The Valhalla Saga 01 - Swords of Good Men (4 page)

‘I will, Harald. I will. Have I ever let you down?’

The big man snorted. Crammed into the little hut he looked ridiculously out of place. Like a bull, Valgard thought. Big, strong, clumsy, stupid and very dangerous. Especially when he wanted something.

And now Harald wanted his mixture.

‘Give me the bloody thing so I can go see Sigurd and give an account of the trip. They’re unloading the
Westerdrake
now but they’ll be done soon and I need to get back. Next time I want more. I ran out four days ago. I am not happy, Valgard.’

Valgard shivered. He had seen first-hand what happened when Harald was not happy, so he spoke quickly, forcing a note of brightness into his voice. ‘I understand, Harald. I do. I will make more for the next trip. Did you have much luck?’

Valgard handed over a small leather bottle.

‘Luck has nothing to do with it,’ the big captain spat as he grabbed the bottle. ‘Luck is for the weak. Luck has no place on a raid. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, of course.’ He brought it to his lips and tilted the flask carefully. A big drop of black, viscous liquid trickled out onto his tongue. Then another.

He lowered the bottle reluctantly and savoured the taste. Then he sighed.

‘That … is exactly what I needed. I will go to Sigurd and tell him of our victories and he will be pleased, I think.’ Harald rose and manoeuvred himself awkwardly out of the hut without sparing Valgard another word. A breeze with a hint of autumn colds to come was all he left as a token of his thanks.

When he was sure Harald had left, Valgard dropped the appearance of fearful respect and looked again at the ingredients on his workbench.

A smile spread slowly across his face.

VINGULMARK, EAST NORWAY

Torches set on pikes cast a flickering glow over the tiny settlement. A solid mass of armed men formed a silent ring of steel
and blades, two thousand strong. Inside the metal band, confused and shivering people were being roused from run-down huts.

It was a raw night. The kind of night that bit your skin and chilled your bone. If there was a moon somewhere, it was hiding behind thick banks of grey cloud.

A blood night, Finn thought.

A small shrine to the old gods had been erected in the middle of the place. It was a pitiful thing. Poorly carved statues teetered over stains from animal sacrifices and a faint smell of rotting food lingered in the air. Just like all the others so far. He detached himself from his regiment, strode into the centre of the ring, took up a position next to the shrine and turned towards the locals.

‘Who is your chieftain?’ he shouted.

None of them seemed eager to move, but eventually a council of sorts emerged. Five men shuffled reluctantly from the safety of the crowd and formed a line in front of the big bearded soldier. That would be the council, then. They looked miserable, Finn thought. They were ragged and scrawny, a mismatched family of starved dogs. Filthy rag-wearing mud rollers, the lot of them. But orders were orders, and his were to draw the leaders out and keep them there until the King would speak to them. Still, their chieftain seemed to have at least a little pride left in him. He straightened his back and squared his broad shoulders. With fire in his eyes he looked at Finn and took a step forward. ‘We have done nothing wrong.’

‘That will be for him to decide.’

‘Him who?’

Finn glanced at the man but did not answer. He looked strong. The way he puffed his chest and arched his back, Finn reckoned that’s what he wanted to look like. However, experience had
taught Finn the difference between strong men and fighters, and this man was a farmer, not a fighter. Furthermore he seemed angry, and angry farmers had no business being out on a blood night. No business at all.

Out of the corner of his eye he spied movement. Unlike the confused peasants, he did not need to turn and look. He knew very well what was happening.

To his side, the soldiers in the ring made way for a man on horseback.

Straight blond hair framed a handsome, clean-shaven face. The rings in his mail shirt gleamed in the firelight and the silver embroidery on the cloak slung around his shoulders seemed to come to life, flowing up and down his arms and back. A simple metal band sat in place of a crown.

King Olav Tryggvason rode slowly into the centre of the settlement, past the men and the women, the young and the old, towards Finn and the pathetic village council.

As instructed, Finn had made them stand next to the shrine. When the King saw it, he pulled the reins on his horse and stopped. Dismounting swiftly, he walked around the shrine, inspecting the crude idols of Odin, Thor and Freya in turn. Finn watched as he bowed his head and clutched his hand to his chest, thumbing that strange necklace of his, the cross that looked like a Thor’s Hammer but without the head.

As Finn and the farmer watched, he turned and looked at them.

His features betrayed no emotion.

He walked slowly over to the man who had claimed to be the leader of the settlement. When he was close enough he fixed him with a cold look.

‘Who is your god?’

The man seemed confused at this.

‘Our god? What do you mean?’ He looked at the King for explanation. None was forthcoming. Looking at the idols, light dawned. ‘Oh. I understand. We sacrifice to Odin for the battle, Thor for crops and Freya for fertility, just like everybody else.’

King Olav looked straight at the leader. ‘For this you will give me twenty of your strongest men.’ The chieftain’s eyes opened wide, and he moved to protest. King Olav silenced him. ‘Choose them now. If you object, I take thirty.’

The farmer tensed his shoulders and took a step forward, poised and ready to strike. An almost imperceptible gesture from the King stopped him in his tracks.

Finn watched the fighting spirit in the man’s eyes fade from a burning fire to a flickering candle flame. After a brief while he turned towards the crowd and began shouting names. The King’s new men emerged reluctantly from the crowd.

‘You are my soldiers now,’ King Olav proclaimed over the shuffling group and motioned for them to leave. The soldiers stepped aside again, allowing the twenty recruits to leave the settlement.

Their friends, families and lovers watched them depart.

Olav waited until the recruits had left and the circle had closed. ‘I will deal with them according to their conduct, and by their own standards I will judge them. Then they will know that I am the Lord,’ he said softly to himself, and moved towards his mount.

‘This is not right,’ the village leader blurted, taking another step towards the king. His face was flushed. ‘You cannot take the men away from us to fight for you. For what? For sacrificing to the gods? Who’s going to defend us? Who’s going to harvest? We will starve! We will … we …’ the chieftain’s words faltered as Olav turned back towards him, looking him in the eye. Finn watched the man wilt under the King’s steely gaze.

‘Are you the leader of these people?’ Olav asked quietly.

‘Y-yes.’ The man looked around, but found little support. ‘Yes, I am.’

‘Are you the man they have turned to in their hour of need?’ the King continued, tension building in his voice.

‘I … yes.’

‘Have you taken responsibility for their lives? Their eternal lives? And have you led them in worship of’ – the King drew a breath and composed himself – ‘these gods?’ He gestured towards the shrine.

‘Yes.’

King Olav Tryggvason looked at the man standing before him and seemed to come to a decision.

‘Do you have any sons?’ he asked.

‘No. Not yet,’ the man replied.

‘Good.’

In a flash the King drew his sword and cut through the village leader’s throat with one forceful swing.

With eyes wide open and blood gushing from his throat the farmer collapsed onto the ground. King Olav had already moved on to the man next to the dying leader and fixed him with a level gaze, and now he spoke in calm, reassuring tones. ‘You are the chieftain of Vingulmark. This settlement will renounce its heathen ways. You will be responsible for removing the totems. You will not make sacrifices to the old gods. You will answer to me, and I will be your king. In time, I will send holy men to see how you fare, collect my due and teach you about the White Christ.’

The newly appointed leader looked from Olav’s face to the blood dripping off the point of his sword, and from there down to the dead man at his feet. Then he nodded, eyes wide with fear.

King Olav turned and looked at the assembled peasants.

Gaunt faces with hungry eyes stared back at him.

Instinctively, he made the sign of the cross over his chest and turned to Finn.

‘We leave now. Gather the men.’

‘Do we take supplies, my lord?’

Olav paused for a second and cast a sideways glance at Finn. Then he looked again at the forlorn group of peasants, staring at their dead leader.

‘There is nothing more here for me.’ He shook his head almost imperceptibly, mounted up and guided his horse to a slow walk out of the settlement.

AT SEA

Four oars sliced into the velvet ocean, making almost no sound. A small boat skimmed across the water, heading for the darkened mass of shore. Away from the rowers, two figures huddled in shadows in the bow.

‘It is a good night,’ a sibilant voice whispered. ‘She will be pleased that we are fulfilling the will of the gods. The signs are favourable.’

‘And so they will remain if you shut your mouth,’ another voice replied. The oars kept up their silent work as the boat moved on towards its destination.

STENVIK

Geiri leaned against a support beam in the corner, eyes closed, arms crossed. One hand rubbed and pinched at his brow. Without opening his eyes, he spoke.

‘Let me see if I understand this.’

‘Please. I know. I’m sorry. I said already.’

‘No. No, I want to understand.’

Ulfar paced back and forth restlessly in the cramped hut. ‘I don’t—’

Geiri cut in. ‘Two years. From the south of Svealand to Holmsgard, from Hedeby to bloody Aldeigjuborg and halfway to Smolensk and back. And we have only one town to see before we can go home, when your debt of honour will be repaid and we can inherit what our fathers have built. Only one town.’

‘Geiri, I—’

‘One town. With one provincial chieftain that we need to see and impress once, so he’ll continue trading with our fathers and then with us. One stinking town. And you go and get your head all wrong over a
girl
.’ Ulfar winced but Geiri didn’t notice. ‘Leaving your brain in your pants and your tongue on the pier. Leaving me to make some half-cooked introductions which I made a mess of—’ Geiri took a deep breath, scowled and tried to control his temper. ‘Your head wasn’t there, cousin. Your mind was down on
that pier. Because of a girl. A girl. You know, I stopped counting a year ago, Ulfar. Every port. Every market. Twice, sometimes three times. Sisters at one point. You’d have had them on the ships if you could. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a school of seal-women trailing us coming here. And then you let me down like that over one stupid cow.’

One moment Ulfar was standing a few feet away, the next he’d thrown a jab directly at Geiri’s jaw.

He stormed out as his friend crumpled to the floor and stalked down the wooden walkway stringing together an impressive list of colourful curses. Fresh, cold autumn air and morning drizzle did little to improve his mood.

It had been inevitable, though. Geiri had not spoken to him all of yesterday after the disastrous meeting with the old man, and the tension had been building between them. He could understand that his friend would be a little annoyed, but he took it too far by a ship’s length. It was one town. One town! Who cared? Ulfar kicked at a stone and missed. Those greybeards would not have had any time for pleasantries or trade talk anyway. Besides, he doubted that even his best performance would have swayed that particular chieftain. From the looks of it the only thing that would have impressed him in the least would have been walking in holding the man-sized jaws of the Worm of Midgard, and even then he’d probably ask what you’d planned for the rest of the day.

That being said, Geiri was right. It had been an absolute disaster. They’d looked like foolish boys. Geiri had simply not been prepared to speak for them yesterday, and he himself had been in no mood.

That woman. Girl. Woman.

Thinking of her made him shiver.

He had moved in, brimming with confidence, opened his mouth to speak, looked in her eyes and simply lost himself.

She’d seen right through him. At least it had felt that way. He had tried to turn up the charm, but inside he’d felt increasingly naked and vulnerable. She’d undressed and disarmed him, without so much as a word.

Those eyes.

Even thinking about her felt strange. His scalp tingled, his eyes felt blurry and his heart beat faster. What was this? Witchcraft?

Ulfar ambled between huts, trying to walk the annoyance off. His feet took him through the south gateway and into the market square of the new town. The people of Stenvik were out and about, most of them seeming intent on getting in his way. He noticed the blond blacksmith they’d seen in the longhouse on the first night. This time he was wearing a leather apron and carrying firewood into a smithy. Ulfar found himself moving away from the vendors, north towards the centre and the longhouse where they’d had that disastrous meeting yesterday. Maybe he could walk across town and away from this strange feeling. Shake it loose. Go back down to the seaside, or out through one of the smaller side gates. Into the forest to the north. Maybe he could loiter at the market, see if the merchants had something to distract him.