Heroes of the Valley (13 page)

Halli paused beside a Trow shy and watched the porch. Beside him boys and girls stood hurling pebbles towards a set of slender poles, on each of which was balanced a turnip, painted with a black, leering, many-fanged face. A girl's stone hit directly: a head went flying amid a chorus of cheers.

Still the porch was quiet. No one passed in or out.

Halli darted forward. As he did so, two servant women bustled out, faces red and sweating, and hurried away down the side of the hall. Halli, who had veered off and taken up a attitude of extreme attention at a sweetmeat booth, wheeled round, took a swift look all about and strode purposefully, unhurriedly, in through the porch door.

Darkness, shadows, a pleasant mustiness: an immense storeroom filled with boxes, barrels and sacks of grain. From ceiling hooks hung onions, chard, herbs and carrot bunches; smoked meats in long rows vanishing into the gloom. Halli took a deep breath – the room was almost the size of Svein's own hall – and hurried along the main aisle towards a distant flight of steps.

Footsteps. Halli crouched and skittered sideways like a crab behind a pile of flour sacks. He ducked his head low between his knees and held his breath.

A few feet from him the two servant women passed; he heard the rustle of their kirtles, the whisper of their breathing.

All was still; Halli straightened, shouldered his pack and stole silently along the aisle.

The steps were whitewashed, broad and worn; the light of day shone down on them. Halli peered up; he glimpsed soaring roof beams, the haze of vast space. Pressing close against the wall, he climbed swiftly, fearing at any moment to meet someone hurrying down.

With each step more of Hakon's hall was revealed to him. Roof beams became joined to slender arches, which sat upon great columns. Between the columns shone brilliant panels of light – slender windows through which the autumn sun blazed fiercely. Now the walls beneath the windows came into view: they were hung with stags' antlers and the skulls of beasts; fan-arrays of ancient spears; an endless row of black-stained braziers; tapestries and scarlet flags.

Halli's head broke level with the hall floor. He saw great rows of tables stretching away left and right; a central roasting pit, with an ox already spitted; servants on all sides, setting cups and knives upon the tables, bringing plates from somewhere out of view.

No one looked his way. Without hesitation, he scrambled up the last two steps and, bent double, scurried to the nearest table. Under it he went, amongst the trestle legs and rushes, and crouched still.

Time passed. Servants bustled, bringing supplies up from the stores. Men climbed into the roasting pit and turned the ox upon its spit. A bell rang, perhaps within the kitchens, perhaps a call to lunch. One by one the servants flitted from the hall.

A small dark shape emerged from beneath the table, stood quiet, hunched like a hunting wolf. It looked to the left: saw the great hall doors standing closed – from beyond came the hubbub of the crowds. To the right, at the far end of the hall, a steep, straight staircase ran up beneath the windows to an upper balcony. There were doors leading from the balcony – two doors, maybe three. Below, behind the raised dais and the Law Seats, Halli saw other arches, some curtained, others bare and empty.

A fire burned strongly in an open hearth halfway along the hall. The tables were laid now, ready for the evening feast. The smell of roast meat filled the air.

So, where would Olaf be?

Halli's head tilted. He stared towards the balcony.

Up there.

His hand reached out to the table beside him and picked up a long thin carving knife. He walked between the tables towards the stairs.

Somewhere behind, a rattling, a sudden flare of noise from outside the hall. The great doors had opened. Halli cursed, ducked away, pressed himself behind a column. He heard Hord's voice then, loud, imperious; boots echoing on the flagstones.

'I don't care!' Hord said. 'Go see your uncle first and get him anything he wants.
Then
eat. You can stuff yourself stupid later anyhow.'

The boots passed by; Halli peered out, saw Hord striding away towards the drapes behind the dais. Up the staircase went Ragnar Hakonsson, blond, pale-faced and sour of expression. Halli saw him reach the balcony, open a door and disappear inside.

From a distance he heard Hord shouting, and resulting sounds of high activity. Halli guessed the servants would soon be back. His eyes darted around, looking for a hiding place: there, close by his column, he saw a group of kegs and barrels, some upturned, others on their sides. All were empty; their contents transferred to kitchen or table. Could he . . . ?

He heard hurrying from the passages.

A jump, a wriggle; Halli was gone. A large barrel in the centre of the group rocked gently and was still. Its lid, which had been resting on the top of an adjoining cask, made a surreptitious jerking movement sideways, and at last fell into place.

Twenty servants scampered into the hall. Preparations for the feast went on.

* * *

Afternoon became evening; evening became night. The hall was filled with revellers. Hakon's name was cheered to the rooftops, men drank to Hord, his wife and son, his brother Olaf, and the greatness of the House. From a barrel in a corner of the hall gentle snoring noises sounded. No one heard, no one came near. The feast came to its end.

The men of Hakon's House departed, some to their rooms within the hall, others dispersing to the streets and countryside beyond. Down at the Trow wall a horn was blown and the House gates shut. The doors to the hall swung to; an elderly retainer drew its bolts. Others threw dirt on the hearthfire, dampening it down to a low red flicker. The last of the servants retired to their cots.

The hall was filled with shadows. The torches on the walls had dwindled and the light was a low, churning mix of orange and red.

Hord and Ragnar Hakonsson sat together at the central table, amid the debris of the feast.

Despite many hours' vigorous consumption, Hord appeared no different than he had that morning, save for a slight redness in the eyes. He cradled a wine cup in his hand and stared long at his son. On Ragnar the cares of the festival hung heavier; in the hall's light his face gleamed white as a mutton bone.

For the first time in many hours the barrel lid moved. It tilted. Two eyes blinked out impatiently.

Halli was growing cramped.

He had slept long and soundly, for the barrel was warmer than the bushes of his travels. But now, on waking, he was conscious of many creeping aches, and of pins and needles in his extremities. He wished to move, to shift inside the barrel, but he feared what the noise might do.

Ragnar was saying, 'I do not think she wants me, Father.'

Hord snorted like a bull. 'Did your mother want to marry me? Our fathers made an agreement at a single meeting; next thing she knew my beard was tickling her face. Did she truly wish it? Who can say? She got on with it, as women do, and became a fine and devious Lawgiver. Do not be a milksop, boy!
Want
is not the issue – for her or you.'

'I know,' Ragnar said irritably. 'But still . . .'

'You will be Arbiter here,' Hord said,' when I drop dead. If she is your wife, then you rule two Houses. It is a match worth making.' He made a stirring motion with his hand, gazing at the liquid moving in the cup. 'All things go around,' he went on. 'Our gains through your marriage will offset what we lose from Olaf 's act.'

Ragnar looked pained. 'You think we will lose land? How much?'

'It depends how strongly the Sveinssons press the Council. Ulfar Arnesson has talked with them. He says they are set on making stringent demands, particularly the woman, though
she
never loved Brodir, Hakon knows.' He picked at his teeth with a fingernail.

Halli's back was a slab of pain. He grimaced beneath the barrel lid. If he could just transfer the weight to his legs a little, squat instead of sit . . .

'Olaf shouldn't have done it,' Ragnar remarked testily. 'It was a reckless killing.'

Hord's face coloured; he cracked his cup hard down on the table so that the dishes hopped and rang. 'By rights Brodir should have been strung up years ago! You don't deny that, I hope?'

Ragnar looked down at his lap. 'No.'

'The only pity is that tree-frog of a nephew saw it. He'll be primary witness, come the trial.'

Halli had been adjusting his posture within the barrel, trying to take the pressure off his back; at Hord's words he froze.

'We should have cut
his
throat too,' Ragnar said. 'Saved us some acres.'

'Well,
you
had your boot on his neck,' Hord growled. 'The chance was there. Still, it makes little difference now. He's beyond our reach. But this brings me to a separate matter. Regardless of the Council's ruling, I—'

Pain flared up Halli's back in a sudden spasm. He jerked forward slightly, knocking his palms against the barrel's sides.

The barrel shook.

Its lid, balanced precariously on its brim, wobbled.

Halli sensed the wobble. He reached up a hasty hand.

The lid slipped away from his brushing fingertips, revolved against the barrel brim and crashed down upon the floor.

K
OL KIN-KILLER HAD
performed atrocities up and down the valley and was known to be a hard fighter. He gave allegiance to no House and counted a number of seasoned outlaws amongst his men. After Kol's band attacked Gest's place in the high valley, they travelled east again through Svein's lands. There was a farmstead up there, near Deepdale, where Svein's cousins lived. One day Svein saw black smoke rising above the hill. He rode to investigate, and found the farm burned and his cousins impaled on stakes of wood. Svein was so angry then that his followers fled from him. When he calmed down, he looked around and found the outlaws' trail going into the forest.

Svein said to his men: 'You lot head home. I'm going hunting.'

The echoes of the crash reverberated between the columns, up and down the midnight hall. Ragnar and Hord sat rigid in their seats.

Ragnar whispered: 'Father . . .'

'Over by those kegs,' Hord said. 'Get up and see.'

Ragnar's chair scraped back harshly on the floor.

Halli, in his barrel, cringed down as low as he could. He could sense the open space above him; cool air tickled the back of his neck.

'Here, boy,' Hord said carelessly. 'Take the knife.'

A scrape of metal; Ragnar's footsteps drew close across the hall. Halli felt beside him in the barrel's darkness for his own knife, and grasped it tightly by the hilt.

'In one of these, you think, Father?' Ragnar's voice was not entirely steady.

'Hakon's blood, you mooncalf!' Hord roared. 'Have a look and see!'

Hesitant movements, rasps of wood: barrel lids lifted and cast aside.

Halli heard Ragnar's breathing now, short and quick. He was very near. Halli tensed himself, ready to spring . . .

'Ah! There!'

Ragnar's cry rang out – but it sounded almost eager and relieved. Halli, who had jolted upwards, checked his movement. Something thudded against the wall. Ragnar's boots moved swiftly along the hall away from him. He called again: 'See – there! Rats!'

Hord uttered a long, low groan.

Now Ragnar was returning to the table. 'Big fat one, it was, Father! I almost got it with a lid. Would've sliced it in two.'

'I can hear the ballads being written as we speak. Come here, boy, and listen to me.' Hord put his cup to his mouth and sucked wine in ruefully through his teeth.'
Rats!
' he said. 'What a son of Hakon you are. Well, one last thing. I spoke with the head smith this afternoon. They are almost ready. You understand me?'

'Yes, Father.'

'It is probable that the Council will rule against us in the Brodir case. They have a long history of setting politics ahead of justice; they want "balance" in the valley, they want no one House to gain undue influence. This is all well known.'

'Yes, Father.'

'Well, great Hakon wouldn't have stood for it, and neither shall we. If things turn out as I hope. we'll have a way of taking matters into our own hands next year. It's too early to say how – but we'll be practising this winter. I'll want you to practise too.'

'Oh, I will, Father.'

'Very good. Totter off to bed then, before you collapse with exhaustion. We don't want you sickening as well.'

Ragnar spoke musingly. 'Will Olaf die, do you think?'

'Not he.'

'But he is Trow-stricken.'

'He has a fever, that is all. Don't be a superstitious fool.'

'The cairn shadow touched him! I saw it.'

'So he rode too close! Is his horse sick? No! Why not, since the shadow fell across it too?' Hord set his cup down upon the table and rose. 'A real man does not pay heed to old wives' tales of Trows and curses! Olaf has had fever before; he overcame it then, and he will do so now. Right, off to bed, milksop, before you faint.'

Each took candles from the table; they climbed the stairs to the balcony and parted. Doors closed abruptly. Silence descended on the hall.

For almost a minute nothing happened.

Out from the barrel rose Halli, face contorted with pain. He swung himself out and dropped to the floor, where for some moments he hopped in silent agony until the cramp departed from his legs.

At last his steps grew steadier. He limped over to the tables, found a jug of beer and drained it. Then he wiped his mouth, slung his bag upon his back and took up the knife once more.

So, to business. Now was the time.

Across the hall he went, trailing a long black shadow that slipped like a phantom over the fiery reflections on the floor.

The knife glinted softly in his hand.

Onto the staircase, slowly, steadily. His feet made no sound. He kept his eyes fixed on the balcony above.

Halli neither hurried nor dawdled. He crossed a short half-landing and went on and upwards to the top. In just such a manner would Svein have hunted Kol Kin-killer through the woods, or pursued the giant Deepdale boar.

He reached the balcony and passed across it to the door he had seen Ragnar enter long ago that afternoon.

He hesitated, listened . . . Nothing stirred anywhere within the House.

With murder in his heart, he unlatched the door, stepped inside and pushed it swiftly to behind him.

Halli stood in darkness, but somewhere ahead of him a single light burned strongly. It was hard to tell how far away it was, for it blurred and shifted against his vision like a living thing, and he could not look directly at it. He closed his eyes and counted slowly under his breath, willing his eyesight to adjust. wrinkling his nose in the meantime at the room's foul air, at its taint of sickness.

He opened his eyes once more. Better: now the light had resolved itself. At its heart was a clear white core, suspended about a candle's wick; around this extended a soft yellow halo, bright near the centre, fading outwards to a haze that only brushed the surface of the dark. The illuminated circle was not large. It hung at an uncertain distance, disembodied and shimmering, like the moon's reflection in a winter lake.

There was a face in it.

Despite himself, Halli flinched back against the door, feeling the skin crawl upon his spine. It was a sinister spirit, something out of Katla's nursery tales, a disembodied horror, a glowing, floating head— He shook himself savagely.
Don't be a fool!
This was Olaf ! It was nothing but a man. A sick man with his head upon a pillow.

Olaf 's eyes were closed, his mouth slightly agape; his thin nose jutted at the ceiling. His translucent skin stretched tight upon his features: everything beneath – cheekbones, nose cartilage and jaw – all seemed close to breaking through. The hair of the beard curled sparsely on the chin like thorns around a stone.

Halli listened carefully, but heard no breath.

He stood in darkness by the door, gazing at the sleeping face. He did not move.

With careful deliberation Halli recalled to mind that moment in the stable: Brodir's body falling, the jerk of Olaf 's arm, the implacable intention on that selfsame sleeping face as the knife was carried to his uncle . . .

Halli closed his eyes and rubbed them with his free hand.

At about this time, with his enemy within his reach, he had expected to feel the surge of anger, the burst of adrenaline required to commit the necessary act. He had
not
expected the nausea that had suddenly come upon him. His legs shook beneath him; he felt as he had done in the moments after his uncle's killing, helpless, stricken, physically sick.

It was
not
the appropriate reaction.

He breathed out silently, cursing himself in the name of Svein.

Just a few feet to walk, a single stab, and the journey would be over. His uncle would be avenged, his killer killed. It was simplicity itself. All he had to do was
move
.

With the hesitant, heavy motions of a sleepwalker, Halli stepped towards the circle of light. Its gleam reflected on the long knife in his hand, which suddenly seemed to carry extra weight, dragging his arm down.

He passed the margins of a clothes chest, open, spilling out rich linens; a low-backed chair, carved to a sinuous design; a table with wine cup, bread and meats; a cold fireplace with a poker lying amid the ashes.

That was all. Before he knew it he was at the bedside.

Olaf Hakonsson's slender body lay beneath a thick fur quilt that had half fallen to the floor. His arms lay visible and outstretched, palms upwards as if pleading. Now Halli saw a pulse beating in the scrawny throat, and the barest movement of the blanket across the chest.

One blow was all he needed. To where – the throat or chest? The heart would be proper, as Olaf had killed Brodir that way. But the throat was simpler . . . Halli's lips were dry; his limbs felt oddly weak, his vision spun. Food and rest were what he needed, before he could do anything. Maybe he should go back to the hall, revive himself, come back when—

Halli snarled soundlessly in the dark.
Stop delaying! This
was the moment! It would never come again.

Halli shifted the knife so that the point was facing down. He grasped it in both hands and, stepping close so that he leaned out a little over the trestle bed, raised it high over the naked throat.

He took a deep breath, paused . . .

From nowhere, an image came to him. Back in the gorge: Bjorn the trader's silhouette, his arm raised ready to murder Halli in his sleep. The terror that Halli had felt then, as he lay waiting for the blow, collided with the terror that he felt
now
, as he stood ready to deliver just such a blow himself. And they were the same terror.

Halli's arm shook; he almost dropped the knife. Tears welled in his eyes and blinded him. Suppressing the urge to sniffle loudly, he stumbled back a pace, lowered his arms and, with misery engulfing him, wiped his face clear with a sleeve.

When he looked back at the bed, Olaf Hakonsson's eyes were open, watching him.

Stone weights hung on Halli's spine: he was fixed, immovable. He felt as if at any moment he might plummet through the floor.

He stared at the figure in the bed as if a Trow had appeared before him.

Olaf Hakonsson's mouth moved a little. His voice was the barest whisper.

'Couldn't do it, eh?'

Halli's tongue had frozen against the inside of his teeth. He could not answer.

The whisper came again. 'Why not?'

Numbly Halli shook his head.

Lids flickered; the yellow eyes grew hooded like an owl's. 'What? Speak up.'

With an effort of will Halli said, 'I don't know. It isn't lack of hatred.'

There was the faintest of hisses between the open lips; the sick man might have been laughing. 'I'm sure! I'm sure! Your presence makes
that
clear enough.' The whisper faltered, the eyes closed. 'Tell me, are the House gates locked, the doors to the hall barred?'

'Yes.'

'Are the men of Hakon's House gathered in their rooms below?'

'Yes.'

'Does my brother sleep beyond this very wall?'

'I imagine he does.'

Olaf 's eyes remained closed; his murmur was almost respectful.' Yet despite all these obstacles you have reached me – like a diminutive, dark-eyed ghost risen from its cairn. I'm impressed. You're a brave and resourceful youth.'

Halli said nothing.

'I only have one question.'

'Which is?'

'Who the devil are you?'

Halli stepped back in shock.'
What?
You don't recognize me?'

Olaf Hakonsson's eyes gazed on Halli with a dull light.

'Should I?'

'Of
course
!'

'Sorry.'

'But – but you must do.'

A considered pause. 'No.'

'Just a few short weeks since you killed my uncle before my eyes and you don't know who I am! I don't believe this.' Halli stepped close. 'What. was it that forgettable for you? Here, take a good long look.'

A weak hand was raised from the bed. 'Say no more. I have it.'

'It's about time.'

'You're the nephew of that cheating farmer we hung out on Far Shingle. You share his physique. Shortest gallows I ever built.'

Halli made an incoherent noise. 'No. No – you're wrong.'

'What, store-barns crammed with grain, and no tithe given to the House? He was a cheat and you're blind not to see it. What are you doing here on
his
behalf ? You're not even his son! It's a
son
's job to honour a dead man.'

Halli's rage swelled; he took a step forward, raising the knife a little. 'Be silent! I am not one of those tenants you treat so shamefully, but a man of noble blood.'

The whisper from the bed was harsh and mocking. 'Close. In fact you are a child who attacks an invalid in his sleep. It isn't quite the same thing.'

'I didn't
know
you were ill when I—' Halli broke off. His head spun. Candlelight danced in his eyes; darkness pressed in on every side. He moved the knife so that the point drew near to Olaf 's throat. 'Clearly the fever has destroyed your memory. Let me make things plain for you. I am Halli Sveinsson, son of Arnkel, nephew of brave Brodir, whom you murdered not four weeks past. I watched you kill him as he stood helpless, like an animal led to the block, when all he had done was speak out against your arrogance.' Halli let the point press upon the yellow skin. 'You are the worst of murderers, to slay a man for a few drunken words, and I suggest you do not dare speak to me again of nobility, since it is a subject you know nothing of.'