The Valhalla Saga

by Snorri Kristjansson

  Ulfar, Audun, Thormund and Mouthpiece had just settled when Sven came over to the small fire they’d built.

  ‘Hello, old man,’ Thormund said. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Karle said they were attacked by a rabid wolf,’ Sven said. ‘I pointed out that wolves live about thirty days’ hard ride north of here, but he didn’t budge. Wolf, he said. Ripped out a throat and got the leg of another before they got a clean shot. Took six arrows to slow him down and another three to kill him.’

  No one had anything to say to that, until Mouthpiece broke the silence. ‘And Karle didn’t take him as a pet?’

  This got a laugh, but Sven’s eyes had lost their customary sparkle. ‘There’s something wrong with the world,’ he muttered. ‘I know my bones are old, but I can feel it.’

  Ulfar and Audun traded glances, but kept their peace. Sven didn’t stay long, and once he’d gone, Thormund crawled under his furs and Mouthpiece followed soon after.

  Audun and Ulfar sat in silence and watched the skies. When wispy grey clouds drifted across the moon Ulfar got up, went to his tent and picked up his walking bundle. He was joined by Audun, who silently pointed towards the hill and the treeline in the distance. After taking their tents apart they moved, like ghosts, between the dark triangular shapes on the ground.

  Ulfar’s hand shot up and they both instantly crouched down, making themselves as small as possible in the darkness. A large man was moving towards them.

  Oskarl.

  Without a word, the big Eastman stopped, sniffed the air – and then burped loudly, ducked down and crawled into his tent. Within moments a sharp, nasal snore cut through the darkness from his direction. Audun tugged at Ulfar’s shirt and motioned him forward. Ulfar rose and picked his way through very slowly, very carefully. Guards had been posted, but they were all half asleep and the two men slipped through their grasp easily.

  After the sea of tent-hides the snow dunes were uncomfortably bright in the moonlight. Ulfar led, striding through the powder, Audun following on his heels.

  They had not got more than fifteen paces away from the camp when a torch flared up ahead of them, a slice of sunlight in the darkness. A pile of snow shifted and a figure rose, slowly and clumsily. ‘Stop!’ it shouted.

  Night-vision thrown by the flames, Ulfar squinted, trying to make out the features. ‘. . . Ivar?’ he said, as quietly as he could.

  ‘Yes!’ Ivar shouted, triumph in his voice.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, shut up,’ Ulfar hissed. ‘We’re leaving – we’re going north. We’ll be out of your life for ever.’ About two hundred yards to their left another pile of snow changed to a human shape that stumbled towards them.

  ‘No, you’re not,’ Karle’s voice said behind them. Ulfar and Audun turned. The prince stood at the edge of the camp, smiling, with five spearmen at his back and his bow slung over his shoulder. ‘We can’t have people just running off when things get a little difficult. What kind of army would that be?’ The spearmen started wading through the snow towards them, brandishing ropes.

  ‘Do we go?’ Audun muttered under his breath.

  ‘No,’ Ulfar whispered, ‘that’s what he wants. We’d be dead in five steps. We’ll try our luck with the kings.’

  ‘You must have really put some sparkle into your promises,’ Audun said, looking at Greta, who was standing by Ivar’s side. They looked an odd mixture of smugly triumphant and miserably cold.

  ‘I can’t even remember,’ Ulfar said as the spearmen bound his hands. ‘But I hope this makes us even.’ He cast a glance backwards and caught a glimpse of Greta’s face. ‘And then again, maybe not.’

  Karle led the way, walking quickly through the snow, as the two of them were half dragged and half pushed to the outside edge of the camp. Ivar and Greta had tried to follow, but Karle told them to stay. Ulfar was sure he’d heard Greta hiss at the prince.

  ‘This is not good,’ Audun muttered.

  Ulfar looked ahead, over Karle’s shoulder. ‘You’re right.’

  Moments later a stocky guard blocked their path. ‘What do you want?’ he said.

  ‘Forkbeard,’ Karle said. ‘Something he needs to know.’

  The guard looked suspiciously at them, but Karle did not budge. Turning, he stalked off to a large tent in the middle of the clearing and moments later, Forkbeard emerged.

  ‘What do you want?’ he said, sighing.

  ‘Found these two trying to run off,’ Karle said.

  ‘Hm,’ Forkbeard said, eyebrows lifting a fraction as he looked Ulfar and Audun over. ‘Stenvik men, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Audun said. ‘Audun Arngrimsson and Ulfar Thormodsson.’

  Forkbeard seemed to be turning something over in his mind. ‘Fetch Jolawer Scot,’ he said. ‘Make sure you give him their names: Audun and Ulfar.’

  As the guard ran off towards the camp of the Swedes, Ulfar glanced at the man who held their fate in his hands. He looked bored.

  When Jolawer arrived, he was accompanied by Alfgeir Bjorne.

  ‘Ah. Jolawer,’ Forkbeard said.

  ‘Oh shit,’ Ulfar muttered, dread sinking into his bones. Audun glanced at him. He too knew that this was not a good situation to be in.

  Jolawer Scot looked at Ulfar, and for the first time he thought he saw shades of the old king in the young man’s face. ‘Yes,’ he replied, looking at Forkbeard.

  ‘These men are under your command, and they were trying to run away.’

  ‘I see,’ Jolawer said.

  Ulfar glanced over at Karle, who could hardly contain his glee. He’d placed them right in the middle of the game board and Forkbeard had made exactly the move he’d hoped for. Now, in this biting night cold, under the stars, Jolawer Scot was being forced to make a decision on their future.

  ‘They may very well be working for King Olav,’ the young king said, ‘and as such, they cannot be trusted. Kill them.’ Alfgeir Bjorne spluttered beside him, but Jolawer stopped him with a raised hand. ‘If they walk away from this, news will spread and it will cost us a lot of men.’

  ‘It’ll cost you a lot more if you kill them, son,’ Sven said from the darkness, almost conversationally. ‘We’ve taken quite a shine to your boys, you see.’ Forkbeard, Jolawer and Alfgeir turned around. Behind them, Sven and Sigurd stood at the head of a group of Stenvik men at least fifty strong. Standing silent and still in the darkness, they radiated the kind of menace you could only get by living by the blade and refusing to die for a long, long time.

  ‘So if it’s all the same to you,’ Sven continued, ‘we’ll pick up our two straying sheep and be gone. You’ll round up five times our number on the way south, especially if King Olav is the bait.’

  ‘We thank you for your hospitality,’ Sigurd said, ‘and value your friendship highly, but we need to leave your service.’

  The silence that settled spoke hard words. Guards around Forkbeard moved hands to weapons, but he stilled them with a raised hand. ‘Where are you going?’ he said, an edge to his voice.

  ‘North,’ Sigurd said.

  ‘Why?’ Jolawer said. ‘King Olav is coming south now.’

  ‘We know,’ Sven said. ‘We’re going to visit a . . . friend.’

  *

  The Stenvik faction broke camp before sun-up. There was no noise, no talking and soon, no tents. As the world turned from black to grey to white, Sigurd ploughed forward at the front of the line while Sven drifted up and down, checking on friends, explaining their decision and eventually coming to Audun and Ulfar. Oskarl strode up ahead, near Sigurd, like a mastiff with his master. Thormund and Mouthpiece had stayed behind, arguing sensibly that they had a better chance of survival in a bigger group. Ulfar couldn’t help but think that they might have made the wrong choice. After Forkbeard and Jolawer’s endless column, walking with only a hundred men felt like a relief.

  Sven appe
ared next to them. ‘Fine mess you’ve put us in, boys,’ he said, smiling.

  ‘Didn’t have to push too hard,’ Audun said.

  ‘True, true. I still don’t know everything, but both me and the old bear’ – Sven gestured up towards the front – ‘have been feeling it for a while. There’s something wrong up north, something different, and if your tales of Valgard start coming together with reports of King Olav moving at speed without most of his men, and the world breaking, there’s only one thing we can do.’

  ‘Which is?’ Ulfar said.

  Sven’s face hardened. ‘Go and fix it.’

  They didn’t say much after that, just focused on putting one foot in front of the other. Sigurd was a surprisingly canny trek-master, making sure they stopped early, camped well and sending out a rotation of men to forage and, on lucky occasions, hunt. While most of the Stenvik men remained stone-forged and silent, those who went out agreed that the wildlife that they’d known all of their lives was acting differently somehow: more skittish.

  Though they varied greatly in size, age and bearing, Sigurd and his men all had two things in common: they’d all survived for a very long time, and they were no strangers to hardship. They moved steadily northwards, overtaking the army campsites quickly. When they passed the field where Forkbeard and Jolawer had faced off, moving between the two nearly snowed-over and half-burned stacks of firewood in the middle, Ulfar paused and turned to Audun.

  ‘What if that Erik character is lying?’

  ‘I had thought about this,’ Audun said, looking around. The ghost of that night still lingered in his vision – Karle shooting from the dark, Alfgeir wrestling, the flames rising ever higher – but now the field was dead; no life, just snow: grey above, white below. ‘I think he’s telling the truth, though.’

  ‘Why?’ Ulfar said.

  ‘I just do,’ Audun said.

  ‘Hard to argue with that,’ Ulfar said as he turned to catch up with the group. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what else do you know?’

  ‘Whatever happens, there’ll be spring,’ Audun said.

  ‘I hope so,’ Ulfar said as he fell in with the footsteps. ‘I really hope so.’

  *

  As they walked, the land changed. The fields took on a different shape, stopped being big squares and became curving slivers, pushed and squeezed by the encroaching lines of thick pine trees. Sigurd skirted the edges of the forest for as long as he could but soon there was no way to avoid it. The dark treeline stretched either side of them as far as the eye could see, and it was impossible to tell which way would be quicker.

  ‘We’ll stop here,’ the old chieftain said. He didn’t need to shout – when he was ready to talk, the men listened. ‘Use the last light to get us something for the fire. We’ll go in tomorrow at dawn.’

  The men dropped their gear and some went about setting up camp, sweeping up snowdrifts to build casings around their tents while others grabbed bows and spears and formed up in two small hunting parties. They headed off in opposite directions.

  ‘What do we do?’ Ulfar said.

  ‘Tents, I suppose,’ Audun said, ‘and then firewood?’

  ‘Sounds like a plan,’ Ulfar said. ‘Got anything to get it with?’

  Audun turned and walked off, returning almost immediately with two hand-axes.

  ‘That was quick,’ Ulfar said.

  ‘I’ve worked every bloody edge in this camp,’ Audun said, smirking. ‘I know who’s got what – and I’ll sharpen them both again tonight. They won’t mind.’

  ‘Fine,’ Ulfar said. ‘Let’s get the tent up and then go.’

  With the tents quickly erected behind them, they checked the paths of the hunting parties and picked a route between them, straight into the forest. An odd quiet settled on them, a heavy curtain of silence as the trees swallowed up the noise along with the light. The ground felt spongy with pine needles under their feet, and there was only a light dusting of white, though the branches above carried thick layers of snow that softened the already fading light; it gave the impression of walking into someone’s house.

  Audun pointed at a tree trunk up ahead. ‘That one,’ he said. ‘Might as well.’ His voice sounded harsh in the silence. Almost as if to spite the forest he strode up to the tree, buried his axe in the trunk and took three quick steps to the side. The heavy load of snow crashed to the ground exactly where he had been standing.

  Grinning, Ulfar walked over to the other side of the tree and soon their blades were rising and falling in rhythm. A short while later Audun raised his hand. ‘Stop,’ he said. Ulfar pulled the axe back and stepped away as the blacksmith aimed three quick, savage blows at the wedge on his side, then stepped back.

  They could both hear it. They could almost feel it.

  The wood creaked and the tree trunk shifted slowly as its weight found no support to lean on. The creaks became groans as the trunk toppled over, snapping branches overhead and crashing to the ground, sending a big cloud of snow to the sky.

  ‘That wasn’t so bad,’ Ulfar said. ‘Now we just need to—’

  Audun raised his hand again, staring over the tall man’s shoulder. ‘Stop,’ he said again, quietly this time. ‘Turn around.’

  As he turned, the first thing he saw was the snow, gently drifting to the ground. Then, in the distance—

  ‘Look at the size of him,’ he whispered. The stag’s crown reached fully an arm’s width to either side. ‘Imagine if we could bring that back—’

  ‘How?’ Audun whispered back.

  Ulfar sniffed the air. ‘If you stay here and I circle . . .’

  ‘You’re going to take that beast down with a hand-axe?’ Audun said, eyebrows raised.

  ‘. . . hm,’ Ulfar said. ‘Maybe?’

  Audun glanced down at the debris from the fallen tree. ‘There may be a way – but we’re going to have to be incredibly lucky.’

  Ulfar followed his gaze and grinned.

  *

  The stag was a good three hundred yards away. For the longest time it stood absolutely still, as if frozen to the spot there among the trees. Ulfar watched it carefully as he moved through the loose snow, slow as the winter itself, circling the big animal.

  When he’d finally made the torturously long circuit and found his place, he swallowed, drew a deep breath and charged towards the stag, shrieking at the top of his voice and flailing his arms, making himself as wide as he could.

  The animal jerked into motion, big muscles powering it through the snow. Although the fight between them would not have been even remotely close, Ulfar had the element of surprise, and now he sprinted for all he was worth after the stag, herding it towards—

  At the very last moment Audun stepped out from behind a thick tree trunk, wielding a broken branch at least as long as a man and thick as a thigh-bone. He planted it in the ground at an angle, then bent down, making himself as small a target as possible. Blood gushed over him as the stake tore into the leaping stag’s chest, driven in by the animal’s own speed, and within moments it had snapped under the weight as the beast’s knees buckled. The animal lowed in pain and scrabbled to get up, but Ulfar was already leaping on its back and hacking at the neck while hanging for dear life onto the horns.

  The struggle didn’t last long. Dark-red blood went reddish-pink in the snow, and the animal stopped moving.

  ‘See?’ Ulfar said. ‘Told you. Hand-axe.’

  Audun smiled faintly. Ignoring the rich smell of warm blood was easier now, but he could still feel the fire within.

  Kneeling, Ulfar finished the blood-letting and moved on to the guts. ‘Are you going to help, or what?’

  Audun knelt and grabbed a handful of snow. ‘Give me your axe,’ he said, and when Ulfar had done as he was told, Audun grabbed the blade and packed the snow on it, warming it in his h
ands, then brushing off the thickening blood. He wiped the edge of the axe on his shirt, then pulled out his own axe and the scraping sound of metal-on-metal filled their quiet bubble as Audun sharpened their blades.

  The axe he handed to Ulfar had a wicked-looking gleam to its edge.

  ‘Thank you,’ Ulfar said solemnly. ‘Now are you going to help?’

  Audun very calmly grabbed a handful of snow and flung it at Ulfar’s head, forcing him to duck out of the way. ‘If you want you can continue to use something dull to skin it, like your face.’

  Grinning, Ulfar turned and sliced open the stag’s belly.

  *

  The look on Sven’s face alone was worth the ache of carrying the massive animal back to camp on their backs. The old rogue just stood there, mouth working silently.

  ‘Oh, come on, old man!’ Ulfar shouted as the men gathered around them. ‘Have you never seen a stag killed with a hand-axe?’

  ‘Hail the hunters!’ someone cried out.

  ‘HAIL!’ the response rang and strong hands took the weight off Audun and Ulfar’s shoulders and a number of enthusiastic bearded warriors carried the stag in a cheerful procession towards the campfire. Within moments, runners had been despatched to fetch more wood and knives flashed above the gutted animal, carving flesh into chunks to roast on the fire.

  As Audun and Ulfar watched the sea-wolves tear into their prey, Sven found his voice. ‘How did you do this?’

  ‘We felled a tree,’ Audun said. ‘We were going to bring it to the fire, but when the snow fell the animal was there.’

  ‘And he didn’t run when the tree crashed?’

  ‘He was about three hundred yards away,’ Ulfar said. ‘He stood still – he didn’t seem to care about us.’

  ‘Hm,’ Sven said, pursing his lips as the smell of flame-charred deer drifted towards him. ‘Well done. Now go and get some before those hairy bastards eat all of it.’

  As Ulfar and Audun grinned and moved towards the fire, Sven watched them go, then looked down and squeezed his temples. ‘No,’ he muttered to the ground, ‘no, it’s probably fine.’ He looked back up at the crowd clustered around the stag, jostling and joking with the two young men in the fading light.