The Valhalla Saga 01 - Swords of Good Men (32 page)

Egill Jotunn approached him from behind.

‘It seems strange to hold back when there’s killing being done.’

‘I know.’

‘Still, I think you’re right. We can’t see in the dark, we don’t know each other’s men on sight and we’d lose more than we’d gain.’

‘The night is good for many things, but not for this. Not now.’ They stood together in silence for a spell. Then Skargrim spoke again. ‘It sounds like the woodlice are giving them a proper fight this time.’

‘That it does. As for tomorrow …’

‘Yes?’

‘I’d like you to come take a look at something,’ Egill said.
Skargrim turned, looked up at the looming giant and nodded. They walked away from the walls, towards the campfires.

STENVIK

The ravens circled lazily overhead, specks of cawing dark in the first rays of the morning sun.

Bodies lay strewn on the trampled grass at the foot of the wall, sometimes piled two or even three high. Women and children moved with purpose on the parapets, scrubbing and cleaning where they could, throwing straw over pools of blood where they couldn’t.

In the market square Valgard worked on. The sounds of last night’s slaughter in the dark had nearly driven him mad at first, but soon even they had faded into ugly background noise. He’d been at his post throughout, with three warriors nominally supposed to assist him. He knew what it was about, though. They thought he was so weak that he would not be able to defend himself if a single outlaw were to get over the wall.

The line of wounded had seemed endless.

He had men with clean wounds, blood flowing freely from gashes in their shoulders, arms or sides. Others came in with broken forearms or limping on one foot. It was an endless parade of horror, pain and suffering.

And through it all Valgard had worked.

Bandages and water. Salve and ointment. Binding, healing, sometimes even passing a hand over a nasty wound and mumbling something incomprehensible if he thought it would make the man feel better. Some he could heal, some he could save. Some were beyond helping.

‘You’ve done well, son.’

His heart skipped a beat. He hadn’t heard Sven come up behind him, didn’t know how long he’d been there. Somewhere in the back of Valgard’s throat a lump started slowly dissolving.

‘Th-thank you. I’ve done what I could,’ he stuttered.

‘How does it look?’

Valgard reeled off numbers. ‘Fifty-six wounded as far as I can gather, of which forty-two are out of combat. I’ve lost twenty.’

Sven nodded. ‘It’s been hard to get a head count. There are a lot of men missing, I fear.’

Valgard trembled. The blood came back to him, the endless wounds, the gritted teeth of the men trying their hardest not to scream. ‘Bjorn … Bjorn came in … he held his stomach in like this … with the right hand. I looked at the wound … but it was too deep. I couldn’t do anything, Sven. And he … he knew.’ Valgard swallowed hard. A single spasm raced up his spine and smashed into his skull, showering the inside of his eyes with stars. With every muscle in his face tightening, he breathed deep before he continued.

‘He looked me in the eye and smiled. Then he very slowly changed so he was holding in his guts with his left hand … drew his sword and went back up on the wall.’

‘He killed four of the bastards before they got him,’ Sven said quietly as he put an arm around Valgard’s sloping shoulders. ‘You’ve done well, son.’

Valgard blinked and gritted his teeth until he felt they would explode in his mouth.

‘Thank you, father.’

*

‘Sigurd!’

‘What?’ the chieftain snapped.

‘You might want to come here and have a look,’ Sven replied.
Something in his voice halted Sigurd’s stride across the market square.

‘What’s so important?’

Sven nodded towards a corpse that had been thrown to the side of the square and covered with sackcloth. Sigurd raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘This is the dead poisoner, is it not?’ Sven nodded. ‘Well, unless he’s about to stand up and dance, I couldn’t care a handful of lamb shit about him. Sven, I’ve not slept for a while now. I’m going to catch some rest. Why are you of all people bothering me with this?’

Sven didn’t answer.

‘What? What’s so special about him, then?’ Sigurd asked, annoyance rising.

Without a word, Sven walked to the body and pulled the sackcloth away.

Sigurd looked at the face, greying features contorted by death into a frosty smile. His eyes widened as recognition hit home, and he took an involuntary step backwards, as if to distance himself from the corpse.

Sven looked Sigurd straight in the eyes. ‘I don’t know about you, but I reckon this will mean a little bit of extra trouble.’

Recovering, Sigurd looked down at the corpse, then back at Sven. ‘That depends.’ A sudden flicker of a smile danced in his eyes as he drew his knife. ‘That depends entirely, my friend.’

*

There was not much left to do.

Audun worked the whetstone, trying to clear his mind of the grisly clean-up in the tunnel. The closed space, the heavy stones and the smell of the blood-sodden earth had almost overwhelmed him.

Almost.

It had taken all his willpower. Pushing the thoughts away, he worked on the sword. Despite the circumstances he could not but marvel at the thing he held in his hand.

It was a fine weapon.

Sometimes he wondered about the metal and exactly how much he controlled it. This one had turned out longer than he’d wanted it to be, so he’d had to make it slimmer to compensate. It would need a good edge which would have to be maintained, and it would not be useful for anything but killing. Its wielder would not need to be strong, but if he was fast and agile he would be deadly. He’d known for a while whose sword it was.

*

The sounds of axes hitting wood drifted in from the raiders’ camp and echoed across Stenvik, regular and rhythmic.

Sigurd stood over the south gateway, looking down. The grassy walls were now coloured a dull reddish-brown with outlaw blood. Corpses lay strewn at the foot of the wall like a giant’s scattered toys.

Beyond, the old town was buzzing with activity.

‘What are they up to?’ asked Thorvald. He scratched his greying head, the toll of the night visible on his face.

‘Whatever it is, they’re going to need to sharpen their axes again before they’re done,’ Sigurd replied. The sound of wood being chopped was punctured by shouted commands. A woman’s voice cut through the noise and some of her words reached the men on the wall.

Thorvald looked at Sigurd and raised his eyebrow.

‘I never knew you could fit a hatchet up there,’ he said.

‘I guess you can do anything if you’re determined enough,’ the chieftain replied. ‘I’d like to know what exactly they’re chopping.’

‘Could they be building a fire?’

‘Hardly,’ said Sigurd. ‘I don’t know what they’d burn. It’d take ages to burn down any of our gates and they’d have a tough time getting the kindling in place.’

‘And there’s not that much wood in the houses, really,’ Thorvald added.

‘This is not good,’ Sigurd declared. A thundercloud was forming on his face. ‘This is not good at all.’ He turned to Thorvald. ‘Get Sven. Get Ulfar and Jorn too. And then I need you to ready and equip every single man in the village who can hold a bow.’ The scout master turned and set off.

*

‘It’s a damn shame about that Swedish boy,’ Valgard said after a while.

Sven snorted as he rolled up bandages. ‘You know what, son? I can actually think of more pressing problems.’

‘I guess. But where does this end, though? I mean … His next of kin should be pressing for honour, but there’s none of them here. And who would they prosecute? The two fools who started the fight both seem to have vanished – I drank with them a couple of days ago but haven’t really seen them since. I guess … when it comes down to it Harald is at the root of this, isn’t he? Has the pig farmer come forward?’

‘Hand me the poultice jar, will you?’ Sven glanced at Valgard without stopping his work. ‘I suppose he is. But the situation doesn’t exactly lend itself to tribunals, does it? With the two fools gone and all. I saw that farmer yesterday and asked him whether he would be claiming his rights; he was surly as a boar and told me to piss off. I just don’t see it happening. Ulfar would have to make a claim on Geiri’s behalf, Sigurd would have to agree, and we’d somehow have to survive long enough to deal with it without getting massacred by bloody Skargrim and his monsters.’

‘Mm,’ Valgard replied. ‘I see what you mean. Still, it’s a damn shame.’

‘SVEN!’ Thorvald’s voice rang out. Sven was moving before he’d finished the word. Before he left he turned to Valgard. ‘Don’t die. I’ll be very angry if you do.’

Valgard mustered a smile as the old man hurried towards the scout master, but his head was in another place altogether. He stalked around the table in his mind and threw the board against the wall. Pieces scattered across the floor.

Curse it. Curse it all.

King Olav was on his way, bringing with him the end of hope. When the King’s army occupied Stenvik, Sigurd would be permanently installed as chieftain, Harald would get older and worse and his idea, his plan to occupy a place as the chieftain’s trusted adviser and second in command, would be blown to the winds. His back ached, but he ignored it. Until now he’d tried to be gentle and pull.

Maybe it was time to push.

*

As Ulfar ran towards the stairs to get to Thorvald, Audun closed in and grabbed his arm. Ulfar started to speak, but something in the blacksmith’s eyes stopped him.

They stood together for a moment in silence.

Then Audun handed Ulfar a sword in a strange old scabbard.

‘What’s this? I have a sword already.’

‘Have a look at this one,’ was all Audun said.

Ulfar grabbed the handle. It fitted his hand exactly. ‘Hm. Feels good …’ he drew the sword. ‘Whoa. Long.’ He moved his hand experimentally, swung a couple of times. Then he fell silent, turned and looked at Audun.

After a long spell he bowed his head and said simply: ‘Thank you.’

Audun nodded in return. ‘Note the inscription.’ Ulfar looked at the hilt, at the runes for vitality and speed. ‘Be quick and live, Ulfar Thormodsson,’ Audun said quietly.

‘I’ll remember that,’ Ulfar replied.

ONBOARD THE
NJORDUR’S MERCY

Voices.

Screaming, screaming at him. Ordering, begging, cajoling, cursing. Telling him to let them go, leave them be. Like the talons of a bird raking his bones, they were making his blood go cold. A sickly smell filled his nostrils, a smell of dying flesh.

Oraekja’s eyes flew open. Hides above him, above them blue sky. He tried to move his head, to look around, but nothing happened. The world felt like a block of ice: cold, translucent, immovable. Floating on memory, absolute terror possessed him. He screamed, ears ringing, blood pumping pure fear through his body.

She leaned over into his field of vision and looked at him, a soft, tender smile on her lips. ‘No one can hear you, you know.’ She looked down at his chest, towards his legs. Then she smiled and nodded. ‘Not yet. But they will.’ She turned towards Stenvik. ‘They will.’

She faded from view as he passed out again.

STENVIK

Shadows danced on the wall, following Sven’s every move. Pacing back and forth, the energy in the steps belied the age of the body.
‘He’s taking his time with that timber, our Skargrim,’ Sven muttered.

‘He wants us to brace ourselves until we’re tired,’ Sigurd answered. ‘Then he’ll hit us with whatever he’s working on just as we’re hoping the night will shield us, and he’ll hit us hard. This is him fighting with us in here.’ Sigurd pointed to his head. ‘This is where he wants us to be soft.’

Sven did not break his stride. ‘I’d not mind him here on this wall. Then we’d see who’s soft and who’s hard.’

‘Not a bad idea at all,’ Sigurd said. ‘Let’s smack the hive and see what flies.’ With that he walked towards a dirty sack stowed away on the south wall just above the gateway. Grabbing it, he stepped up onto the outer wall.

‘SKARGRIM!’ he shouted.

Nothing happened. The axes didn’t even slow down.

‘SKARGRIM! THIS IS SIGURD AEGISSON! I HAVE SOMETHING THAT BELONGS TO YOU!’

The sounds gradually diminished as one by one, the axes stopped. A tall, broad-shouldered man in a thick bearskin cloak walked out onto the south road and stood silently facing Stenvik.

Sigurd reached into the sack and pulled out Ragnar’s bloodied head, holding the hair by the roots. Two swings and it sailed in a silent, majestic arc through the air, spinning slowly as it travelled. It landed roughly six feet in front of Skargrim and rolled towards him until it stopped by his feet.

The big man looked at the severed head of his brother for a few moments. Then he looked back up at the walls.

‘FOR THAT YOU DIE, SIGURD,’ he shouted back.

‘EVENTUALLY,’ Sigurd bellowed. ‘BUT I KNOCKED YOU ON YOUR HAIRY ARSE ONCE AND I CAN AND WILL DO IT AGAIN. SO COME ON, YOU BASTARD! I’M BORED!’ Skargrim retreated silently in
between the houses of the old town. Sigurd turned to Sven, Ulfar and Thorvald, who looked back at him with varying expressions of astonishment. ‘If we get to him he might think he should go in before he’s ready.’

Sven shook his head. ‘Couldn’t you have got him to think we’ve got five thousand men instead? That way he might consider not going in at all.’

‘We’re better at fighting than waiting, Sven. Look around you.’

Sven did. The planks on the wall were stained with the blood of outlaws and far too many defenders. They’d gone some way towards replenishing stones and refitting spikes, but the night had taken its toll. Death lay heavy on the air and the men of Stenvik felt it.

The old fighter frowned. ‘I still think we should have played for time rather than force his hand. But maybe he’s not done with whatever they’re building in there. Maybe he’ll hold off until tomorrow. Maybe—’

‘We have movement. They’re coming.’ The certainty in Thorvald’s voice chilled Ulfar to the core. ‘Bows!’ the scoutmaster shouted. ‘BOWS! NOW!’ Within moments Sven was off to gather the reserves on the ground. Sigurd set off to fire up the defenders on the wall.