And then suddenly there were only five logs left, then three – and then the cheer went up as the Long Wyrm touched water for the first time and went knifing through the wavelets lapping at the beach, righting herself as the weight settled and the men waded in after, whooping and cheering with that final push.
And then the Long Wyrm sat there and Finn understood the sheer scale of her. The Stenvik raiding ships next to her looked like a child’s toy boats. At the stern stood King Olav, proud as a father, back ramrod-straight, looking back at the town and the men climbing over the sides, his face etched in triumph.
‘Well,’ Finn muttered to himself. He looked around, but Fjolnir was still nowhere to be seen. Down below, the last of the Wyrm’s crew were wading in after the ship and the first of the oars were coming out, holding the massive keel steady just off the shallows. ‘At least I won’t be late.’
The cold water shocked him, but he kept on wading; his big, calloused hands grabbed the freshly treated side and Finn Trueheart clambered onto the Long Wyrm. Every single person in Stenvik was up on the walls, watching, and every one of them would tell their children and their children’s children about this moment, he realised. He was part of history.
‘PULL!’ King Olav’s voice was thick with emotion.
Finn could feel the whoosh as the massive sail came up and the cheer that followed them from the shore. The huge black cross on the white linen would be seen from miles away, just what the king had wanted. Let them see, he’d said. Let them see, and think, and wonder how they will be judged. His eyes had suggested that there would be a remarkably similar outcome to most judgings.
‘The king wants to see you,’ Einar said at his shoulder and Finn glanced towards the bow where the king stood. He’d turned the moment the sail came up, putting Stenvik firmly behind him.
Even just walking across the ship felt odd. The central gangway was so wide he could have had at least one man on either side without squeezing. On the benches, the men were coming to terms with four-manning the oars, but they were experienced rowers who fell into rhythm soon enough. As he reached King Olav, he looked down to see the prow of the ship slicing through the water, sending a fine spray skywards. The cold caught the droplets and the faint, weak sunlight.
‘Einar has told me about the building of the ship,’ King Olav said. ‘You’ve done a fantastic job.’
‘For the glory of God,’ Finn replied.
‘I didn’t know you had it in you, Finn,’ King Olav said. ‘When did you learn to build a ship?’
‘I – um – it’s strange,’ he said. ‘I walked into a shipwright when I’d just left the longhouse. His name is Fjolnir. And he had a carpenter with him – stocky sort, with a hammer.’
King Olav turned and looked at Finn askance. ‘Einar didn’t mention anything about this,’ he said.
Finn’s words caught in his throat. ‘Buh – but – there was a man—’
Suddenly King Olav smiled beatifically and looked at him – through him. ‘I see. Don’t worry, Finn Trueheart. I know what you’re trying to do, and I can see what you’ve done. Hold on to your humility and your true reward will come in heaven.’ Contented, the king turned away and looked towards the horizon.
Dazed by the speed and the scale of the ship, Finn had to stop himself from staring at the back of King Olav’s head. He waited for any kind of answer or explanation, but the king ignored him in favour of the waves zooming past.
Eventually, all he could do was to walk back towards the mast as behind them, Stenvik turned from a fortress to a tiny dot on the beach.
Einar was waiting for him by the mast. ‘The men have said many good things about your leadership, Finn,’ the young man said solemnly. ‘It is not my place to say, but this ship is a marvel. And you taught us how to build it.’
‘But . . .’ Finn started, reaching for the old man in his memory, but all he could see was a weather-beaten face with one good eye, winking at him for just a moment. Then visions flooded his head, of digging for the planks, fitting the wood just so, commanding the men, shouting at them, trading insults.
Finn looked up.
High above the massive cross two ravens drifted, looking down on them. When the birds saw him looking, they both cawed.
It sounded a lot like laughter.
Chapter 13
THE DALES, WEST SWEDEN
LATE DECEMBER, AD 996
On the border of Svealand, far to the north, Sven cracked his shoulders and winced at the noise as joints popped back to where they used to be too many years ago to count. ‘And then he said Odin told him to go to Gallows Peak,’ he finished.
Sigurd closed his eyes, sighed and rubbed his temples. The small fire crackled between them as the final thin sticks caught fire. ‘Do you believe him?’
‘Yes,’ Sven said without hesitation. ‘He’s a good liar, but he’s not that good.’
‘Trust you to know,’ Sigurd said with the ghost of a smirk.
‘Hmph,’ Sven snorted in mock annoyance.
‘But it does suggest that we’re doing the right thing,’ Sigurd continued.
‘It does,’ Sven said.
‘We’ll sleep on it, then chart our course.’
‘The mountains?’ Sven said.
‘Yes.’
Sven looked Sigurd up and down. ‘You knew, didn’t you?’ he said.
‘No,’ Sigurd said, ‘I didn’t.’ The old chieftain looked into the darkness as if trying to remember something. ‘But I suspected we wouldn’t get to Trondheim. And who knows?’ he added. ‘Maybe Gallows Peak will be nice this time of year.’
Sven snorted again. ‘As if,’ he said, crawling into his blankets under his lean-to. ‘Tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow,’ Sigurd said, watching as his sworn brother fell asleep as easily as he ever did.
When Sigurd Aegisson finally went to his own tent, the embers were long dead.
*
The men of Stenvik had taken to living like a herd of particularly stubborn, murderous goats, Audun thought. Men their age shouldn’t be able to get through this much cold and wet, but Sigurd Aegisson’s warriors just set their shoulders and marched on.
‘How are you faring?’ Sven said, appearing beside him. The old rogue didn’t appear to be in the least bothered by the calf-deep snow; he clutched a sturdy walking stick as he went.
‘Good enough,’ Audun said. ‘Not my favourite thing, the outdoors.’
‘Waste of a good smith,’ Sven said.
Audun remembered his smithy in Stenvik and had to suppress a sigh. If nothing else, that smelly old hovel had been warm. He couldn’t rightly remember any more what being warm and dry felt like. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
They walked together in companionable silence for a while.
‘Shame Thormund decided to go with the kings,’ Audun said at last. When the words were out there, he realised that he meant it too. The old horse thief had been a source of life in their camp.
‘Hm,’ Sven said. ‘Thormund didn’t decide to stay.’
‘Oh?’ Audun said.
‘No, we told him to.’
‘What?’ Audun’s eyebrows knotted as he tried to work out what Sven meant. ‘Why?’
‘Because Jolawer Scot is in danger. Alfgeir Bjorne looks after the king and Thormund watches over Alfgeir,’ Sven said. ‘I’ll be a son of a mongrel bitch if Forkbeard doesn’t try to get to the old bear at least once. If they try to out-sneak Thormund and succeed, they can have as much of the South as they can hold. But rest assured, we will make it difficult for them.’ The old rogue’s jaw was set in determination but his eyes sparkled with mischief.
‘I see,’ Audun said.
‘My namesake with the fancy beard always has a plan, the bastard,’ Sven said. ‘And since we can’t be there to piss in his porridge we’ll do it from afar.’
&n
bsp; Audun couldn’t help but smile. Sven’s chatter was excellent for helping the time pass. ‘So which way are we going?’
‘Straight to Gallows Peak,’ Sven said.
The muscles in Audun’s throat froze up and his heart leapt in his chest. He twisted to look at Sven, who was suddenly nowhere near as cheerful.
Instead, the old man looked intently at Audun, studying every muscle in his face. ‘He came to you too, didn’t he?’ Sven said quietly.
Audun’s veins pulsed and he fought to hold back the waves of fury. Words would not come out, so he nodded.
‘Ulfar tried to persuade us to go, but the boy can’t lie to people he likes when it matters, which is a good thing. I squeezed him and he told me.’
‘He says we have to. Valgard’s power is growing.’
Sven shrugged. ‘You’re no weakling yourself,’ he said. ‘I’m worried, though,’ he added, shooting a conspiratorial glance forward. ‘Sigurd said he might run away because he was scared.’
Audun couldn’t stop his eyebrows from rising. ‘Really?’
Sven nodded. ‘It’s the truth. I swear it – no, I can’t do this any more,’ he said, smirking. ‘Of course it fucking isn’t. Most rocks have more give in them than Sigurd Aegisson. We’re going to Gallows Peak and when we get there we’ll most likely be cold, wet and hungry, and I don’t think we’ll be in any mood to show our nicest side to whatever’s there. Now keep walking and stop all this chatter. It wastes your energy.’
With that, Sven stomped off towards the head of the line.
Audun watched him go, wondering exactly what was in store for them at Gallows Peak.
*
Days passed, snow fell and around them the country changed: the trees grew longer and thinner and the hills rose higher, their slopes steeper. The weather changed, too. The grey clouds drifted away and for two days the sun shone, but not enough to warm the air.
Finally, mid-morning on the fourth day after the decision, Sven and Sigurd stopped on the crest of a hill.
‘There they are,’ Sigurd said after a while.
‘Can’t hide anything from you,’ Sven replied.
‘You know what?’ Sigurd said, and when Sven shrugged and grunted, he said, ‘I’ve never actually seen them.’
‘Well, now you have,’ Sven said.
Behind them, the line of men trudged up the hill and, as one, the men all came to an abrupt halt. A soft wave of murmured curses followed the chieftains’ conversation.
At the far end of the line, Audun elbowed Ulfar gently.
‘Wake up.’
‘Whuh—?’ Ulfar mumbled, head down and feet still moving.
‘Look,’ Audun whispered.
Ulfar looked up and blinked. Then he squeezed his eyes shut, blinked again and stared. ‘Oh . . . crap,’ he said.
In the distance the world rose up in a jagged edge that reached up to the sky like the fangs of a silent, screaming beast.
‘Gallows Peak,’ Audun muttered. ‘It’s massive.’
Ulfar gazed at the mountains, transfixed. The range stretched away from them in both directions for as far as the eye could see. A frozen river snaked out of the hills and disappeared into the encroaching forest, but closer to the slopes the trees thinned out.
‘That’s the Peak!’ Sven shouted, voice loud in the still air. ‘That’s where we’re going!’
No one replied. They just stared.
‘We’re here to do a job,’ Sigurd said. ‘We’ll do it over there.’ He pointed towards the mountains. ‘It may be the worst pile of shit I’ve ever walked into, and that’s saying quite a lot. This is your last chance to turn away.’ The chieftain of Stenvik surveyed his men for the last time before he started picking his way down the hill.
Ulfar looked at the warriors around them as they set off again, stumbling through the snow with faces set in grim determination. Not a single one of them had even contemplated the thought of turning back. ‘If Valgard’s there we’ll give him a hard time,’ he said.
‘And if he’s not?’ Audun said.
‘Let’s not think about that just yet,’ Ulfar said, feeling for the next step in the snow. ‘Let’s just hope we’re on a path to glory.’
‘The path to glory is wet and cold,’ Audun muttered as he followed in Ulfar’s footsteps for the front of the line.
*
In the distance, Gallows Peak itself looked like the rocks had been ripped out of the ground by an angry god. Lesser mountains, gorges, hills and valleys spilled off it like ripples in the land.
‘No wonder no one goes here,’ Ulfar said. ‘It’s not a kind country.’
‘The mountain men I’ve met are neither soft nor fat,’ Sigurd agreed. ‘Tough bastards, though.’
‘True,’ Sven said.
The path they’d chosen led through a valley, following the bank of a solidly frozen river. About fifty yards on either side the treeline started, thickening as it reached the foot of the hills maybe two hundred yards further away. The thick cover of the trees sloped sharply away on both sides, which meant the ridges disappeared from view. It was easy going, giving cover from the worst of the wind and leading them straight towards the base of the mountain range.
But when they were a good five hundred yards in, Sigurd reached slowly over his shoulder and unhooked the big axe. ‘Something’s wrong,’ he said, turning back and looking towards the end of the line.
Sven turned too, and looked at the single file behind them, stretching back almost as far as he could see. ‘Shit,’ he said, turning on the spot to follow Sigurd. ‘Go back,’ he said to the man behind him. ‘Blades.’
Blood thumped in Ulfar’s ears. The forest around him suddenly felt full of hidden, silent threats, but he still couldn’t find anything that might suggest what Sigurd had spotted. Ahead of him a wave of movement swept down the line and within moments every man was holding a weapon of some sort. Sigurd led the line that was quickly doubling back on itself, delivering a steady stream of commands in a quiet voice as he passed each fighter. When they were halfway down Ulfar saw that Audun’s rearguard had closed the gap.
‘What’s going on?’ the smith said when they met.
‘I don’t know. Sigurd’s got a gut feeling. I’ve not seen or heard anything.’
‘Birds,’ Audun said, his voice dark. ‘There are no birds – forest like this, there should be at least a handful of little bite-sized ones, but there’s nothing here.’
Ulfar sighed and looked to the skies. ‘Fine. We get it. Just, you know. Bring it on and get it over with.’
Almost like a reply the first branch rustled somewhere above their heads and to the left, then the second – and the third and soon the whisper in the trees was everywhere, punctuated only by the sharp snapping of twigs.
‘SHIELD-WALL!’ Sven shouted. ‘THEY’RE ON THE RIDGES!’
The men of Stenvik moved together, forming two lines of twenty men standing back to back, their shields together in the middle of the path, fifteen yards from the treeline. Behind the shield-bearers there were blade-carriers, lined up and ready to punch through the wall.
Heart hammering in his chest, Ulfar took up a place behind two of the heavier greybeards, his own sword at the ready. One of them looked at him and winked. ‘We’ll hold ’em, you stick ’em,’ he said.
Ulfar smiled weakly in return and wished he could find his courage somewhere.
‘There,’ someone snapped, pointing at the trees as snow cascaded down, rising back up in a puff of white where the enemy passed. ‘They’re coming down the hillside.’
‘HOLD YOUR GROUND,’ Sven barked. ‘WE’LL GIVE ’EM A RUN-UP – IT’S ONLY FAIR!’
This brought chuckles from the men.
‘STENVIK!’ one of them cried and ‘STENVIK!’ the cry came back. When the noise died down Ulfar listened for the battle-cry of th
eir opponents, but there was nothing to hear, just that damned rustling. The treeline suddenly felt awfully close.
‘How many do you estimate?’ Ulfar whispered to Sven, who was moving about between the two lines like a house builder, filling the cracks.
‘Enough of ’em,’ Sven snapped back. ‘Quit your counting, boy. It’s a bad habit. There’ll be fewer if you kill some. We’ll stick ’em and make them bl . . .’ The old rogue’s voice trailed off and Ulfar followed his gaze over the heads of the shield-bearers to the treeline thirty yards away.
The creature that walked out of the woods was at least seven and a half feet tall. The clothes of a normal-sized man hung in shreds on its bulky body, exposing blue-tinted skin. Long, muscular arms hung down by its sides and one massive hand clutched a club as thick as a man’s thigh.
‘You told me the mountain men were rough, but I didn’t expect that,’ Ulfar said.
‘That’s not a man any more,’ Sven said quietly, without taking his eyes off the enemy. ‘That’s a troll.’
Just as he’d said it another five trolls emerged from the forest. They watched as their leader pointed straight at the shield-wall and without any more warning the huge blue-skin sprinted towards them, his club raised. After a moment’s shock he was met by the raised shields and battle roars of the men of Stenvik, who waited with spears poised until they could smell him. Then, like the fingers on a deadly hand moving all together, five thick spears launched, flew and sank into the troll’s torso with force.
The spears didn’t even slow it down. The warrior in the centre of the shield-wall disappeared in a fine mist of blood as the troll’s club came down on him, smashing through to the ground.
The giant blue-skin bellowed, grabbed the spears impaling it in a meaty fist and ripped them out of its chest.
The Valhalla Saga Page 78
