, clutching a wedge of firewood, looked down at Olav. ‘He’s coming,’ he said, softly this time, and a chill ran up the king’s spine.

  ‘Who’s coming?’ he said, pulling on his mail gloves, but Sigthor just smiled. ‘WHO IS COMING?’ the king roared, and out of the corner of his eye he saw some of his oldest soldiers take one look at his mailed fists and take another half-step back.

  ‘They’ll see,’ the big man said, ‘they’ll see! They’ll pay for judging him – but he will need my help. He’ll need all our help.’

  Olav felt the ranks close behind him. With a grunt of effort, Sigthor swung at the king, who ducked and twisted, then threw a hard punch that forced a wet cough out of the raider.

  A primal roar ripped through the hall and Sigthor turned, but he was too slow; the king had found his balance again and this time when he swung, he connected squarely with his opponent’s jaw. He felt the chains on his gloves dig into flesh; the skin on his knuckles split as the bones in Sigthor’s face shattered and the raider crumpled before him.

  Gritting his teeth to avoid shaking the hurt out of his hand, he turned to the assembled men. ‘Clean this up,’ he said, forcing calm into his voice. He found Hjalti’s eye and walked towards him. ‘Slit his throat and feed him to whatever dogs we have left,’ he said, loud enough for every man in the circle to hear. When he was closer, close enough not to be overheard, he added, ‘And bring me ice and bandages for my hand. I’ll be in the back room.’

  On the way back he walked past the three chieftains, standing together a safe distance from the wrestling ring. He looked them up and down, speaking before they had the chance. ‘Storrek, your man’s life will be paid in full. To all of you – join me in the back room, will you? The men will be quiet out here for a while.’

  As he turned away, he could feel their eyes on his back.

  *

  ‘And then?’ Einar’s eyes were wide open despite the early hour. He’d been out since dawn and had brought down an elk and two deer. The rest of the hunting party had gone off to eat, but Hjalti had helped them drag the carcases the last bit of the way and now they stood together up against the wall of the pantry, watching a thick-armed butcher carve up the meat.

  ‘He just sat there, hand on the ice block, listening to them,’ Hjalti said. ‘He dropped in a word now and then, to lift their stories, make them feel good about themselves,’ he added. ‘His hand must have been killing him. It was swollen purple and black, and he had ring marks all over his fingers.’

  Einar made the sign of the cross. ‘I’m just glad he’s on our side,’ he said.

  Hjalti laughed. ‘Hah! Yes, we’re lucky there. Really, really lucky.’ The smell of blood was getting too strong to ignore.

  ‘I’m off,’ Einar said. ‘If the dogs stay away, then so should we. Are we still going riding with the king?’

  ‘You speak the truth,’ Hjalti said. ‘And yes, we are. We’re leaving right now. Don’t make a face. You’ll get to ride next to the king. It’ll be a good trip.’ He watched the tall youth roll his eyes, leave and turn towards the longhouse befo
re hurrying out himself and checking to both sides before heading in the other direction.

  *

  Heimir Udalsson cracked his knuckles. ‘This hut is tiny,’ he said. ‘They’ve put us in a fucking dead man’s box.’ He cracked his knuckles again.

  ‘Stop that,’ his father growled. The boy glared at him, but stopped and all but disappeared under his furs. ‘So. Tell me one more time.’

  The grey-haired man by the doorway took a half-step into the house. ‘My chieftain—’

  ‘Gunnthor,’ Udal said.

  ‘. . . Gunnthor, yes, he says he was told by Storrek that they were ready to move. Gunnthor wanted you to know this because while he trusts Storrek Jarl—’

  ‘He fucking shouldn’t,’ Udal snapped.

  ‘—ahem, fully, he thinks we would all benefit if you were on our side, with your men. King Olav is cocky; he doesn’t post that many in the way of guards. With eight to ten men it’s easy, but it would be harder with four to five.’

  ‘And this advantage you say you have?’

  ‘He doesn’t expect us,’ the grey-haired man said. ‘And we can make sure he’s alone.’

  ‘How can you do that?’

  The old advisor smiled. ‘We have our ways.’

  ‘Bloody Southerners,’ Udal muttered. ‘Wouldn’t know a straight answer if it stuck you in the eye.’

  The grey-haired man smiled again. ‘Does that mean you’re ready?’

  Udal spat and shrugged. ‘I’ll think about it. Until midday.’

  ‘That will do,’ the grey-haired man said as he turned towards the door. He cast another glance at the assembled men. ‘That will do. If you’re in, come to the back entrance at midday, ready to do the work. We’ll be inside.’

  When the door closed on the grey-haired man, Heimir’s nose reappeared above the furs. ‘Can I come?’

  ‘Shut up,’ Udal snapped. ‘No one’s said we’re going.’