The Valhalla Saga 01 - Swords of Good Men (38 page)

‘How are we doing?’ someone shouted just behind him.

Runar turned. ‘I’m f-f-f-fine,’ he replied, adding, ‘He’s not,’ as he pointed to the collapsed man with an arrow sticking out of his skull.

‘I can see that,’ said the tall young man and smiled. Suddenly someone cannoned into him from behind and felled him to the ground.

Move, stop and shoot.

Runar turned and ran for cover. He had orders; they were to get back to the longhouse. Some people had to learn the hard way that you shouldn’t stop to talk in the middle of a fight.

*

The first blow knocked the wind out of Ulfar. It was followed by a flurry of hard punches. A meaty hand grabbed his hair, turned and twisted hard. Lying on the ground, Ulfar found himself staring at Harald’s face, bright red with rage.

‘She’s mine!’ he screamed. ‘Mine! Always!’ Stunned, he looked into the furious sea captain’s eyes. There was nothing human there any more. Ulfar tried to roll out of the brute’s grip. No luck. Harald had him pinned and he knew it. A triumphant smile spread on his ugly face. ‘No you don’t. And when I’m done with you she won’t like you at all. Because you won’t be pretty.’

The straight right broke Ulfar’s nose easily. As his head snapped back, Harald let go of his hair and grabbed his throat with the left hand, squeezing hard. Pain shot through Ulfar, veins pumped in his throat. He couldn’t swallow. Couldn’t breathe.

‘Mine,’ Harald hissed. Black spots appeared in Ulfar’s eyes. ‘She’s mine and I can do what I want and you’re not going to—’

Harald’s eyes rolled up into his head and closed. He went limp. Instinct brought Ulfar’s hands up to ward off the big man’s falling body.

Harald’s weight shifted off Ulfar. Big hands grabbed him and lifted him up. Through a haze he sensed he was being helped to stand by strong arms. He coughed hard and sucked the life-giving air back into his lungs. ‘We can’t stay here,’ Audun said. ‘The fight will come to us and that bastard will wake up sooner than later. Follow me.’ Dragging Ulfar, dazed and coughing, he headed for the broken steps. All around them man-shapes darted between
houses and huts; retreating archers and spearmen, fierce raiders giving chase.

A ring of blades tightened around the longhouse.

*

The battle raged in the market square.

Skargrim knew his men were as tough as they came, but the raiders of the
Westerdrake
were fighting for their lives, their town and their chieftain. The two groups were locked together in the confines of the town, refuting the invaders’ greater numbers.

Sigurd stood in the middle of the line blocking their path to the longhouse. They had traded murderous blows, delivered hits that would have floored lesser warriors. Bleeding freely from a cut in his left arm, Sigurd ducked a swing and instead kicked at his opponent’s shield, throwing him off balance. Recovering with stunning speed, Skargrim avoided the sweep of Sigurd’s big battleaxe.

A sudden bellowing roar echoed through the southern gateway. The raiders’ rearguard rushed into town, not looking forward but over their shoulders.

And Skargrim saw fear on Sigurd Aegisson’s face for the first time.

*

‘We have to run. There’s too many of them,’ Audun said. Standing on the south-east corner of the wall they could see the warriors closing in on the longhouse from all sides, weaving through Stenvik, moving between houses, chasing the archers and spearmen. ‘We can’t win this fight, Ulfar.’

‘Wait.’

The roar echoed through the gateway and caused a commotion in the market square. Sigurd’s line broke and retreated towards
the longhouse, but Skargrim’s men did not give chase and turn it into a rout. They were too busy getting out of the way.

A warrior walked into Stenvik.

His skin was blue and grey. The torn chain jerkin he wore was crusted with ice and blood. He wielded a sword in one hand and a big wooden shield in the other. Moving stiffly, he staggered towards the soldiers defending the longhouse.

Ulfar shook himself, blinked and looked at the fighter. At the air around him. He looked away, towards the pier. Then he turned to Audun. ‘Come with me.’ And with that Ulfar vaulted up onto the raiders’ platform, heading down.

*

‘Run, you bastards!’ Sven shouted.

Sigurd’s men did not need to be told twice.

When that … thing had emerged from the gate even the most hardened of warriors had stepped back. Now the men regrouped in a tight circle around the longhouse as Thorvald’s archers climbed up onto the roof. So far everything was going as they’d expected.

Apart from this, whatever it was.

It looked only marginally human. The eyes glowed icy blue, the hair hung limp on the skull. Purplish-green bruises, cracked skin … it looked like a corpse left outside in winter. It moved like one, too. However there was no mistaking its intentions. Bellowing again, it staggered towards the longhouse. Skargrim’s men followed at a safe distance.

Behind Sven bowstrings sang and arrows flew towards the abomination, burying themselves in its body, neck and arms.

It didn’t notice.

Warriors emerged at a safe distance behind the creature. Some
came down the roads from the gates, others from between huts and houses.

The longhouse in the centre of Stenvik was surrounded.

STENVIK, THE OLD TOWN

The sleek ship lay at anchor a few boat lengths off the pier. There was no guard in sight. ‘Whoever was here seems to have left in a hurry,’ Audun whispered.

Ulfar put a finger to his lips, and then bent down. He felt around by the ground until he found what he was seeking. ‘Come here,’ he whispered back. Audun knelt next to him. ‘Here – feel this.’ He moved the blacksmith’s big hand over … nothing.

‘Are you … well?’ Audun muttered, concerned. ‘Did you hit your head when—’ He stopped talking. Ulfar looked at him and nodded.

‘You feel it too. The air is colder just … here. Orn told me he’d seen something that suggested witchcraft, and I’m willing to bet that the source is on that ship.’

Audun frowned. ‘What do you mean by witchcraft?’

‘I don’t know,’ Ulfar said. ‘But I saw that thing coming into Stenvik and I don’t think they’ll stop it without our help. If you want to chop down a tree you don’t go for the branch – you go for the root. Are you with me?’

Audun looked at him, rose and moved towards the ship. Together they found the rowing boat. ‘Something smells a bit strange here,’ Audun offered.

‘That would be the last passenger, I guess,’ Ulfar replied. The stocky blacksmith shuddered and put his energy into rowing. They were at the ship’s side in moments, boarding easily. ‘Keep in mind that whatever is on this boat will be … evil …’ His voice trailed off when he saw her.

A woman stood by the mast.

Tall, blonde and exquisite, she was the very picture of beauty. There was a faint, shimmering silver light glowing around her. ‘Welcome, Audun Arinbjarnarson. Well met, Ulfar Thormodsson. I have been waiting for you.’ The stocky blacksmith and the tall young nobleman exchanged puzzled looks. The woman continued. ‘It was foretold that two mighty warriors would stand after Stenvik. The weave said one would be quick to think and swift on his feet, the other full of anger and the strength of many men. Together these warriors would defeat a mighty foe. So I chose five of the fastest and strongest Vikings I could find and went to war against King Olav. I thought two of them would fit the description, one way or another.’ She walked towards them, picking her way over the polished planks of the
Njordur’s Mercy
. ‘But Stenvik has proved more … stubborn than I’d expected. They’ve forced me to call on an Einherji – the souls of the dead come to fight in the body of a willing sacrifice. The brave men of Stenvik will try, but he cannot be slain by mortal hands. All souls released in battle will make him stronger. And now I will make you an offer.’

She smiled and looked them in the eyes. ‘Join us. Join Skargrim’s host, the warriors of Finnmark, the brave men of Trondheim. Stand with us and the Old Gods against King Olav. Stand … with me.’

Audun looked at Ulfar, then back at the woman. ‘That would mean that the men of Stenvik would be killed.’

‘Their souls would live on in Valhalla and drive on my Einherji against King Olav.’

‘What happens to the Einherji if you die?’

The woman paused, looked to the sky and seemed to listen for something. Then she turned her attention back to them. ‘The
threads say two warriors will walk away from Stenvik, and I cannot change that. But I can tell you this. If you slay a weaver you shall be cursed to walk the earth, men of war for evermore. You will never rest, never know the peace of death. You will live with pain.’ She took one more step towards them, smiling, hands held out in supplication, her voice soft and soothing.

‘
Strong, the living

Drawn to struggle

Weak men’s champions

Live in dying

Ever losing

Soul and spirit

Changers, movers

Starkad’s brothers
.’

She moved a step closer. ‘I have woven the thread of Skargrim. I have cut the thread of Egill Jotunn. I have spun the Einherji into the great web.’ Another step. She gazed at Ulfar and Audun. ‘What would you have me do with your threads?’ Close enough for them to smell, she reached out and touched the two fighters.

The ship swayed gently.

Audun reached for the leather thong that held his mallet to his belt. He loosened it, grabbed hold of the heavy iron hammer and hit Skuld in the head with all his might, just as Ulfar ran her through.

The body collapsed as life disappeared, withering before their eyes. At once the ship felt warmer. Ulfar was already making his way into the small boat.

Audun looked down on the dead woman, reached for her white shift and wiped the blood off the hammer with it. ‘I don’t know
about the boy,’ he added quietly, ‘but you’re a bit late to curse me, woman.’

STENVIK

Thorvald died quickly. Sven had seen him snap; seen the rage take over and banish the fear. He’d known the scout master was dead before he’d taken his first step towards the monster. Credit to him, he still moved well and fought like a mountain cat. He’d even landed a few blows with his axe as he rushed out, some of which would have crippled a normal man.

But the beast was not to be slain. Instead it seemed to grow stronger. Every move was faster than the next; every swipe more horrendous.

The fourth swing had connected and split Thorvald in two at the waist.

Blood had pumped out of the scout master, spattered the monster’s face, flowed freely towards the rest of the advancing force. The monstrous creation hadn’t even seemed to notice.

‘Blow the horn,’ Sigurd snarled.

‘We can’t! That beast will kill us all!’

‘If we’re going we’re going together. DO IT!’

Sven took a step back to comparative safety, reached into the folds of his tunic and pulled out a small horn. Putting it to his lips he blew three short, loud blasts followed by a long one.

The defenders started shouting and banging weapons on shields, making all the noise they possibly could. Some even took a couple of steps towards the encircling attackers, intent on making this a last stand.

A scream of pure pain cut through the din.

The blue-grey warrior dropped his weapon and shield. He
staggered to his left, then to his right, all the time wailing with the voice of a hundred dying men. Then the light went out of his eyes and he toppled over, hitting the stones with a crash.

The noise was such that no one noticed the people silently emerging behind the raiders. At the sound of the horn every resident of Stenvik that could still stand, the old and the young, the weak and the sick, those wounded in battle; anyone who could still wield a weapon had stepped out of the huts and houses at the edge of town. Led by Jorn of the Dales, they fell on the invaders from behind.

Beside Sven, Sigurd roared.

‘ATTACK!!’

The defenders charged, and Stenvik was no longer a town. It was a seething mass of blood, fury and death. Suddenly numbers did not work to the attackers’ advantage; the people of Stenvik knew their home inside and out and would come at the raiders from all angles, chipping away, fighting with reckless abandon.

Sigurd cleaved through seasoned, hardened fighters like wheat on a field. His axe seemed to move constantly, carving and cutting, slicing and slashing. Sven moved with him and covered his back.

Skargrim looked all around, trying desperately to make sense of the situation. Suddenly they were set upon from all angles. Those of his men that had been forced in between the houses for lack of room were disappearing in a rising wave of screams and clashing steel. On the other hand not many of the raiders of the
Westerdrake
seemed to be falling at all. He turned to Thora, grabbed her with both hands and brought her face to his. ‘Take care of him for me, Thora. Please. Make sure my son lives to avenge me.’ She stared blankly at him for a moment, awash with bloodlust. ‘Go.’ She blinked, nodded, turned and headed
towards the southern gate, weaving between the fighters. On the west side cries of ‘Thrainn is dead! Thrainn is dead!’ and ‘Jorn! Jorn of the Dales!’ went up, along with sounds of heated battle. In the square south of the longhouse Skargrim’s troops suddenly found that they were fighting on equal terms. The big, grizzled sea captain dispatched a pesky defender with a brutal downward blow. Retreat was not an option. They’d never get the ships under way.

Sigurd Aegisson stepped into the gap, axe in hand. He swung and connected with Skargrim’s shield, taking the top off it with the first stroke. Fighting to stay alive as the chieftain pressed the attack, Skargrim moved out of the deadly arc.

And then, suddenly, he understood.

He saw Hrafn, saw the mad raider cackling, thoroughly in the grip of battle frenzy, fighting three of Sigurd’s defenders. Two fighters charged at his men from the south gate; the stocky one wielded a hammer, the tall one a slim longsword. On the roof of the longhouse a scrawny boy was aiming and firing, killing with nearly every arrow.