Blood Will Follow (7 page)

“It’s what I keep telling them,” Gestumblindi said. His hands appeared to function with a will of their own. He turned the spit, sliced off meat onto a bit of cloth next to Geraz, and went back to the hares, working for every last scrap on the blackening bones. Ulfar noted that the dog didn’t consider going for the food, even though it was within reach. “A man is only as strong as the water he can get. So if you are besieging a town, go straight for their water supply.”

The burned meat suddenly tasted of ash.

They’d walked for four days to get away from the stench of the big pyre outside Stenvik; it had been in their clothes, in their hair, in their noses. Human fat dripping on the flames burned with an acrid, sour smoke; the delicious smell of roast meat sat alongside the knowledge that it was from the bodies of fallen comrades.

Ulfar drank more water, but the taste of that bitter smoke was still in his mouth.

A howl broke the silence, the sound of something from the darkest recesses of the human mind, the tearing cry of nightmares. The hairs on Ulfar’s arms stood on end, but Gestumblindi and Geraz looked completely unfazed. “Did you—?”

“That’s Frec,” the old man said. “He likes the moon.” At his feet, the big white hound worried at a bone. It looked almost comically small in his huge jaws.

“Right,” Ulfar said. He leaned back and watched night chase day across the sky. “Do you want me to take the first watch?”

Gestumblindi chuckled. “That won’t be necessary. Anyone and anything that heard the same thing you just did will have the sense to stay away. Nothing can touch us here. Now sleep, Ulfar Thormodsson.”

The heat of the fire, the meat in his belly, and the stars overhead drained Ulfar, and he fell into a deep sleep.

Gestumblindi turned slowly toward the sleeping form. Geraz cocked his head and looked at his master, who nodded once. The big white dog stood and sniffed the air.

A gray wolfhound padded into the circle of firelight. It walked straight up to the old man, nudged its head at his thigh, and moved over to Geraz. They stood to attention, eyes trained on Gestumblindi.

“You’re trouble. Both of you,” the old man muttered. “But we’ll see what’s what.” He reached for his satchel, grimaced, and clutched his ribs. “Really didn’t need to take that much of a beating,” he grumbled. “Let’s see if this one can do with less convincing.” Rooting around, he found what he was looking for. “There we are,” he said as his hand came out of the satchel holding a small vial. “Seems a waste . . . but the belt was always for the smith.” Gestumblindi winced again as he reached for the silver flask, tipped the contents of the vial into it and sealed it again. When he rose, he looked older. “Right. Let’s go.”

The dogs fell in line as the old man walked away, leaning on his staff.

The moon shone on him, but he cast no shadow.

STENVIK,
WEST
NORWAY

OCTOBER,
AD
996

The chime of blacksmiths’ hammers on blades rang out across town as weapons were prepared, chain jerkins repaired, and shields reinforced; raw voices of chieftains exploded in counterpoint, barking out orders. New Town’s square was full of people as Stenvik woke up to its purpose.

Just off the main south road, Jorn stepped closer to Runar. “Have you spoken to them?” he hissed.

“Y-yes. Botolf and Skeggi are in,” Runar replied. “I am heading d-down to meet them and tell them who to p-p-put on the boat.”

“Good. We’ll make sure . . .” Jorn’s voice trailed off.

“W-what?”

Jorn didn’t reply but stared at something over Runar’s shoulder. The archer turned to look. A group of Finn’s men were running away from the square and into the northern part of town. “Th-that doesn’t look—”

“No. It doesn’t, does it?” Jorn said. “Are they running toward—?”

“Yes.”

“Right. We won’t learn anything standing here. You head down to Old Town. Keep an eye on things, count the horses, divide stores, and make sure we get it right. I’ll go and find out what’s happened.”

Runar was already moving.

“And you’re sure about this?” King Olav said. Since he received the news, he’d been walking aimlessly around the longhouse, as if he couldn’t bear the thought of stillness.

“Quite sure, your Majesty,” Valgard replied. Beside him, Finn watched the young king pace. His eyes were sleepy, the smell of the mixture heavy on his breath. Unlike Harald, the burly soldier turned sleepy, even gentle, when the herbs kicked in. The ghost of a smile passed across Valgard’s face. He’d still prove useful, if played right.

King Olav stopped in front of the fractured cross, looking at it as if he’d only just noticed it.

“How . . . how will this play?” he finally said.

“With regard to the deaths, there will be anger,” Valgard replied. He’d thought about how to reply to such a question, and the words rolled off his tongue with ease. “There will be men of the Westerdrake who’ll assume that you had them killed—”

“Which I did not.”

“Which you certainly did not. You gave no such order.”

“Exactly.”

The chance was there. “Regardless of how convenient it is for you.” He watched the king stiffen in front of the cross, but he said nothing. If anything, King Olav appeared to slump a little. “However, I have been taking care of them. So if it is to your Majesty’s taste—”

“Nothing here is to my taste.” The king’s voice was cold.

“I could . . . I could tell the men about the wounds Sven and Sigurd suffered earlier, fighting the raiders. And how they got battle fever, and there was nothing I could do for them.”

Silence. King Olav was still staring at the cross, craning his neck to take it all in.
Like a boy seeking his father’s eyes
, Valgard thought.

“Do that,” the king said. He did not look at them. “We still sail tomorrow.”

“The men will expect full chieftain’s treatment, your Majesty: a burial to befit Sigurd’s standing. They’ll want a ship,” Valgard offered.

“Sigurd Aegisson does
not
get a fucking ship!” The king spun around and glared at them. His face was flushed with anger. “They had the . . . the
insolence
to die now, when they were not supposed to, and they do not get a ship. No ship. You can have what you asked for
with that other thing, but I will not give those two a heathen burial. No chance. Then they win.”

Valgard said, “It would be wrong.”

“Heathen,” Finn added. “Against the word of the Lord. No matter what the men may think.”

Taking his time to make it look like he was thinking, eventually Valgard said, “Might I suggest . . . ?”

The cordon around Sigurd and Sven’s hut was three men deep. They all looked the same—big, broad, and dully determined. None of them appeared inclined to move for or even acknowledge Jorn. He’d suggested bargaining, he’d tried veiled warnings, and he was about to escalate to very direct threats when the men suddenly stepped aside.

“Thank you,” Jorn muttered and reached for the bar.

“Hold it,” Finn’s voice barked. “You wait for your king.”

Jorn rolled his eyes before he turned and stepped away from the door. “Of course. Your Majesty,” he said as he bowed his head. The three of them—Olav, Finn, and that slimy healer—looked oddly worried, which made little sense—they should have been at least content, if not singing in the street. This solved a lot of problems for the king and should strengthen his hold on Stenvik, but they still looked like they had a lot on their minds. Before Jorn could put a finger on what was bothering him about the scene, Finn barged past him and wrenched open the door. Valgard entered second and immediately went to the two bodies lying inside the hut, kneeling down to feel their throats.

Behind him, King Olav entered the hut.

“Dead. Cold, no pulse, no breath,” Valgard said.

“Fine. Bring them to your hut, Valgard. Take Finn—prepare them for sea and fire. Quickly. They will meet their gods tonight.” King Olav turned to face him. “Is my army prepared, Jorn?”

“Almost, my Lord.”

“Get to it,” the king snapped. “We sail tomorrow morning.”

He only just managed to step out of King Olav’s way as the king stormed from the hut. The king’s fury was a tangible thing.

Runar weaved his way between skeletal huts and burned-down houses toward the harbor. The biggest ships had been moored at the docks, but to each side of the wooden structures beached boats were being inspected, repaired, and even loaded. Experienced men helped the less proficient, barked on by veterans, who in turn answered to their chieftains.

He found a vantage point just at the edge of the half-moon that had served as quayside and town square in the Old Town. A constant line of men carried supplies to the square in preparation for tomorrow morning. There were sacks of dried beef and barrels of drinking water—and large bundles of throwing spears, lest he forget the purpose of King Olav’s “delegation.” A group of men carrying firewood and kindling moved to the edge on the other side of the square and started stacking it haphazardly. In the oddly coordinated chaos of the harbor, the impossibility of mobilizing an army struck Runar. How did it ever work? So many men working toward a common goal. The fact that there had been only four fights so far among the thousand men at work was nothing short of remarkable.

A slim, scarred man sidled up to him, apparently out of nowhere. “Tomorrow,” he said.

“Botolf.” Runar said. “Well met. Are you r-ready for tomorrow?”

“We are.”

“On the boat, we want—”

“I know what you want. But we haven’t talked about—”

“R-r-reward?” Runar said.

“Correct,” the slim man replied. There was a glint of greed in his eyes as he brushed thin strands of black hair from his face. “And the Prince of the Dales is ready to promise, is he?”

He might be the ruling lord of large parts of the southern coast and a powerful ally, but Botolf Ornsson thoroughly repulsed Runar.
“Y-you will b-b—” He fought back the fury, drew a deep breath, and looked Botolf straight in the eye. “You will be rewarded.”

The chieftain smiled and nodded. “I just wanted to make sure we’re clear on this. I know the Dalefolk well, cousins on my mother’s side, but I know my men better. And I’ve never seen anyone block a dagger with a favor.”

Runar smiled back. “Acts of faith are rewarded, Botolf.”

Botolf’s scars danced on his face as he smiled. For a moment, Runar thought he saw something in them, some kind of emotion, but it was gone in an instant. “Let’s hope so, Runar,” he said.

“B-b-battle nerves,” Runar muttered to himself as Botolf sauntered away without a care in the world. “Of c-course he’s concerned. After all, what we’re going to do . . .” Thinking about the moment made him smile. The moment when King Olav would realize that he was not among his imagined true believers after all. The moment when the king’s men would become Jorn’s men, take up pikes and swords, spear the king like a pig, slit his throat, and throw him overboard. The look on his face—

In the distance, he noted that Botolf had stopped by a house and appeared to be addressing someone out of sight within. Moments later Skeggi emerged, clasped Botolf’s arm in a warrior’s grip, and turned toward Runar’s vantage point.

Runar watched him approach. Where Botolf was all slinking menace and fox-like grace, Skeggi was the bull in the field. The likes of him were precisely why King Olav had done what he did—small kings who ruled with an iron fist and a generous helping of dimwitted cruelty. It was only animal cunning that had landed Skeggi on King Olav’s side. He’d been quicker than the others to see which way the wind was turning. Runar raised a hand to the warrior.

“Botolf tells me you’ve promised a reward,” he said the moment he was in earshot.

Runar bit back a response and forced a nodding smile. “Th-th-that is t-true,” he countered. “B-but we cannot go into detail right now.”

“Right,” Skeggi said. “Never know who’s listening, eh?”

“Right. Well observed,” Runar said and gave the big lump of a man a conspiratorial wink he suspected would largely go to waste. “W-we d-d-don’t need to say to Botolf, for example, that whoever takes c-care of getting one king out of the way can expect r-rewards from the n-next.”

Skeggi’s thick brow furrowed even further as he puzzled out the meaning of the words. When he finally arrived at the destination he wished to reach, his face lit up. “Right,” he rumbled and tapped his thrice-broken nose. “Tomorrow morning. What happens?”

“We will try to get lines going from the south gate,” Runar said, pointing, “and divide the men down to the east and west. You and Botolf will provide us with ten men each; they’ll board the king’s ship. It’s the one over there with the dragon’s head.”

“Mighty fine boat,” Skeggi said. “I’ll be on that one, too. Just to make sure everything goes right.”

Runar’s mind raced. “Is . . . are you sure? It would p-possibly be b-better if, um—”

The big man fixed him with a stare that was neither dull nor slow. Thick bands of muscle flexed under his shift. “I’m going on that boat. As is Botolf. You can’t ask us just for our men. I want to be there when it goes down—to see the look on his face.”

“Yes. Of course.”

“And you want to be up close for that sort of thing,” Skeggi added. “Otherwise, people will think you’re a coward.” A bushy eyebrow crept skyward. “Or an archer.” Runar’s cheeks burned. The look on the chieftain’s face said he’d noticed. “So I trust you’ll be there with us?”

“Of course,” Runar snapped. In his mind’s eye, he imagined putting three arrows through the big bully’s throat at a hundred paces, and his heart slowed down somewhat. “Wouldn’t m-miss it.”

Skeggi smiled, and Runar wished he hadn’t. “Very good. I like you, Squeak. You got it all figured out.” With that, the broad-shouldered chieftain turned and stalked away.

Runar exhaled. “F-fucking sh-sheep-rapist p-pot face,” he spat as he glared at Skeggi’s broad back. Next time he’d boot the prince
himself into negotiating with his dear subjects-to-be. Turning his mind to the logistics of arming and readying three thousand men, he idly wondered whether they had any chance of making a few more corpses drop overboard tomorrow.

“They’re ready,” Finn said.

Valgard looked at his handiwork and allowed himself to feel a little bit of pride. The two bodies on his floor looked just like Sigurd and Sven would have in full armor. Only by taking off the chain-mail jerkins would you see that both of the dead men’s necks had been snapped. “It still feels wrong, though,” the big man muttered.

“I know, Finn. I know. But you understand, just like King Olav did, that it has to be done. We do the Lord’s work, though, because we’re not giving in to our enemy. We’re not giving the old gods two powerful souls for the afterlife. We’re just giving them—and all the men—a bit of a . . . a show.”

Finn nodded. With his sloped shoulders and hung head, he looked like a sulky child. He walked over to where Sven and Sigurd lay. “And what do we do with them?”

“As King Olav said, remember?”

“Uhm,” Finn muttered. “Yes.”

Scale back further on the shadowroot
, Valgard reminded himself. Pliant but useful was the desired result, not sleepwalking idiot bear. He reached inside and found all the command he could muster. “Get me a cart, four blankets, and three horses. Now,” he snapped.

Finn appeared to come alive. His chest puffed out and his back straightened. His eyes were still glazed, but there was more soldier to him.

“Yes,” he said and bowed out of the hut.

Valgard turned to the two graybeards. They looked oddly peaceful on his muddy floor, like they were just in a deep sleep. “Right, you two,” Valgard said. “We’re nearly ready. I just have to fetch some things first. Don’t go anywhere.” He slipped out of the hut, smiling to himself.

Finn was already waiting outside with the cart and three placid horses when Valgard returned. “What’s in there?” the big soldier said, pointing to the large sack Valgard had slung over his back.