The Valhalla Saga 01 - Swords of Good Men (24 page)

Sigurd looked around, catching each and every man’s eye. Then he turned to Harald and Thorvald, speaking softly to both. Facing the raiders again, he spoke up, this time calmly. ‘These are my orders. You are to relay them to your brothers, your fathers and your sons. When you leave this longhouse you go to war. Take food and drink when you can. You may eat in Valhalla when you’re dead, but until then you eat your fill here. I will not have my men hungry or thirsty. Because when we fight, we fight for our life. We fight for our fallen dead, our sons and unborn daughters. We fight for our home.’ He held his men’s attention for half a breath more, then finished. ‘Harald and Thorvald have orders for you. Go with them.’

Sigurd’s two generals rose as one, and with them the assembled raiders of the
Westerdrake
.

When they’d left, Sigurd returned to his chair. Once seated, he leaned back, crossed his arms and touched his chin. His eyes passed Ulfar briefly and landed on the group of four men standing silently in the corner. He beckoned them casually towards him. ‘You. Approach.’

The four men moved into the centre of the longhouse.

‘Explain yourselves.’

A young man with dark hair, delicate features and a runner’s build stepped forward. He bowed deep.

‘Sigurd Aegisson?’

‘Yes.’

‘My name is Jorn of the Dales. I am a forerunner of King Olav
Tryggvason’s army, sent here to thank you in the name of God for—’

‘Yes, yes. Prove it.’

Jorn seemed flustered. ‘I— but … I— what?’

‘Prove it. Prove it to me – right now – or I cut you down with your own weapons to save me time in cleaning mine.’ There was no posturing, only weariness in Sigurd’s voice. The large man behind Jorn looked at the greying chieftain with contempt. Sigurd smiled back. ‘Just prove it.’

Frowning at a voice behind him, Jorn shook his head. Then something seemed to dawn on the man. He reached quickly inside his shirt and pulled out a shimmering chain.

‘This is a chain with a cross given to me by King Olav, proving that I am his and our Lord God’s messenger.’ He knelt and offered the cross up to Sigurd.

From his seat on the dais, Stenvik’s leader sighed. ‘I don’t know if you heard what just went on here. Skargrim is on his way, we have some friends in the forest that you’ve met, and the last two front-runner guests we had just poisoned our well. So as it stands, when new and interesting strangers show up at our gate waving some junk and pretending to be King Olav’s messengers I am more inclined to carve them up, feed them to the crows and keep their baubles than believe them. We’ll just have to wait a little.’

Ulfar watched the dark-haired man stare in desperation at the chieftain who was now conferring with the ever-present Sven. The four men started talking heatedly among themselves, the fat one pointing at the cross, the big bruiser scowling and ready for a fight. Only the weedy one at the back kept quiet, and scanned the room. Ulfar turned his attention to the conversation on the dais.

The door to the longhouse flew open. In stumbled a red-faced and overweight man wearing a brown robe.

‘Ah! Friar Johann. Thank you for joining us!’ Sigurd exclaimed from the dais.

‘I am most honoured to help you in any way, Sigurd Aegisson. However, next time you need me please send someone other than that brute Harald. He told me where you’d stick my crucifix if I didn’t run here!’ The friar’s face was flushed with indignity.

Sigurd and Sven both stifled a laugh. ‘Now now, Friar,’ said Sven. ‘You know Harald. He doesn’t mean it.’ The friar harrumphed.

‘Well, not much,’ Sigurd added. ‘But we need your knowledge. These men claim to be messengers of his holiness King Olav. They have some kind of cross that proves it. Now I’ve seen a fair few Christian relics in my time’ – behind him, Sven grinned an old wolf’s smile – ‘but I want your confirmation that it is the real thing.’

Friar Johann gazed at the four men in the middle of the floor. ‘At last! My prayers have been heard! Christians, come to deliver us!’

Ulfar saw the big bruiser roll his eyes. He also saw their leader subtly kicking the big man’s shin. As if nothing had happened, Jorn turned to the friar. ‘Go with God, father. I would implore you to look upon this cross and verify it for us. It was given to me by King Olav, who said I was to be his voice, his ears and eyes in Stenvik, to prepare for the coming of his heavenly army.’

The friar’s face lit up. ‘This I can do, my son. Show me.’ Jorn dutifully handed him the chain. The friar’s face changed at once. Flustered anger, red-faced indignity and anguish gave way to serenity and confidence.

He turned towards Sigurd.

‘These men are who they say they are, Sigurd. This cross bears
the inscription of King Olav and says in Latin that he who wears it walks with God.’

Sigurd inhaled then exhaled slowly. ‘That’s … great. So, Jorn of the Dales. Welcome to our humble town. Forgive the reception, but these are rather’ – Sigurd rose from his seat and interrupted Jorn, who was about to speak – ‘exceptional times,’ he continued in a louder voice. ‘So.’ Walking quickly towards the four, he swept them with him out of the longhouse. ‘If you want to be the King’s ears, listen.’

As the four riders struggled to keep up with Sigurd storming ahead, the sounds of metal on metal could be heard all through Stenvik. The chieftain strode towards the west gateway. ‘Do you hear, Jorn? Those are my raiders, my old men and my children sharpening their knives, steeling their swords, honing their spears.’ A tortured bleating cut through the sound of stone on metal. ‘Oh, and slaughtering all our livestock. Every single animal. We’ll eat well in the next two days.’ They reached the steps up to the wall, which Sigurd mounted as if they were flat. Jorn’s men had to jog to keep up. ‘Now I noticed that you didn’t seem to think much of it when I said Skargrim was on his way. I understand that you will be the King’s mouth, but I bid you hold your tongue—’ Sigurd reached the top of the wall and took his bearings. When Jorn caught up Sigurd fixed him with an intense look. ‘Until you’ve been the King’s eyes and seen
this
.’

With that he turned and pointed out to sea.

At a big, black line on the horizon.

Sixty ships, headed for Stenvik.

*

Now that she had embraced the pain, Lilia found the confidence to venture out of the house more. At first she was afraid, as she’d always been. Afraid that he’d be watching her, that he’d somehow
catch her even when she’d left him knocked out on Valgard’s mixture.

But he wasn’t watching.

And increasingly, it seemed he wouldn’t be. Harald had seemed different in the last few days. It was as if he wasn’t quite … there. He’d looked like he’d lost interest in her after the last beating, when she’d seen him cry. There had been a couple of flashes of temper, but even then he’d looked like he was holding back for whatever reason. She couldn’t fathom what it was that had changed him, nor did she want to. She was too busy staging her own modest escape, breaking free from her captor.

In the five years since she’d arrived she’d made few friends, but Inga was one of them. She was blonde and slim, with big blue eyes and a seldom seen, crooked smile. A little younger than Lilia, but already a widow at seventeen, she had lost her husband to a Saxon arrow on a raid last year. On the few occasions when Lilia had dared to go out – to wait for Harald, of course – Inga would come and stand beside her down at the harbour. There they’d stand, one waiting for the man who’d never come again, the other hoping that hers would not return. They had not exchanged many words in their respective vigils but their friendship was a solid thing, a quiet bond reinforced through pain and desperation. After ably serving as lookout yesterday in Lilia’s daring trip to see Ulfar, Inga was her closest ally and co-conspirator by default. So when Harald did not return or demand anything of her, Lilia went outside to seek her friend.

Stenvik was buzzing.

It sounded different, though.

These were sounds of purpose, intent and intensity.

She saw young boys carry spears up onto the walls. Behind them came women with slop buckets half-full of water. She could
see little girls running around, picking up stones from the side of the roads and throwing them into small sacks.

As she turned onto the road from the western gateway her stomach lurched as if she’d been hit, her vision blurred for an instant and her whole body tingled.

A moment later, her brain told her what it was.

It was him. Ulfar. Standing by the door of the longhouse. Intent, sharp, focused and beautiful. Talking to someone old, and pointing a lot. Sven, her brain whispered in the background. He’s talking to Sven.

She watched them, transfixed, breathing quickly.

‘Lilia?’ There was a note of surprise in Harald’s voice. ‘Where the hell do you think you’re going?’

‘I—’ she began, scrambling. She turned to find him standing between two houses by the side of the road, looking at her. ‘I went to get some water.’

‘You can’t. They poisoned the well.’ She stared at him, paralysed with fear. He simply looked back blankly. ‘Go home. You shouldn’t be out.’

With great effort she broke the hold, nodded quickly, turned and ran.

*

Ulfar caught only a brief glimpse of Lilia as she ran away, but it was enough to make his heart jump. He was about to set off after her when a young boy came running.

‘He’s awake! Your friend is awake!’ The boy barely managed to stop himself before crashing into Ulfar and Sven. ‘Audun says you’re to come quick! He’s speaking!’ With that, the boy ran away again.

Torn, Ulfar cast a longing glance towards the place where Lilia
had disappeared in between the houses, then turned and set off swiftly towards the healer’s house, followed by Sven.

Up the road towards the western gateway Harald emerged. He watched the two men walk away, an unreadable expression on his face. When they’d gone he turned and headed south.

STENVIK FOREST

A subtle change in the sounds of the forest was enough to wake Oraekja. His back hurt, his knees hurt and he had to try very hard to keep his teeth from chattering.

Someone was very close to his hiding place. He could smell it. Inching forward, he caught a glimpse of the man.

He was a scrawny bastard, dressed in rags and wielding a battered old shortsword. He didn’t look like much, but Oraekja had learned not to judge fighters by their looks. A powerful longing gripped him then, an urge for someone to take the lead. Someone to tell him what to do. Someone like Skargrim. He thought of Ragnar and blinked furiously. Still, the scrawny man looked nothing like the people from Stenvik. That had to mean he was one of theirs, right? The people from the forest had attacked the caravan so they were on the same side. Had to be. The more Oraekja thought about it, the more it made sense. He’d explain who he was and what he’d done, and be taken to their camp where he could wait for Skargrim and Skuld to arrive.

He rose.

‘Hello, friend,’ he said, raising his hands.

The scrawny man twirled around, shock and surprise on his face. He bared his teeth and launched himself at Oraekja.

STENVIK

‘You bastard! I thought you were good as dead and it turns out you were just having a rest!’

Geiri mustered a tired smile. Ulfar’s words said one thing but his face said something entirely different. ‘Sorry about that. Next time you go get the ale.’

Ulfar smiled sheepishly. ‘Maybe next time I will.’

Behind him, Sven cleared his throat. ‘Now, son. Move over and let me have a look at the man. See if he’s still in one piece.’ Ulfar moved out of the way and Sven knelt over Geiri, touching his scalp and feeling for injuries.

‘I checked. There’s nothing on the outside,’ Valgard said. He was standing by the door, looking down on Sven crouched over Geiri with the two newcomers. ‘I think he’s safe from bleeding on the inside. Some bruises, but his skull looks fine.’

‘That it does,’ Sven muttered, without taking his eyes off Geiri. ‘You’ve done well with our wounded men, Valgard. And speaking of which – where is the pig farmer? He was bundled up in a heap over in the corner last time I saw him.’

‘He was going to find Sigurd and talk about his … rights,’ Audun said, choosing each word carefully. ‘But that was yesterday.’

There was a brief silence in the hut. Then Sven spoke. ‘It’s amazing that that man isn’t dead yet. Considering his sense of timing, we might see him back in here sooner rather than later.’

STENVIK, THE OLD TOWN

‘Out!’ Harald banged again on the shutters of the little hut. ‘Get out! Now!’ Sigurd’s instructions had been simple enough. Go to
the shacks and huts of the old town, round up the stragglers and bring them in behind the walls.

A thin, nervous man scurried out, carrying a bag on his back. Behind him a scrawny woman holding a snotty, whimpering child manoeuvred herself out of the hut, blinking and looking around. Harald pointed wordlessly at the town walls. They got the message and hobbled towards the southern gate. He moved on. Get everyone out of there and move them into town. Those were his orders. And then there were more of Sigurd’s little surprises to arrange. Already he could hear shouts and hammering sounds. Valgard had walked off into the old town with a big sack on his back, picking huts at random and disappearing inside. But Harald struggled to keep his mind on the task at hand. His head hurt. Gliding along in some kind of odd half-sleep, he felt strange inside. Like something was melting, leaking, giving way. The vision from yesterday morning taunted him and kept coming tantalizingly close, staying just beyond his reach. Suddenly a flimsy hut would grow bigger before his eyes, so much so that he felt he was knocking on the vast doors of Valhalla. Thor would pass him in the street and clap him on the shoulder like a war-brother and his heart would swell. Freya would wink at him through various women and he would feel the blood rush to his groin. And sometimes it felt like shapes in the shadows were … watching him. Watching and smiling.

Still, the work got done. He dispensed commands, praise and threats where needed. And it worked. The men with the shovels had done their jobs, the men preparing the huts equally so. There was a steady trickle of people with bedrolls and whatever meagre possessions they could scrounge trickling into town through the southern gateway.