Blood Will Follow (11 page)

It felt as if the ship was taking forever to get there. Around Audun, hands tightened on weapon grips.

The fat man who had met them at the pier elbowed his way to the front. “Who goes there?” he bellowed.

“Oh, shut up, Ivar,” someone shouted from the stern. “And tell your boys to calm down.”

Ivar turned around with a big smile on his face. “It’s all fine. It’s Hrutur.”

A ripple of relief spread through the assembled men. Loud, nervous chatter replaced muttered curses, and some of them called out well-meaning insults to the approaching captain. Shouted commands guided the ship into the dock. She was a stout knarr with five cross-benches for rowers. Audun noted that not all of them were manned.

“Come on, you old bastard!” Ivar shouted. The captain barked a string of orders, and the ship docked smoothly. A wiry man leapt ashore and embraced the fat chieftain, who punched his arm.

“Welcome back, brother.”

“Thank you,” the leathery-skinned captain replied. “Can’t stop, though. It’s worse out there every day, and we’ll need all we can get. Men, supplies, anything.”

“Right,” Ivar said. “You!” he snapped, pointing at Audun. “Get your big-mouth friend down here—right now if he wants to do any trade.”

When Audun brought Breki and the carts, the men on the docks were nearly done unloading the ship. Piles of furs, sacks of flour, and barrels of fish stood on the harbor. Townsmen were ferrying barrels, boxes, and sacks toward the harbor—woodcarvings, amber jewelry, bars of marsh iron. Ivar and Hrutur stood to the side, locked in heated discussion.

“That the captain?” Breki said.

Audun nodded.

Breki strode toward Hrutur. The swelling was down, but the short man’s face was all the more colorful for it. “Well met, Captain,” he said.

“Well met. Is this Breki?” he asked Ivar, who nodded. “My brother says you have trade.”

“Amber, cloth, wool, and furs.”

“On the carts?”

“Yes.”

“Sounds good. How much?”

“Fifty silvers for the lot.”

“Hm. Forty.”

“Done. And I’ll need passage for six people.”

Hrutur’s laugh was short and sharp. “I’m not a ferryman. Can’t help you.”

What was still white in Breki’s face turned beetroot red. “But—but—”

“I need the speed, and the Danes don’t want more people. Still forty?”

Suddenly Breki looked completely deflated. “Forty-five,” he muttered.

“Done.” The sea captain spat in his hand and extended it. Breki reached out, squeezed it, and walked off without a second look at Audun.

“Poor man,” Ivar said.

“Seen worse,” Hrutur said. “Don’t need passengers. I just need a couple of oarsmen.”

Audun cleared his throat.

The ship had been filled with supplies, the men rested and fed. Audun had found his place on the empty rowing berth and got to grips with his oar.

“Off you go and may Njordur’s blessing see you safely across,” Ivar intoned.

“And may Freyr keep you out of too many wives’ beds while I’m gone,” the captain shouted back.

A small crowd had gathered to wave them off. The caravan brothers were nowhere to be seen.

Audun sighed and tried to quell the rising anxiety in his stomach. But if King Olav was on his trail, at least he’d make the bastard chase him across the sea.

“A lot of them out today,” a burly sailor behind him said.

“We’re the first in two weeks,” another said.

“Two weeks?”

“Hel’s tits.”

“Yes, boys, and don’t you forget who you have to thank for that,” Hrutur snarled. “Don’t think too hard about it; otherwise you’ll shit yourselves. Just get going!”

Audun leaned into the oar and pulled, flexing his muscle against the endless sea. The man behind him grunted once, appreciatively. He settled into the rhythm, and the knarr started its slow crawl toward the horizon.

A while later, Hrutur shouted for oars up and sails down. The crew stirred into action without a single wasted movement. They were well clear of the Sands, now just a thick, black line on the horizon behind them. Audun tried his best to stay out of the way when they didn’t need extra hands to pull against the wind.

The boat rocked and sped across the gently tipped waves. The sea air filled his nose and lungs, teased salt water out of his eyes, and cleared his head. The sickness from the barge was gone—as were the encroaching cliffs and forbidding wall of pines.
This is life
, he thought. This was freedom.

He permitted himself a smile.

“
Sail! Oars!
You’re going to row, you fuckers, unless you want to be skinned!” Hrutur screamed as he yanked at the rudder.

The sailors scrambled to their benches and grabbed oars.

Audun stole a backward look. Two longships were approaching at terrifying speed.

VALLE,
WEST
NORWAY

LATE
OCTOBER,
AD
996

The world re-formed around Ulfar’s head. The breeze that woke him was chilly and crisp, but it didn’t bite, not yet. He propped himself up on one elbow and looked around. There was no sign of Gestumblindi, nor Geraz or the phantom Frec, but the sun was shining and last night’s clouds had departed. The fire-pit was almost invisible; all that remained was the hint of a burned circle in the grass.

He knelt by it, ran his hands over the green blades, felt the lines the points traced on his palm. He was . . . lighter, somehow. His body felt better than it had in weeks.

But the taste of ash still lingered in his mouth.

Sunlight caught on silver. A small flask lay in the grass a couple of steps over. Ulfar bent down to examine it and caught his breath. It was small, delicate, and exquisitely crafted—the side had a scene of some sort etched into it, depicting two men by a well. Slowly a handful of last night’s events came back in a confusion of images. He picked it up and shook it gently. Something sloshed around inside. He touched the stopper, then reconsidered, and tucked it in the small bag hanging off his belt.

Without a word, he rose and walked toward the rising sun.

TELEMARK,

EARLY
NOVEMBER,
AD
996

Fields gave way to forests, forests to fields, fields to hills, and still Ulfar walked. His pace was relaxed; through some means he couldn’t quite fathom he knew exactly where he was going. It was something to do with the stars. The world’s travelers must have been heading somewhere else that morning because he had the pleasure of solitude on the road for the best part of the day. The touch of autumn was heavier now; behind and below him, blushing red trees, golden branches, and multicolored leaves turned the slates of forest green into a picture of vibrant death. The fields were pregnant with wheat, barley, and corn, waiting for the harvester who never came.

Not for the first time, Ulfar wondered whether King Olav realized the damage he’d wrought on the nation he was seeking to unite.

The path leveled out under his feet and started sloping downward again. On this side of the hill the forest was thicker; pines stood shoulder to shoulder, creating a green-brown roof over their thick trunks and obscuring his view of the valley below. Ulfar tried to picture himself as an eagle, soaring above the treetops, drifting up toward . . .
something
, but in his mind the gentle curves of green below turned into sea, and then he was on that boat again facing the woman in white, living the nightmare.

Raised voices up ahead broke the spell and pulled his mind back to earth. They were coming from somewhere down the hill, around a bend, and were clearly in some disagreement. As he drew closer, the strings of noise broke apart into words.

“. . . and if you hadn’t tied the straps like an old woman—”

“An old woman? You’re one to talk! If you hadn’t filled the bag—”

“You told me to fill the bag! You
told
me!”

The voices grew louder with every step Ulfar took.

“You are an idiot! Mother always said so! She said you were an idiot and that you’d fallen on your head when you were little and that I should never trust you with anything!”

“No! She loved me best! You are a horse-faced bear-ass and I hate you!”

“You shut up, you disease-ridden scumbag milkmaid-botherer! I hate you more! Your father was a useless wimp! You always mess up everything I do! If only Erik was here! I’m so tired of you I could—”

The first thing Ulfar saw as he rounded the bend was a sack of turnips lying on the road. It had opened and spilled some of its bounty on the ground.

The next thing was a horse standing by the side of the road, stoically munching on whatever it could find.

And lastly, two men well past their prime who stood in the middle of the road and stared at him with open mouths. They were both clad in ill-fitting clothes; one had a shock of graying red hair that pointed in all directions at once, the other tufts of blond that made him look like a badly sheared sheep.

“Efh . . . ,” one of them stammered.

And just like that, Ulfar saw what needed to happen. He smiled, walked over to the sack of turnips, gathered up the few strays, and put them back inside, retied the sack, and hefted it up onto the horse, which protested only nominally.

“Fhn . . . ,” the other muttered.

“Well met, strangers,” Ulfar said, and the spell was broken.

“Well met!” the blond one replied, far too loudly.

“Yes! Well met!” Red-hair added, louder than the first. “I am Gisli, and this is my sworn brother—”

“I am Helgi!” the blond man shouted. “We’re cousins!”

“Half-brothers, you moron,” Gisli snapped.

“Really?” Ulfar said. “I would never have guessed.”

The men laughed loudly. “No one does. We’re nothing alike,” Helgi said. Gisli looked on the verge of saying something but bit his tongue. “Where are you going?” Helgi continued. “We’re headed south when we come down off this hill.”

“That’s lucky—so am I,” Ulfar said.

“Would you like to join us?” Gisli said.

“So that’s
your
offer to make now?” Helgi said.

Gisli puffed himself up. “And why shouldn’t it be?”

“I’m older!”

“Oh, don’t start that again. We both know Mother loved me best. I’d bet you’re a changeling! The trolls brought you! I—”

Ulfar cleared his throat loudly. “Helgi: would you be happy for me to join you on the road?”

“Of course,” Helgi snapped. “Anything else would be rude. Just like you,” he said as he turned toward his half-brother, voice rising. “You’re a fool and a lackwit, and I can’t believe that we share the same mother. I think if I left you to your own—”

“Where is he going with the horse? This is all your fault!” Gisli shook his head frantically, sending his wild red hair flying. They set off after Ulfar, who had taken the reins of the horse and started walking down the road.

“Wait! Wait!” Helgi puffed. “We’re coming!”

At the head of the strange procession, Ulfar sighed.

“Camp! We need to camp!” Helgi said.

“What would you know about camps?” Gisli snapped. “Last time I let you choose, a bear nearly ate us!”

“That—was—a—
moose
! You saw the tracks the next morning!”

“Well, it was big,” Gisli muttered. “And moose are dangerous.”

“Only if you’re an idiot,” Helgi shot back. “So in your case that’s true. Sorry I nearly got you killed.” Gisli harrumphed, and Helgi replied with a smirk. “Ulfar—any opinions now that we’re off the mountain?”

Ulfar pointed toward a glade only just visible in the twilight.

“Very good choice,” said Helgi. “It is refreshing to travel with someone who knows things for a change.”

Gisli sulked in the background.

Ulfar led the horse to the glade where they staked out their camp. Gisli went to start a fire; Helgi followed and criticized everything he did. Their bickering had long since stopped meaning anything to Ulfar—it was closer to the sound of the sea than any kind of conversation.

Eventually, though, even the brothers settled down, and as night fell they bid each other goodnight.

Ulfar, knowing what awaited him, slept very little.

Around midday, Ulfar finally relaxed. It had been a while—a long while—since he’d been on horseback, and he was thankful the animal was so placid. He’d woken up, eased past the brothers’ sleeping forms and led the horse to the road. They’d been off the hill by midmorning and far away from Gisli and Helgi by noon. The land was flat and tree cover scarce, but still he knew where he was going. He patted the horse’s neck and mumbled, “Good boy.” A mild protesting whinny was all he got back, but it shuffled onward. He found he did not care one way or the other about stealing the horse. They’d manage the bag of turnips between them, and now they’d have something new to argue about.

Something rustled in the bushes off to his left, and a bird cried out. The horse snorted once, shook its head, and kept walking. Maybe that was just what he needed to do in life, he mused. Shrug and move on. Whatever was in that bush was being hurt quite badly, though. The cries were getting louder and more piercing. The horse quickened its step, eager to be away from the tortured sounds. A sudden wave of irritation washed over Ulfar. “Die already!” he shouted and leapt out of the saddle. The horse shot him a reproachful look, trundled to a halt, and promptly turned its attention to the roadside grass as Ulfar drew his sword and waded into the underbrush, unleashing a string of profanities. Branches scraped his face, but he didn’t care. He just had to make that noise stop. The squawking grew louder until something clamped down on its victim’s throat.

Ulfar arrived just in time to see a sizable fox scamper away with a pheasant in his jaws.

Blood rushed to his head, and his knee buckled. Struggling to remain upright, he staggered over to the nearest tree. Bile rose in his throat, and his heart thumped in his chest.

He looked at the trees. Then he looked at his own drawn blade, raised the point up at the nearest trunk, and shouted, “Defend yourself! I am Ulfar the Pheasant-Saver!”

His legs gave way, and tears streamed from his eyes as he sat alone on the leafy forest floor, laughing until his stomach ached.

The smell of the sea reached him long before they saw the blue scar on the horizon: warm salt in the sun, wet weeds on rocks. Up ahead seagulls circled, complaining to one another. Ulfar urged the horse into a reluctant trot. “Come on, boy,” he whispered. “Help me home.”

When they cleared the tree line, he counted the houses. It didn’t take very long. There were twenty of them, some sizable. Thin wisps of smoke drifted up from roofs, to be caught by the brisk sea wind. “That will do,” Ulfar muttered. “That will have to do.”

As he rode in, a dog came running at them at full tilt, baying and snarling. Ulfar redoubled his grip on the reins, but the horse had seen enough country dogs and kicked out once, close enough to the animal’s snout to send it scampering away. Ulfar stroked and scratched the scraggly mane; it dipped its head once, snorted, and ambled along.

He could feel eyes on him: watchers in darkened doorways and shadowed corners, but he was beyond caring. Let them watch. Let them watch the newcomer, calculate how much they could take him for. Let them fucking try. He had to concede, though, that by the look of him that probably wasn’t so much anymore. His clothes were thoroughly travel-worn by now, and he didn’t have a silver piece to his name. All he had was the sword . . . Ulfar thought of Audun and wondered what the crazy blacksmith might be doing. Probably not riding into a strange town on a stolen horse.

He bit down hard to suppress the laughter and rode on. The harbor smelled of fish guts and cold air. A large man sat on a rock in the fading light, hunched over whatever he was doing with his hands. Ulfar dismounted and walked toward him.

“Evening,” he said.

“Evening yourself,” the man said. He was weathered, somewhere between thirty-five and fifty summers, tatty beard with streaks of white and a downturned mouth. In his hands he had a line with small hooks attached that he was twisting, turning, and coiling down into a basket.

“Good catch today?”

“Same as always.” The man spat and looked at Ulfar for the first time. “Who are you?”

“My name is Geiri,” Ulfar said, the lie only just catching on his tongue. “I’m looking to get across to the Svear.”

“Well, Geiri,” the fisherman said and spat over his shoulder, “a trader sails tomorrow morning. Might know him. What are you paying?”

Ulfar flashed a condescending smile and waved the question away. “Do not let my garb fool you. I am a man of means.”

“As long as you’re not a man who means to pay but never does,” the fisherman said.

“Well, we’re in trouble if a man’s word means nothing.”

“Have you looked around lately, man of means?” The fisherman struggled to his feet and limped toward him. “We are in a whole lot of trouble. Trouble all over. I’ll talk to Hedin for you.”

“Thank you,” Ulfar said. “Thank you very much.”

The fisherman shrugged. “Can’t promise. We’ll see what goes.” With that, he limped away.

Ulfar watched him leave, and then he was all alone on the pier.

Alone and useless.

What was he good for, anyway? Wenching, gaming, and killing. The occasional joke. A deep pressure built inside him, and he felt like he would burst. He tried to swallow, but nothing happened. Panic flared, but as soon as it had come, it was gone again.

Ulfar had to strain to unlock his jaws and open his mouth. Looking around, his eye came to rest on the bucket. The fisherman’s line was tangled up. He thought back on the old men he’d seen threading
hooks in Uppsala: they’d been proper,
useful
men. He sat down on the stone and reached for the line.

“Ow! Bastard,” he exclaimed as a hook buried itself in his index finger.

“Get away from my line,” the fisherman snapped from across the pier. “Took me long enough to sort it.” A portly man waddled up behind him as Ulfar struggled to nudge the hook out of his finger. As it came free, the cold air nipped at the blood. “This is Hedin,” the fisherman said curtly. The two of them made their way slowly toward Ulfar, the old horse, and the fisherman’s seat.