The Valhalla Saga

by Snorri Kristjansson

  ‘It’s probably fine,’ he repeated.

  Chapter 10

  TRONDHEIM, NORTH NORWAY

  LATE DECEMBER, AD 996

  The guard very quietly cursed King Olav and his insistence that someone had to be outside in the middle of the night and the freezing cold, huddled under a wall-mounted torch that gave out no heat whatsoever, and that tonight, that someone had to be him. ‘It’s not right, is it?’ he said to the dog at his feet. Another of the king’s decisions: they had to have watchdogs, apparently so they could smell the enemy in the dark. He didn’t mind that, though; the hound was good for company. A big brute of a thing, it reached almost to the middle of his thigh standing up. They’d taught it a little too well to growl at strangers, so a thick cord was wrapped around his wrist and hooked to a wide collar around the beast’s throat where it lay at his feet, resigned to its fate and probably dreaming of a fire and a bone to gnaw on.

  Rubbing his gloved hands together for warmth, the guard leaned up against the corner of the longhouse and tried to inure himself to the persistent, biting cold.

  ‘Well met!’

  His head snapped up, as did the dog’s. The voice came from the darkness, beyond the line of huts. He peered into the night, cursing the flickering flame above his head. There! A shape, highlighted against the snow. A man – no, two, one following the other.

  ‘Well met,’ the guard said, stepping forward and reaching to his hip for the axe. The winter wind biting at his cloak was sharp with the smell of sea. ‘Show your face, stranger.’

  ‘I’m no stranger,’ the man said slowly. His voice sounded hoarse but familiar. ‘Do you not’ – he stopped to draw breath – ‘know me?’ The man stepped into the light.

  ‘Hjalti! What happened?’ The king’s right-hand man looked like he’d been dragged through death backwards.

  ‘I need to see the jarls,’ Hjalti said. He cleared his throat. ‘We need to see them.’

  Behind him the other man stepped into the light as well. He was taller and thinner than Halti and stood silently behind him. His hair was slicked back and he was dressed in simple but well-made traveller’s garb, but he looked . . . odd, somehow. Like something that didn’t belong here.

  ‘They’re inside,’ the guard stammered. ‘Do you want me to—?’

  ‘Please,’ the tall man said. He smiled, which did not make things one bit better.

  The guard turned to leave, but the dog at his feet didn’t move an inch. ‘Come on,’ he said, yanking on the dog’s lead. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ The beast rose half an inch off the ground and shifted, head down, tail between its legs, staring at Hjalti and the man until they rounded the corner. The moment they were out of sight the guard had a single moment to let go of the lead as the dog bolted, bounding over the snow dunes and disappearing into the night.

  Hjalti and the man rounded the corner.

  ‘Oh. Where’s the dog?’ the man said.

  The guard could feel his chest constricting as the tall man smiled at him. ‘It . . . ran away,’ he managed.

  ‘Interesting,’ the man said as Hjalti marched on beside him, grim-faced.

  The big double doors to Hakon’s great hall swung open smoothly.

  ‘They’re in there,’ the guard said.

  Hjalti nodded stiffly. ‘Good.’

  ‘I’d better, um—’ The voice inside his head screamed at the guard to run run now run away but neither of the men acknowledged him. Someone shouted something from inside the hall.

  He managed to retreat two steps before the heavy oak doors swung shut with improbable speed, slamming hard enough to shake the snow off the roof.

  The guard threw himself backwards, only barely saving his ankles from being crushed. He could hear the sliding thunk of the bar falling into place on the inside.

  For a moment he just lay there, heart thudding in his chest, then he clambered to his feet, dusted the snow off his backside and shuffled towards the corner of the longhouse. He took up his position under the torch, but it felt strange without the dog. ‘Here! Here, boy!’ he called, but the night remained silent. He looked around for the dog. Where was the damn thing?

  The light from the torch flickered, and something moved in the shadows.

  *

  Valgard and Hjalti stepped into the longhouse. The heat from all those big, sweaty bodies packed shoulder to shoulder hit them in the face first. Then the noise.

  ‘Shut the fucking door!’ someone yelled, voice slurred.

  As if on command, the big door slammed behind them, to drunken cheers. Someone shouted Hjalti’s name and the word spread before them like a ripple in a pond.

  A chill travelled up and down Valgard’s spine as he recalled what it had felt like to finally emerge into the world, the way his skin had stretched and felt . . . The sour taste of retreat followed, and the rangy healer’s jaw set. This time there was no Odin to stop him.

  ‘Hjalti!’ cried a big fat man sitting on the dais, in the far left seat. Valgard smiled to see the seat in the middle was empty. ‘Make way, you bastards!’ he called. ‘Hjalti – come here!’ A channel opened in the throng as people pushed to get out of their way. Halfway down the hall, Valgard got a good look at the other man on the dais.

  ‘Interesting,’ he said, but Hjalti didn’t respond; he just stared straight ahead as he stumbled onwards, like a child in the throes of sleep. Around them the noise in the hall slowly died down, to be replaced with truculent stares as they reached a square space before the dais, maybe four yards by six, that had cleared of people. The hall was hushed now.

  They’ll all be hanging on Hjalti’s every word, Valgard thought.

  Good.

  The other man on the dais was a greybeard. His features were open and friendly, on the surface at least, but his eyes said something else entirely.

  ‘Hjalti! Speak, cousin. Where is the king?’

  ‘King Olav has fled Trondheim,’ Valgard said.

  The fat man’s lip curled with barely suppressed rage. ‘No one fucking asked you,’ he spat. ‘Hjalti, speak up! What happened?’

  ‘There was a fight. King Olav lost,’ Valgard said.

  The greybeard’s outstretched hand stopped the fat man from leaping off the dais, but only just. He turned to Hjalti, looking stern and commanding. ‘Hjalti! Talk to us – tell us what happened in the woods. And if you don’t shut your friend up, Storrek will.’

  ‘I don’t think he will be able to,’ Valgard said conversationally, enjoying watching the men on the dais as they tried to piece together the meaning in his words and comprehend the sheer scale of his rudeness. They failed.

  ‘See,’ Valgard said, rolling his shoulders, ‘I think I’ll have this thing of yours – the North. It’s a bit cold, but that’s fine. I’ll even let you leave on a boat of your own choice.’

  Something smacked into the outside wall with a wet crunching sound.

  The greybeard ignored the noise and shot him a withering look as silence settled again in the hall. ‘I don’t know who the fuck you think you are,’ he growled, ‘but you need to be taught some manners.’ He withdrew his hand and Storrek stepped down from the dais.

  He walked towards Valgard, all fat-covered muscle and death, and Valgard couldn’t help but smirk.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ the man snarled.

  ‘Storrek, is it?’ Valgard said.

  ‘You fucking bet it is,’ Storrek snarled, stepping to within an inch of the tall, thin man. ‘And you’re not saying much more of anything for a while.’

  ‘Mm,’ Valgard said, ‘I see what you mean. A man like yourself could break a man like me into pieces’ – Storrek grinned broadly – ‘well, in a fair fight.’

  Valgard stopped speaking, but his mouth kept moving.

  The smile on Storrek’s face stiffened and contorted as the fat man spun on his heel a
nd started moving back up the dais like a dog being yanked on a lead.

  ‘What are you doing?’ the greybeard said, half-rising out of his seat. ‘Fucking hurt him! Break his—’

  The words were knocked out of him: an invisible force flung him back into the seat and pinned him down on the right-hand chair as Storrek crashed into the wooden throne on the left. The two chieftains’ eyes blazed with fury, but no word escaped their clenched jaws.

  Valgard looked at them then, drew their gazes in and willed them to see him for what he was – and what he could do.

  Like a seamstress pulling a thread through skin, Storrek raised his right arm and brought it smoothly to his left hip. One seat over, the greybeard did the same.

  The knives slid out of their sheaths without a sound as Valgard walked towards the steps. One – two – and up.

  King Olav’s throne was more comfortable than it looked.

  He wanted to laugh as he watched the assembled sea-wolves and land-bears of the North, all staring at him like a herd of milk-cows.

  He allowed the thought to slide out of his head . . .

  . . . and the sound of the knives hacking into flesh to either side of him grew in strength, half wet slop and half banging against a deadened drum, as the chieftains started stabbing themselves, and soon the smell of gushing blood mixed with the stench of voided bowels until their hearts stopped beating and they left this world.

  He released them then, all of them. Hjalti collapsed to the floor, coughing up the blood that had been held inside him, and Storrek deflated as he sank into his seat then started an inglorious slide off his heavy arse to the floor.

  The greybeard, straight-backed to the end, took for ever to topple, but eventually his balance shifted and he too crashed to the floor of the dais.

  The sound of his head smashing into the wood snapped the warriors out of their stupor: there was a great tumult as war-cries went up all over the room and hundreds of warriors decided to charge. Valgard could see the murder in their eyes, smell their desire to tear him apart. Of course. He had offended them – he had defied them. Worst of all, he had frightened them.

  And now they wanted their revenge.

  The doors to Hakon Jarl’s great hall were made from the biggest, strongest oaks they had been able to find within a day of Trondheim. Each one was easily the width of a man, and they had been crafted together with thick ropes and three-times-quenched steel.

  When they splintered and broke, they killed six men.

  Botolf and Ormslev pushed through the gap just as Ormar and Jori burst in through the back-room door.

  As the blood of the two chieftains pooled around the throne and seeped through the wooden planks of the dais, Valgard leaned back and savoured the panic, the last-gasp calls to Odin and Thor – to anyone.

  Too late, he thought as his trolls walked among the best of King Olav’s army. They broke some and bent others too far, but these were tough bastards. He’d get most of them serviceable, and that’d be a fine number.

  The light of the fires was reflected in the widening pool of blood by his feet and he allowed himself a quiet moment of appreciation. Things really were going his way now.

  Sighing contentedly, he rose, touching the rune bag. He could feel the tendrils of strength within. There was a scent on the air.

  ‘Fear,’ Valgard said. ‘So that’s what it smells like.’

  STENVIK BAY, WEST NORWAY

  LATE DECEMBER, AD 996

  Black water lapped at the prow of Njordur’s Mercy. The steep black cliffs rose on their left, touching the thick grey clouds and glowering at the ship with unmovable menace.

  King Olav pulled his furs close. Six days’ fast sailing had taken its toll on the men, but they rowed on, hunkered down under every layer of warm clothing they could find, no doubt cursing him when they thought he wasn’t listening. He did not doubt that the screams they’d heard from the shore as they left still haunted them.

  Behind him, Einar shifted to get a better look. ‘That’s Stenvik, there,’ the young man said.

  ‘I know,’ King Olav said. ‘I know.’ He had prayed on the water, talking to the skies and begging for . . . What? Forgiveness? That night in Trondheim still weighed on him. It seemed unreal, somehow – the forest, the one-eyed man, the feel of his sword biting into thick, blue flesh . . . and the cries that carried from the shore and hung on the air far longer than they should have.

  The gentle hiss of the prow slicing through the waves wiped his thoughts away. The North just wasn’t the right place for him – he’d never have gone there, not this late in the year, if it hadn’t been for Valgard.

  King Olav looked over his shoulder again, and cursed himself for it. He’d felt watched the whole trip, as if the sickly healer had been sitting by his side, smirking at his mistakes. He hadn’t even fought his own battles, the weakling; he’d had those brutes do it for him. His ribs ached at the memory of it. The pain in his side had torn his sleep apart; he couldn’t find any comfortable way to lie down, and breathing was difficult. It had been a challenge not to growl at the sailors, but he’d learned a long time ago that kings sat on thrones, and thrones belonged on land. A ship’s captain had to be a good bit more patient. So Olav kept his anger to himself and waited, counting every moment that brought the Njordur’s Mercy closer to shore.

  ‘That’s strange,’ Einar said.

  The young archer by his side had been one of the few bright sparks on the journey, and Olav had quickly begun to feel like he could trust the man. There was something about his quiet reliability that reassured, unlike Hjalti. A chill ran down his spine as he relived the dagger buried to the hilt in the man’s chest, but he shook it off.

  ‘What?’ he replied, more brusquely than he’d intended.

  ‘Their torches are lit,’ Einar said.

  The sun was hiding somewhere in the clouds, past the mid-point, but not by much – though the light was weak, it was quite enough to see by.

  The king squinted and could just about make out the dots of light along the coast. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Maybe old Finn has become afraid of the dark. Maybe the South has made him soft,’ he added with the closest he could get to a grin. It was hard to smile in the cold. He licked the salt spray off his lips and waited.

  Einar kept staring. ‘The old town,’ he said at last.

  ‘What about it?’

  Einar turned to look at him. ‘It’s gone.’

  *

  ‘Hold the oars,’ King Olav barked. They’d reefed the sails a while ago; they needed control more than speed right now. Einar stood beside him, arrow nocked, and half of his crew stood behind him, armed and ready for a fight.

  ‘Are we not out of range, Einar?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘For most people,’ the young archer replied, not quite hiding a smirk.

  Olav could find nothing to smile about. The old town had been levelled: every single structure had been burned to ash; those few beams that had initially resisted showed the white wounds of the axe.

  ‘Where is everyone?’ he muttered.

  ‘Movement up on the wall,’ Einar said under his breath. ‘Pikes – quite a lot of them, too.’

  King Olav made his decision. ‘Oars!’ he shouted, and as one, the men pushed and pulled and the ship sped forward towards the pier. ‘Eyes open,’ the king barked, and then added, ‘Prepare for anything.’

  But Njordur’s Mercy docked smoothly at Stenvik Pier and nothing happened. The thirty armed men were up in a flash, scanning the horizon for enemies and ready to fight – but none rose out of the soggy grey mess that had once been the Old Town. No screaming horde descended on them, no rain of arrows – nothing. The rowers disembarked quickly, strengthening their ranks, but still no one came.

  Einar looked at the king.

  ‘Form up,’ King Olav said, and behind him, the men
moved into position and inched towards the walls of Stenvik.

  ‘Four more steps and we’re in range,’ Einar said quietly at the king’s right-hand side.

  ‘Halt!’ King Olav shouted. From here, even he could see the row upon row of silent armoured men on the wall. His ribs ached, his stomach was roiling from the sudden stillness of dry land and he could feel a fever coming on.

  He turned and looked at his men. ‘Stand your ground. My Lord will protect me,’ he said quietly. Then he walked towards the town, arms outstretched, though there was still no response from the wall. When he was sure no one could see his face, he gritted his teeth to squeeze out the pain and drew as big a breath as he could manage. His voice rang out, loud and strong: ‘I call for Finn Trueheart!’

  This caused some movement on the wall and at five points, men stood up from a crouch, displaying bows at the ready, with arrows nocked.

  ‘Is this how you greet your king?’ King Olav shouted.

  ‘Stand down! Open the gates! Open the gates or I’ll rip your shitting heads off!’ a big booming voice roared from within, and a small bubble of nervous laughter escaped King Olav’s lips at the chaos erupting on the wall. The archers disappeared as if they’d been cut down. The silent pikemen dropped their weapons and jumped into action and within moments the grating of chain on stone broke the cold silence, the thick wooden gate started to move and a familiar figure emerged on the wall.

  ‘My king!’ Finn shouted.

  ‘Hello, Finn,’ King Olav shouted back.

  Belatedly, Finn remembered to bend his knee. He was barely visible above the parapet as he gestured to the slowly opening southern gate. ‘Welcome to Stenvik!’

  *

  The longhouse was much as King Olav remembered it, but the fire and the broth warming him outside and in made it finer than any king’s palace. He finished his story, and allowed himself another spoonful.

  ‘Those bastards,’ Finn growled. ‘Conspiring to kill you all this time? And Hjalti – I cannot believe it. I mean, I can, obviously. If only I’d been there—’