Blood Will Follow (15 page)

“Well met,” the king said. Sitting on the dais, in that ridiculous high seat, King Olav looked small, inconsequential, almost mortal.

“Your Majesty,” Valgard said, bowing down.

“Come on, Valgard,” King Olav said. “You brought me here, you saved the lives of countless of my men with your advice, and you delivered me Trondheim on a platter. I am in your debt.”

Valgard approached the dais. “Your Majesty is too kind.”

“I am not,” King Olav said. “Plenty of villagers in our wake can tell you that.”

“True,” Valgard said. “How is Hakon acting?”

“Exactly as you said he would,” King Olav said. “He has taken no better to giving up his place than anyone would, but treating him as a man of note and allowing him as much control as possible meant I could send him to the Dales, which shows that I trust him. Of course, Botolf goes with him.”

“For his protection.”

“Of course,” King Olav agreed. Both men smirked. “Now. Why are you here, Valgard?”

“I—” The words caught in his throat at first. “Do you remember, my King, our time in Stenvik?” King Olav raised an eyebrow. “Yes. Well . . . when I overheard Jorn and Runar talking and came to you, I asked . . . I asked for—”

“You asked for men.”

“Well—yes—cast-offs. Those you can spare.”

“I know. I gave you the girl and the bastards. Why?”

“I need more.”

The walls of Hakon’s hall appeared to be moving in, all of a sudden. Valgard became uncomfortably aware that the king was carrying his sword.

“Why?” The king’s voice was cold.

“Because a small group of well-trained people working alone and reporting only to me can see and hear things that your men cannot, go where your men cannot, and bring back information your men could never get close to. And that information saves lives—yours included.”

“So you want me to spare you fighters?”

“Not necessarily, no.”

King Olav’s eyebrow rose again.

“They must be able to take care of themselves, but I don’t need all of them to be like Finn.”

“Good,” King Olav said.

Something in the finality of the king’s tone worried Valgard, but he plowed on. “I have some people in mind; I have suggested something of the sort to a few of them. I thought we could go around saying we’re collecting taxes.”

King Olav looked at him for a long time. The silence was turning quite uncomfortable when the king finally spoke up. “Well. You have proven that you can be trusted. Take your people. Do what you think best. But you can’t have Finn.”

“I understand,” Valgard said quickly. “You will not live to regret this.”

“Make sure I won’t. Now go and find Finn and tell him to come see me.” The king waved him away, and Valgard walked to the door, heart hammering in his chest.

He’d got them. He’d really got them.

Now he just needed to decide on the best way to use them.

Most of the fighters who would walk again had already walked out of Valgard’s tent by now, so there was little to do. The girl had come to a day ago and cried since; the boy fussed over her, brought her broth, and held her when she needed to be held. The old woman had just shrugged; like Valgard, she’d seen worse.

Finn came striding down the street from Hakon’s hall. When he reached the tent, he had to pause to get his breath back.

“He’s—he’s—I’m going back.”

“What?” Valgard said.

“Stenvik. I’m going back to Stenvik. Me and a third of the men. Not enough provisions here; not enough men there.”

Valgard frowned. On the surface it was a moderately sensible decision—but it wasn’t his decision, and it wasn’t convenient for him. “Hm. Well, you’ll be a fine chieftain,” he said.

“Don’t make fun of me,” Finn said. The burly warrior looked almost frightened. “How am I to order men about? I am not a leader.”

“Oh, but you are, Finn. Just imagine . . .” Valgard drew a deep breath to still the laughter in his throat. When he’d found his serious voice, he tried again. “Just imagine that King Olav speaks to you: decide what needs to be done, say it to yourself in his voice, and then tell others.”

Finn stared mutely at him, but then like clouds from the sun, confusion lifted and he understood. “Thank you!” A bear-paw hand slammed down on Valgard’s shoulder, squeezing it. The large warrior beamed at him. “Thank you. You are a true friend. I will miss you.”

Valgard winced, expecting the snap of dry bone at any moment, but Finn eased off on the grip and started pacing. “I’ll have to make sure there are rotations and rations, put the south coast boys somewhere apart from the Dale boys, and—”

“You’ll do fine,” Valgard said between gritted teeth. “Now go and prepare. Be a leader. Be the best leader you can be—and remember the voice,” he added.

Finn grinned, hailed him, and strode off.

Valgard scowled at Finn’s back. Then he swiveled and walked into the tent, straight for the girl’s corner. “Up!” he snapped. The boy, who had been lost in thought while combing the girl’s hair, almost jumped out of his skin. “What are you doing?” The boy stammered and tried to start a sentence. “Shut up. Don’t speak unless you know some words, you witless annoyance. Go and fetch me herbs.”

“W-w-which herbs?”

“All of them,” Valgard snarled. “And don’t come back until you’ve got a bagful.”

“Eb-eb-but—”

“Go. Now.” The backs of Valgard’s eyes hurt. He wanted to hit something, bludgeon it, break something. The urge to cause pain was overwhelming him. There was a throbbing pressure in his brain. He just wanted to—

It came from behind. “Go easy on the boy, will you?” The smirk never left Botolf’s voice. “He’s probably been boning the girl when you’ve not been looking. Best be careful,” the lean man said to the petrified boy, who was frozen halfway between sitting and standing up. “Make sure she doesn’t tell, or King Olav might take his stick and—” The gesture left little to the imagination, and the boy’s face paled even more.

Valgard got control of his breathing and turned. “What can I help you with?”

“Nothing,” Botolf said. “Got something for you, though.”

“And what might that be?”

“You need to come with me. It’s in my hut.”

He’d seen his share of captives, but once his eyes had grown used to the dim light in the side room of Botolf’s house he wondered if
he’d ever seen one treated like this. The scrawny woman was unconscious, her head a matted tangle of hair and dirt.

“You’ve tied her ankles to her neck?”

“Had to,” Botolf said. “She took out two of Skeggi’s, bit the lip off one of mine, and head-butted one of Hargrim’s—broke his eye socket. If that bitch moves now, she’ll strangle herself.”

“And is that also why she is thrice gagged?”

“Not really; you’ll find out soon enough. But she knows something about the north.”

Valgard swallowed. “What do you mean? I don’t know what you mean.” The words tumbled out, and he cursed himself.

“Now now, Grass Man. There’s something up there and you’re planning to go looking for it.”

“How—?”

“Why else would you be in Trondheim? And have gone to such great trouble to get here?” When Valgard didn’t reply, he continued, “I won’t tell. I just want to know. I heard the stories about the woman on the ship. My mother was a Finn-witch, and if something is stirring up there I want to know. I want to be in on it. I won’t kill you in your sleep either, but you’ll need someone on your side who can fight.”

Valgard made a decision. It would be a long trip, with much food to prepare. Problems sometimes solved themselves. “Fine. Wake her up. Let’s hear what she has to say.”

Botolf approached the prone form with a measured caution that filled Valgard with unease. He’d not seen the knife-man scared of anything before, and while he didn’t look frightened, he was certainly . . . respectful.

Before he could reach down to touch the woman’s face, one of her eyes opened—then the other. She stared at Valgard but did not move. It occurred to him that she had woken up rather easily.

“Welcome back,” Botolf said. “I have brought a friend. Now—I’m going to loosen your gags, because we’re going to talk. Do you understand?”

The woman nodded, very carefully. Botolf reached behind her head and untied the gags. He moved as carefully as a dog-handler.

When the cloth was out of her mouth, she coughed. “Water,” she wheezed.

“Of course,” Botolf said, filling a leather cup from a flask in his belt. He knelt beside her and moved the cup toward her lips. Valgard expected her to bite his fingers off, but she didn’t. Instead she drank eagerly. When she’d finished the contents of the cup, she closed her eyes and appeared to relax. In the right light she’d have something of a harsh beauty about her, he thought. But then again, so did wolves.

She opened her eyes again.

“Well, aren’t you a pair of brave little cockless shit-eating teat-sucklers to have managed all by your twosome to tie up a little girl.” She smiled sweetly at them, and Valgard was again reminded of a wolf.

“Well met. I am Valgard,” he found himself blurting out. “And that’s Botolf.”

“Well, congratu-fucking-lations, Valgard. You know your name.”

“What’s yours?”

“I am Thora, and if you get me out of this spunk-dribbling town I can tell you everything you need to know about the north.”

BY
THE
NORTHWEST
COAST
OF
DENMARK

EARLY
NOVEMBER,
AD
996

The waves stroked the sides of the boat, slapping against the cutting oars. The sails snapped in the wind. Above and behind them the seagulls cawed, hovering over two longships.

No one spoke.

The men rowed with a will, as if the farther away they got, the more they would forget, as if staring at the back of the man in front of them would make the images in their heads go away.

Audun sat with his back up against the mast, shivering despite the heat in his veins. He was covered from the chest up with congealed blood, gray skull-sludge, vomit. He remembered the fight in frozen moments—strangers with bearded faces twisted in rage, teeth bared, wild eyes. The leap. The surprise on their faces as he landed among them. Screams and breaking bones. The taste of their fear, and the blood. The smell of the blood. He shivered and thought he would throw up again, but there was nothing left in his stomach by now. Audun wrapped the torn shift around himself and tried to huddle into as small a space as possible.

In the stern, Hrutur steered, silent but frowning, as the knarr plowed through the waves, cutting a path straight for the land of the Danes. The men stayed quiet, even when the pale-blue line on the horizon became a strip of sand and grass.

A grunt and a nudge, and Hrutur’s boatsman took the tiller. The captain turned his back to Audun, knelt, and started rummaging in packs by his feet. When he turned and rose, he was holding a small
travel sack. A hand-ax had somehow found its way to his belt. None of the rowers looked at him as he made his way to Audun’s spot by the mast.

The captain crouched by Audun, close enough to be heard over the wind. “Listen. We thank you for what you . . . did for us. But I think you’re trouble, and I won’t have any trouble on my boat. We’re setting you off just north of Skaer. There’s food, some coin, and a new tunic in the sack.”

Audun looked up at the weathered captain. “Thank you,” he mumbled.

A strange expression flitted across Hrutur’s face. Shame? Pity? “It isn’t much,” he muttered. “Just your oarsman’s pay. Go south off the beach; the village of Skaer is a day away. Road’s a couple of miles inland.” He rose, made his way quickly to the captain’s bench, and took the tiller from the boatsman. The knarr curved sharply, heading straight toward a sandy beach up ahead.

They landed smoothly, and still no one spoke. Audun struggled to stand, then somehow managed to turn and walk toward the bow. As he clambered over the edge, he heard muttered voices.

“—beast—”

“—monster—”

“—berserker—”

The freezing water shocked him out of his stupor, and he waded onto dry land as fast as he could manage. Behind him, feet hit the water and curses rang out, louder than ever, calling for a good push. Mothers were mentioned; insults flew.

Audun staggered away from the boat and up off the beach, sinking into the cold sand with every step. Yellowed tufts on the bank started linking up, and soon he was standing on dying autumn grass. Pulling off the bloodied tunic, he allowed the cold wind to bite at his skin for a while. More memories of the fight on the ship trickled back into his head: the pitching deck, the blades that nipped and scratched but somehow never hurt, the crunch of broken faces. He thought about how close he’d been to dying, and the phantom wound in his chest started itching again. He wanted
to scratch it, to keep scratching it until he could claw his heart out and throw it away.

The tunic was a serviceable homespun thing, a sailor’s undershirt, woven thin and tight. Audun pulled it on and shivered. The wool clung to his cold skin like a hide, and he felt ridiculous. Berserker? Dressing in the fur of the mighty bear to take its powers? Audun snorted. “Fear the monster! Fear the beast!” he said to no one in particular. Standing on the beach, on his own with the wind cooling his cold, wet skin, he felt decidedly unbeastly. He flexed his shoulders and cracked his neck. Whatever scrapes he’d picked up in the attack were already healing. What he needed now was somewhere to hide from trouble for a while.

The road stretched out before him, weaving across the plains. Far off in the distance, hills rose above the flatlands; to his left, yellow and reddish forests obscured the view.

He sighed and started walking.

JUTLAND,
NORTH
COAST
OF
DENMARK

EARLY
NOVEMBER,
AD
996

The plains ran on almost as far as the eye could see. He’d found the road soon enough, though it was not much to speak of. There was very little out here—he thought he’d seen a faint line of chimney smoke once, but it was so far away that he thought no more of it. The good thing about roads was that most of them led somewhere, he thought. There’d be something at the end of this one, too.

Then he saw the hound.

It was a blur of black and white and noise, bounding over the hill ahead of him. Within moments it came to a snarling stop six feet away, head down but eyes up, ears back, and hackles raised. Thinking quickly, Audun trained his eyes on the ground, only glancing at the big animal from the corner of his eye: this was the kind they kept to growl at wolves in the night and round up anything on legs in the day, good for snapping his shin in half if it felt like it.

Audun reached slowly into his sack and rooted around for the greasy chunk of meat Hrutur had given him. He teased off a strip and waved it. The dog leapt sideways across the road and barked louder. Audun crouched and held out his hand. “Come on, boy,” he said in soothing tones. “Here, boy.” The dog barked furiously at him, but Audun did not make eye contact; instead he kept his gaze on the ground and the hand holding the meat outstretched but drew it ever so slightly closer to his body.

The dog stopped leaping about and approached, still growling.

Audun pulled his hand in farther, muttering nonsense all the while in the same calming voice.

Still the dog drew closer, barking once again as if to emphasize that there had been an argument and that it had won.

Audun smiled and threw the chunk of meat over its head.

With improbable speed, the big dog leapt and caught the chunk in midair, but Audun was already up and walking past it. A couple of moments later the dog was on his heels, bounding and barking.

Audun ignored him for a couple of steps, then turned and addressed him. “Do you want some more?”

The dog barked louder, tongue flapping, tail twitching. Audun raised his hand, made sure it saw, and reached for the bag. “Sit,” he said. The dog paid no notice, so he withdrew his hand. The dog barked. Audun moved his hand toward the bag and tried again. “Sit!” he said. Now the dog stopped moving. “Sit,” Audun repeated, as authoritatively as he could. The dog barked once, loudly—and sat down. “Good boy!” Audun said and quickly tore more meat off the bone in his bag. The dog’s tail thumped as the hand came out, and it caught the flying chunk again.

Audun started walking in the direction the dog had come from.

Moments later, the dog came bounding after him, still barking at the world. Audun stood still and relaxed his hand by his side. When the big animal nudged him, Audun scratched the dog behind the ears. They fell into an easy stride, the dog loping along around and beside him.

The smoke lines were so thin that he smelled them before he saw them. Cresting a hill, he saw Skaer, thought back to Hrutur’s words, and couldn’t help but wonder what passed for a village these days. This was nothing but a smattering of houses with runty cook-fires and what looked from a distance to be a very crude pier set hardly a ship’s length into a naturally sheltered harbor.

The dog barked once more and took off at a dead run toward the houses.

“So much for company,” Audun muttered and scratched his arms. Still—they might have work. There was nothing for it but to go and find out.

SKAER,
JUTLAND

EARLY
NOVEMBER,
AD
996

“There is nothing for you here,” the man said, scratching his pockmarked chin. “I hardly make a living myself, so I don’t know what we’d do with another blacksmith.”

Audun looked around his pitiful excuse for a smithy and thought he could probably point out a couple of reasons why the man was struggling for work but decided against it. “I see. Do you have any suggestions?”

“Try Helga in Ovregard. She’s a widow, our Helga, and will need a hand, although she’ll deny it. Mind you, might want to hurry,” the man added with a smirk.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing,” the man said as his face contorted. Whatever he was trying to dislodge with his tongue popped loose and was swallowed. There was nothing more Audun could get from him on the subject, so he settled for provisions and instructions. The blacksmith took Audun’s coins, counted them and gave back a fire-steel, a leg of lamb, a small knife, and a hammer that belonged on the scrap heap. They both knew Audun was being fleeced, but that was the way it was. Back in Stenvik he would probably have called it
“traveler’s rates.” As a parting gift, the man had told him where to find Ovregard, although “south” wasn’t much to go on.

A good while later, before the sun had completely disappeared across the horizon to his right, Audun had found a copse that offered reasonable shelter from wind, rain, and unwanted visitors. He built a fire and sat down to eat his food.

He fell asleep in a new country, but with warm feet and a full belly. His last thought was of the morrow, when he would go and find this Helga and get hired as a farmhand. There was nothing out here for anyone. He’d be hard pressed to find any trouble.

“Will you look at that.” Johan sneered and reined in his horse. “This whole place is going to shit.” The heavyset farmer dismounted in one swift movement, strode up to the crooked fencepost, and gave it a vicious kick before his big, calloused hands reached for the sledgehammer that hung off the horse’s saddle.

“You will keep your hammer away from my fencepost, Johan Aagard!” The voice cracked like a whip in the cold morning air.

In one swift motion, the hammer swung from over the big man’s shoulder and came to rest by his feet. He leaned on it as if that had been exactly what he had always intended to do.

“Helga! The sun who rises in the morning!” he exclaimed. The owner of the voice reined in her horse a good twenty yards away from him and did not appear in the least affected by his charms. Thick, silver-streaked black hair was tied back from high cheekbones, narrowed eyes with crow’s feet, and a stubborn mouth. “Oh, don’t be like that, Helga,” Johan said, smiling hard. “I just saw that . . . thing, and I thought to give you a hand before it fell over and you lost a cow or something like that.” He was still smiling.

“Hoping that if you fixed my fencepost I might invite you to use your hammer on my bedpost?” the woman shot back.

“And why not? Your land is next to mine; we’re doing the same work twice as it is, and nobody’s warming my bed. What’s not to like?”

“You, for a start,” Helga snapped. “I had no need for you when my husband was alive, and I have no need for you now. So with all the neighborly love that I have to give to you—I’ll keep my land as is, I don’t mind the work, and you can go and fuck your own sheep if you’re cold.”

The smile stayed on Johan’s lips as he hefted his hammer and mounted his horse, but it had left his eyes a long time ago. “We’ll see, Helga. You’re a hard-hearted woman, but I’ll win you over yet.”

As he rode off, she exhaled. Her mare whinnied softly in protest, and she found she was squeezing the reins in a white-knuckled grip. She relaxed, and the animal snorted under her. “Forgive me, Streak. He’s just . . . he’s just such a . . . I don’t know what he’ll do.” Her features hardened. “But while his cock is still attached, the knife stays under my pillow.” She urged the mare into a gentle trot toward the fencepost and dismounted smoothly.

“Besides, I don’t need a man—” She knelt down by the base of the leaning post and fished out a small spike from somewhere in the folds of her tunic. She dug behind it, stabbing hard at the earth and rooting around, grunting with the effort. “To fix a post.” Satisfied, she stood up, leaned her shoulder on the top of the post, bent her knees, set her feet, and pushed. The fence groaned as the rails squeaked back into place. She held the post down and kicked and stamped at the earth around the base until it stood solid and didn’t rattle around.

“See? Hammer? What nonsense. Ground’s frozen—he’d’ve split the post. Although he could have hurt himself, so maybe I should have let him.” Helga mounted the horse and patted its neck. “Now, home with you, lazy old girl,” she cooed. The horse snorted once and turned around, following the fence.

She saw him from a mile away, and her stomach lurched. There was no mistaking the man in her yard, standing by her door. Her first instinct was to turn and flee; to head for Skaer or somewhere else. Breathing deeply, she muttered, “Can’t run, Helga. You can’t run.”