Heroes of the Valley (10 page)

Halli tapped a foot upon the floor. 'Indeed.
I
am a Sveinsson.'

The old man stared. 'Surely not. I see no tail.'

'Tail or not, that is my House.'

'I assumed you were a boy from the high valleys, where life is hard and children are regularly born stunted.'

'Yes, it seems we were both in error in our assumptions,' Halli said briskly. 'Now, perhaps the soup is ready?'

The old man grunted. 'You mentioned wine, I believe?'

Soup was served, wine was poured, all in dour, resentful silence. Halli dunked dry bread in his soup and discovered it to be excellent; meanwhile the old man drew down from a roof beam a misshapen brown object of uncertain nature. This was the ham. He proceeded to hack at it for some minutes with a rusted hasp knife, without success.

Halli said: 'Your knife is blunt. I have a better one.' Reaching under his jerkin, he took his father's knife from his belt and with it sliced easy strips of meat. The old man's eyes widened to see the knife. He watched the blade's deft motions, his body tense with longing.

At last, as if emerging from a dream, he gave a cry. 'Stop, stop! That ham must last me months yet. Give it here.' He seized it and bundled it back up to its hiding place, all the time casting envious looks back at the knife balanced on Halli's knee.

Halli considered the old man's rags and the dingy, lonely hut around them. On sudden impulse he said, 'Look, if you want the knife, you can have it. As payment for the night, I mean, and for this fine soup.'

He handed it across carelessly; the old man took it in a trembling hand, his eyes round with disbelief, looking first to the knife, then at Halli, then to the knife again. 'Well now,' he said, 'that
is
good. And wine too!'

After that, and with the warming action of the wine, it was easier between them. They shared their names. The old man, Snorri, had no family or kin. The fields that ran between the road and the river were farmed by him, their beets traded to travellers passing. 'This boundary strip was fought over long ago by the Houses of Svein and Rurik,' he added. 'Murders and massacres took place here – you will see the burial mounds a half-mile further on – and both families committed atrocities, but no advantage was gained. In the end they agreed to leave the boundary waste. When I was a lad I wandered up here from Ketil's lands, found the fields empty and took them to my use.'

Halli frowned at him over his cup. 'Atrocities? By the
Sveinssons
? What nonsense is this? We are a noble, peaceful House.'

'Like I say, it was long ago.' Snorri scraped a strip of bread crust round his bowl. 'Perhaps your habits – and other attributes – have changed since then.' He squinted at Halli's rump. 'You
seem
to sit quite comfortably.'

'I
assure
you I have no tail. So you are quite alone here? Do you not feel lonely, without allegiance to a House?'

The old man grunted. 'I am vulnerable, yes, but I can look after myself. Not six days ago, for instance, I was nearly killed by three horsemen going at pace along the road. I had to throw myself aside to escape the flying hooves.'

Halli sat upright then. Firelight gleamed on his bared teeth. 'Ah, really? Tell me more.'

'What more is there to say? I turned a cartwheel, landed in the thistles and suffered a number of intimate abrasions, which I will not show anyone on such short acquaintance.'

Snorri drank his wine stiffly. 'Frankly I am surprised you ask.'

'I meant about the horsemen.'

'Oh, well, aside from the fact that they were two men and a youth and wore Hakonsson colours, I can tell you nothing.' The old man's eyes grew speculating. 'You seem unduly interested.'

Halli said blandly, 'I notice that you do not criticize the House of Hakon, as you did my House and the Rurikssons'. Perhaps you favour them?'

'Not at all. I took it for granted that as uplanders we both share the same opinion.'

Halli was still cautious. 'Which is . . . ?'

'That they are arrogant, insufferable and, on occasion, have been known to breed with fish. Now, if I may ask – what is your business with them?'

By now the wine flowed freely in Halli's veins and his warm weariness enfolded him like a cushioned bed. He saw no need for silence or evasion. Without further qualms he told Snorri his grievance and his purpose.

The old man's eyes bored into his. He nodded slowly. 'You speak much of honour and the justice of your cause, but in short you seek to kill the man who killed your uncle. Am I right?'

Halli shrugged. 'It must be done.'

'Why? Then you will be as bad as he is.'

'Not at all! He is a criminal and must pay for his deeds!'

'I imagine the men in the mounds along the road thought the exact same thing. Where are they now? Tangled in each other's bones. So where will you do this? What is your plan?'

'At Hakon's House, I suppose. As for a plan, I will improvise when I get there.'

'Interesting . . .' Snorri nodded sagely. 'I have a further comment to make.'

'Well?'

'You are an idiot. Have you any more wine?'

'No.' Halli was scowling now, struggling to his feet. 'If
that's
the way you feel, I shall impose upon you no longer! I will leave right now.'

'Oh hush, do you want to drown in the storm? Sit down. Sit
down
!' Snorri's eyes flashed. Halli stared back as long as he could, then slumped to the ground with ill grace. The old man chuckled hoarsely. 'Have you not
heard
of the size of Hakon's House, boy? They say its Trow walls still stand twenty feet high, bordered by a moat, deep and black. They have perhaps two hundred men within those walls, each one sturdy, strapping and considerably bigger than you. Make one aggressive step towards your enemy and you will be seized and dangled from their gallows so fast you would see yourself below you as you swing. You are no warrior to fight them all, and no clever assassin to act by stealth – I can vouch for that, as with one swill of wine you've blabbed your secrets out to me!' He thrust his bowl away and lay back on his mattress with a sigh of contentment. 'Take my advice: go back to your mother's skirts tomorrow. Time, I think, for sleep.'

Halli could barely speak for rage. At last he calmed himself.' Do you have spare straw?'

'Yes, out the back, in a side shed. You are going to fetch it? Take the bludgeon in the corner – it will fend off the smaller rats. Throw a stone to distract the big ones, and scarper with what you can. That's what I do.'

Halli slept on the bare earth floor.

A
MONG THE DREADFUL
beasts that Svein encountered in his youthful travels were: the Deepdale dragon, which darted from its cleft and swallowed its victims whole; the Old Trow of the Snag, sitting pot-bellied by its cauldron full of human meat; the carnivorous marsh imps of the Loops, which paddled about by night in little coracles made from children's skin. For variety's sake, Svein did not destroy them with his sword. He used a sharpened pine trunk to spear the dragon in its hole; he tricked the Old Trow into clambering into its own cauldron of boiling oil; he made a great fan of calf-hide and struck the imps' coracles with a sudden squall, so that they all capsized and drowned.

Next morning, Halli was stiff in back and sore in head. His leggings seemed to have new holes in the toes, as if something had nibbled them in the night. His mood was not improved by discovering that Snorri had removed the remnants of his bread from his pack and eaten them for breakfast.

The old man listened to Halli's protests equably. 'It was stale and dry and tasteless,' he said. 'If you had eaten it, you would have had a dismal meal. If you had kept it, it would only have weighed you down. Really, you should thank me. Well, the rain has passed. You will no doubt want to be on your way back to your House.'

Wordlessly, Halli laced his boots and put on his fleece. He pushed open the hovel door and went out into the sharp, pale light. White clouds hung low over the plateau, obscuring the mountains, and the air was fresh and wet. Rain could come again at any time. Coughing slightly, he hitched his pack higher on his shoulders.

'I do
not
return to Svein's House,' he said. 'I follow my quest down-valley, by way of the gorge and the cataracts. If you can tell me anything of that route, I will be grateful to hear it – any dangers a man might face, for instance?'

'Dangers . . .' Snorri sucked in his cheeks. 'Well, it is an isolated path, for certain. For many miles a traveller is quite alone. But as for dangers . . .'

'None, I take it?'

'Well, there are the rock-falls, frequent this season. Even a small boulder could carry you into the torrents. Then there is the proximity of the cairns. The wind rips up the gorge, carrying a traveller's scent straight up to the moors above the cliffs, so the Trows will clamour for you during the night. And don't forget the ghosts of the dead in the battle mounds beside the way. Do not let on to
them
that you are a Sveinsson, by word or deed! Then they will pursue you in your dreams – the Rurikssons because you are an enemy of their House, the Sveinssons since they have been denied proper cairn burial and will hold you accountable. Best not to fall asleep in the higher reaches of the gorge, that's my advice.'

Halli's face had grown a little slack. He looked with regret at his father's knife, now cradled securely in Snorri's belt. His foolish generosity had left him without a weapon of any kind, and there was nowhere to find one before he reached the gorge . . .

He took a deep breath. Calm down. Would
Svein
have jumped at an old man's babbling? No! Besides, what good would a knife have been against ghosts?

'I can cope with all that,' he said easily. 'How long is the descent?'

'As the crow flies, not far, but the road zigzags above the cataracts. It will take the best part of two days to reach the pleasant fields of Eirik's House.' The old man made a gesture of farewell. 'Good luck with your insane quest. And thank you for the knife. Now I shall lop my beets with gay abandon. It is a fine gift and I won't forget it. In the unlikely event that you return up-valley, I may do
you
a good turn one day.'

Halli smiled politely. Waving a cursory farewell, he splashed off down Snorri's path and onto the road. Before long the hut and its watching occupant were lost round the curve of the hill.

The road followed the plashing sound of the river ever downwards between dark fields hung about with mist and cloud. Halli made steady stumping progress, staring at the ground a few steps ahead, lost in introspection. Of course, it would not do to criticize the old fellow too harshly: his lonely life, without the bonds of friendship or allegiance that a House might give, had clearly warped his mind over long, hard years. Even so, his comments rankled. True, Halli did not have the
outward
appearance of a warrior, but his inner mettle was what counted, as Olaf Hakonsson would soon find out.

Before too long, by dour and gloomy effort, Halli had reinforced his sense of purpose and thoroughly discounted every last thing that Snorri said. He was therefore surprised to discover the truth of one of the old man's assertions as, through the mists beside the road, three long low mounds now came in sight. Two were set back in a field, one – smaller, shabbier, eroded at its margins by the wheels of carts upon the road – close by. Grass grew thickly upon it, lusher and darker than that around, as if its roots enjoyed rich soil. A crow of considerable size, with a single livid eye, perched at its top, inspecting Halli as he passed. Halli made a protective sign, cursing his gullibility even as he did so. This was a bird, no more, no less.

There was nothing to confirm Snorri's claim that Sveinsson bones lay here, and Halli considered the story dubious. He had heard nothing of the matter from Brodir, Katla or anyone else. But to find a burial site without a single cairn unnerved him. What a melancholy fate, to lie so far from the ridges and your fellow men! He could well imagine uneasy spirits drifting here among the long wet grasses when night fell on the valley . . . Even now, the mists seemed oddly active, as if strange forms—

Enough! Was he a fool, to be dismayed by figments? Pulling his hood close about his face, Halli hurried on along the road.

All morning the gradient steepened and the noise of the nearby river grew ever more eager, thrilled, insistent. The fields petered out and pine trees appeared, dotted here and there among scattered boulders and piles of scree. Halli knew that the lands of Svein and Rurik were left behind; he was drawing close to the gorge. Among the mists to the south he glimpsed steep slopes rising: this was where the upper valley narrowed almost to nothing. Above, lost in cloud somewhere, rose the Snag, its summit almost as tall as the ridges on either side. At its base, not far ahead, both river and road would fall suddenly away into the curling, precipitous gorge that led to the lower valley. When he stopped and listened, he could hear the booming of the falls.

Another noise sounded, this time behind him. Halli stiffened, listening hard. No doubt about it: hooves were approaching along the road – not fast, but quickly enough to overtake him before long.

Halli looked left and right: he saw boulders, brushwood, several pines. Without hesitation he sprang from the road, through the wet grasses, and secreted himself behind the nearest tree.

He waited. The sound of hooves grew louder. Perhaps it was his father, or someone else from Svein's House hunting him. Perhaps not. Best be cautious. Halli kept his eyes fixed on the road.

A knot of mist grew greyer, darker, then took expected form: a horse and rider.

Halli pressed himself against the trunk.

The horse's neck was lowered; it moved as if tired. The rider sat erect in the saddle, a bulky mass, cloak swathed tight about him, hood drawn up against the chill. His face was hidden, but Halli had already noted the horse's colouring – dark brown spots on a white coat – and knew that it did not come from Svein's House.

His first instinct was to let the stranger pass by, but then the loneliness of the place and the proximity of the haunted mounds returned to him. It would not hurt to have a companion for a time. It would make the gorge descent go quicker. What harm could it do, if he were cautious with his confidences? Certainly he would never again be as open as he had been with Snorri.

Halli stepped out from behind the tree and hailed the traveller, who pulled sharply on his reins. The horse halted and, without raising its head, immediately settled down to cropping the weeds growing through gaps in the flagstones. Traces of steam rose from its flank into the cool air. The rider pushed back his hood, revealing the face of a fat man, with a florid down-valley complexion and a short crop of sandy hair. He had no beard; his eyes were bright currants encased in swollen, doughy flesh. He wore an expression of mild concern.

'For an outlaw, you're on the small side,' he remarked. 'Where are the others?'

Halli looked about him. 'What others?'

'I thought it was customary when waylaying someone to surround them, or at least outnumber them three to one. This is a poor show.'

'I'm not ambushing you.'

'Really?
Are
you an outlaw at all?'

'No.'

'Then what were you doing behind the tree?'

Halli hesitated. He made an embarrassed gesture. 'Oh, you know—'

The fat man's mouth puckered. 'Caught short, eh? Needed a little solitude?'

'Why else would I hide?'

The currant eyes twinkled. 'Guilty conscience, perhaps? What's your name?'

Halli cleared his throat. 'I'm . . . Leif, son of a farmer on Gest's lands high up-valley. I'm going to Hakon's House to visit an uncle of mine. If you are heading that way I shall be glad to go with you for a while—' He broke off abruptly; the fat man was watching him with an amused, ironical expression he didn't much like. 'Or perhaps I would hold you up,' he went on, 'as I have no horse. Go on without me if you wish.'

'Oh, no,' the man said. 'I wouldn't
dream
of being so rude. In truth, this nag can scarcely trot these days' – he slapped the horse's withers roughly – 'so you will stroll beside us easily enough. Let's go on together and find somewhere dry for lunch.'

The party proceeded down the road, the fat man whistling a merry tune that set his jowls swaying. The old horse struggled on; Halli marched silently alongside. 'So, Leif,' the fat man said after a time, 'you are from Gest's House?'

He spoke casually, but Halli scented danger. 'Well, from one of its tenant farms.'

'Ah, I
thought
I did not see you when I was there last week. That would explain it. And you go to see a relative? At which House was it?'

'Hakon's.'

'Ah! You must tell me the fellow's name. I travel widely, and have been there often. My name is Bjorn,' the man went on, 'and trading is my business. I go to and fro between the Houses, and roam the valley generally. What do I do? I buy, barter, exchange and sell most things that women need. It is women' – he swayed sideways out of the saddle and winked at Halli, so that one eye disappeared into a fold of flesh – 'women who are my best clients, eager to buy what they don't need. At a recent Gathering at Svein's House, I sold a dozen antique hairgrips to the Arbiter's vain daughter, and in return received an exquisite little tapestry that will bring me much gold down-valley. The joke is that each one of those hairgrips was carved a month back by a simpleton, and given to me in exchange for bread!' His laughter was a drawn-out wheeze; his shuddering sent quivers running through the bent back of the horse and made the panniers slung behind his thighs clank and jingle.

Halli, who by now thoroughly wished he had remained behind the tree, made an appreciative grunt and stepped aside, ostensibly to give the horse more space to negotiate the road. The terrain was difficult now, the way steep and covered with loose stones. The river, fleetingly visible to the north, rushed frothing over a series of little falls; the air was cold and wet with spray. Rising high on either side of them, massed ranks of pine trees perched on terraces of rock and scree, forming a dark and sombre skirt to the cliffs above. Here and there was evidence of vast rocks that had fallen from the height, splitting trees and gouging scars in the tumbled waste.

'A cheerful spot,' Bjorn called. 'Let us eat before we enter the gorge and it becomes more dismal still.'

They halted beside a great split boulder and shared a meal. Bjorn the trader contributed portions of smoked fish and cheese, and Halli supplied a little bacon. They each drank wine and water. The noise of the cataracts was very loud now and it was difficult to talk. Each sat staring out into the pines and mist, lost in his own thoughts.

During the halt a small incident occurred. While reaching over for his water flask, Halli's jerkin, which he had half unbuttoned, fell suddenly open, briefly exposing a portion of the hero's belt, still fastened across his chest. A flash of silver, a hasty fumble: Halli closed the jerkin, and buttoned it up tight. Glancing quickly across at his companion, he noticed Bjorn the trader's little black eyes fixed upon him with sudden concentration. At that moment, down among the pines, a crow cawed harshly – the sound made Halli's head jerk round. When he looked back, Bjorn's expression was placid once more; he seemed intent upon his bacon.

That afternoon they began their descent into the gorge. The cliffs closed in; pine trees pressed close about the road. The air grew cold, the light dim. They zigzagged precipitously down between walls of deep blue shadow, shrouded in hanging mist, a place of moss and water, numb with the crashing of the falls. The river was never far away, hurtling down beside them, first to the left, then the right, rushing beneath their feet under old stone bridges, roaring and foaming and dousing them with spray.