Blood Will Follow (13 page)

Ulfar’s eyes closed for the final time—and then they flew open again.

His very core was cold. It was hard, it was wrong, and it would not die.

He screamed.

ON
THE
ROAD,
NORTH
OF
LAKE
VANERN,

CENTRAL
SWEDEN

LATE
OCTOBER,
AD
996

Goran yawned, scratched his gray stubble, and wondered, not for the first time, if he should have stayed at home in the valley all those years ago. As the middle brother, he wouldn’t have inherited the farm, but he could maybe have become a blacksmith. Or a wood-carver, perhaps. But no, he’d thought the life of a Viking would be full of riches and excitement.

No one had bothered to tell him about sea-stomach.

After three miserable attempts, each more bile-filled than the next, he gave up. He’d had a knack with the fighting, but getting
there and back was too much for him. That left just caravan duty, but it was all right. He didn’t need to think, could just stand and look hard. Or walk, in this case. That was fine, though—he’d grown used to walking with a staff and took the jibes from the younger guards in stride. Let them mock his age and call it a walking stick. You never knew when a good, thick staff would come in handy.

Their little party consisted of four wagons, six merchants, and four guards. They were making good time, and the merchants paid well; considering what they were carrying and whereto, they could afford it. With any luck, they’d be there in ten days or so. The boys were talking up the wenching and drinking they’d do, but Goran had seen them give it a shot and thought their chances modest at best.

He was about to join in and shoot down Heidrek again when he felt something . . . wrong. He spun around just in time to see the blood-covered apparition crash through the bush and emerge onto the road, screaming and waving a sword not three steps away from the merchants. Even the placid draft horses reared and whinnied.

Without thinking, Goran swung his walking staff and connected with the man’s temple. He crumpled to the ground.

In a blink the situation, went from lethal back to harmless. Swords were sheathed, horses calmed; even the nervous chatter died down eventually. Ingimar, who looked more of a fool than usual in his expensive but ill-fitting robes, jabbed a stubby finger at him and squeaked, “Who is that? What is the meaning of this? Why did he get so close? Who is he? Why didn’t you stop him?”

“He looks stopped to me,” Heidrek chipped in.

Goran suppressed a smirk.

“Yes . . . Who is he?”

“I don’t know,” Goran said. “He looks wounded, though.” He bent down to examine the prone figure.

“Careful!” Ingimar squealed, but Goran ignored him.

“Ooh. Nasty,” Heidrek said, peering over his shoulder. The wound was clean, fresh, and incredibly close to mortal. “He is one lucky bastard.”

“I’ll say,” Goran said. He turned to Ingimar. “What do you want to do?”

The merchant looked at the man on the ground. “Show me his sword,” he said, visibly calmer now that the man was proven to be out cold. “Good. And now loosen his tunic. What is that around his neck?”

“It’s a rune of some sort, on a string.”

“Is he definitely out?”

“Flat on the ground, like Regin’s mother,” Goran said.

“Nah, his legs ain’t spread enough,” Heidrek chimed in.

“Shut up,” Regin muttered behind them. “I’ll slap every one of you.”

Ingimar clambered off the wagon and bent down beside Goran. “Ah,” he said, appraising the stranger. “Tie him up.”

“Why?” Heidrek said.

“Just do it,” Ingimar snapped. “Tie him up and throw him on the fur-cart. And keep him alive.”

“What?”

“We’re taking him to Uppsala.”

NORTH
ATLANTIC,
BY
NORDLEKSA

EARLY
NOVEMBER,
AD
996

“In the old days, you’d say a sailor this late in the year had Hel in his wake,” Skeggi rumbled. “On this one, I’d say the bitch is sitting comfortably in the back and inching forward.”

“Hard to argue,” Finn muttered and crossed himself.

As if in agreement, a sharp crack of wind from the north snapped at their sails. The king had taken to having men row just to keep warm; Valgard was huddled under three furs by the mast, shivering even so. They’d lost two men to cold already—their muscles had seized up, and they’d toppled overboard: the sea had taken what was owed. King Olav had said a prayer.

Botolf sidled up to them, quiet as usual. He raised an eyebrow and looked to the coast. “Interesting . . .”

Finn tried to follow his gaze. The mass of blue-gray and dark green on their right had long since blended and blurred into one big slab of country; the islets and holms on his left had given way to endless open sea. When he finally saw what the slender man was looking at, his breath caught in his throat. “Signal fires! A chain! We must—”

“All to plan, Finn. All to plan.” King Olav stood in the bow, unmovable. His voice carried on the headwind; the king did not turn. “The Lord sails with us, and we will not come to harm. Hakon does not have the strength. All we know will work in our favor. The signal fires just mean that a small number of men will have the time to wonder what it will be like when an undefeatable force arrives.”

“If Valgard is right,” Botolf muttered under his breath.

Finn crossed himself again and looked down at the white-tipped waves. Turning, he noticed that Valgard had managed to rise. The skinny healer leaned against the mast, gray-faced and shivering.

“Are you well?” Finn muttered.

Valgard glared at him. “I hate ships. How many fires have you seen?”

“Three . . . ?”

“Seven,” Botolf said, just by his ear, and Finn almost jumped. The dark-haired southerner made his skin crawl. On their right-hand side, peaked hills rolled past, dotted with fire and smoke; on their left, the sea stretched as far as the eye could see.

“Thank you,” Valgard said. “That should mean we have no more than half a day’s sailing left.”

“About right,” Botolf replied. “Are you aiming for Thorgrimsstrand?” Finn could hear the smirk in his voice and suddenly wanted to plant a fist in it. He turned so he could see the southern chieftain’s face. It was skinny, stretched, and shaded. It was not an honest Christian’s face.

Valgard smiled and shook his head. “Bjornevik. And Loki’s Tooth.”

“Very good. That’ll keep—”

“And Trondheim pier.”

Finn had never heard Botolf laugh before. It was the sound of a wolf growling before its kill. “If I ever fight you, Grass Man, I’d like to do it at sea. At sea, and man-to-man,” he said, smiling.

“Let’s try to make sure that doesn’t happen, then. Talent like yours is hard to find. And while we’re on the subject—those men you said you could spare?”

“I’ve talked to them. They’re yours.”

“Thank you. Now if you want to take a seat—we’re about to start the dance.”

“As you command,” Botolf replied, still smirking as the man appeared to float along the deck to his post at the back next to Skeggi.

A whole host of questions thundered through Finn’s head. “What—? How are we—? But—,” he stuttered.

Valgard silenced him with a hand movement and muttered, “Just watch. We should be rounding soon now.”

“When was this—?”

“You were busy making sure everything was going to plan with the two rats. I was talking to our friends at the back. The king”—Valgard crossed himself and inclined his head toward the bow—“the king went to a couple of chieftains we knew he could trust and divulged the plan. Listen—”

Valgard cocked his head. The ghost of a smile played on his lips as shouted commands began to drift across the water. Their own rowers lifted their oars, tucked them to the side, and just sat, allowing the rest of the fleet to catch up.

“That’s where we turn,” Valgard said, pointing to a large mountain jutting out into the water maybe three miles ahead of them. “After that it’s straight sailing into Hakon’s hole.” He looked both worse for wear and more alive than Finn could remember.

Around and now in front of them, ships were moving into groups. The first ships were powering ahead, foaming sea around their oars; the group behind them kept pace but stayed back. Soon both groups of ships disappeared around the horn.

King Olav raised his hand, palm flat.

Silent expectation spread like rings in a pond.

The moment seemed to stretch out forever—but then the king’s hand turned into a fist. Lowering his arm, he pointed forward.

As one, the oars hit the water, and the men pulled with renewed vigor. The
Njordur’s Mercy
leapt forward, the sail billowed, and behind them, another twenty ships fell in line.

When they rounded the horn, Finn watched a rare smile light up Valgard’s face. At the first available landing beach, a very handy stretch of soft sand, hastily erected fortifications had been equally hastily abandoned. About four miles farther along, a third of their ships had beached with ease and overwhelmed a token force; the bulk of the defenders were rushing back to meet the enemy.
Sparse reinforcements from Trondheim were stuck battling the men from the second wave, who had cut them off just outside the city by running their ships aground and wading ashore on the rocky promontory of Loki’s Tooth. Sounds of battle were turning into sounds of murder.

Finn caught Botolf and Skeggi exchanging approving glances.

King Olav’s chosen warriors sailed on, straight into the heart of Trondheim.

TRONDHEIM,
NORTH
NORWAY

EARLY
NOVEMBER,
AD
996

Hakon had sent his strongest fighters out to meet the invaders; graybeards and fuzz-cheeks remained, and it did not take Skeggi and Botolf’s men long to clear the pier. They flowed ashore like murderous waves before King Olav, who walked into Trondheim slaying anyone and anything in his path. Drifting in his wake, Finn looked around. The smell of blood was rising in the air, and he could see it in the eyes of the fighters. Around him, boys and old men were being hacked to death—quickly by Botolf, brutally by Skeggi.

At the very moment when the spirit of Trondheim broke, King Olav bellowed for his men to stop in the name of the White Christ. The order spread quickly, and within a couple of breaths, swords had been stilled. The fighters took up their positions behind King Olav. The sounds of battle died down, to be replaced by the fading moans and cries of the wounded.

On instinct, Finn commanded four of his warriors to clear a space in front of the king, who turned around and shouted, “Hakon!” over the assembled mix of houses as the warriors dragged badly mangled bodies from beneath his feet.

There was no answer.

“
Hakon!
”

The people of Trondheim formed a shapeless, dull-eyed wall that stared at them, hostile and silent.

“Hakon Jarl—come out or I shall proclaim you a coward and put your kin to the sword!” King Olav bellowed.

Heads turned, bodies shifted, and a path opened up. A large man with thick gray hair and a graying beard walked slowly through the crowd and stepped into the square. He wore a mail shirt covered with a long, flowing white bear pelt and carried a sturdy-looking helmet under his arm; a long ax hung from his belt. The blade had not been bloodied yet, but Finn reached for his sword all the same.

There was a cruel twist to the man’s mouth as he sneered at King Olav and gestured toward the bodies of the dead and dying. “Is this what your so-called God commands you to do? Slaughter boys and old hands?” he growled.

“I will deal with them according to your conduct, and by your own standard will I judge them,” King Olav replied. His voice bounced off the mud-padded and wood-clad walls.

“I don’t care about your words,” Hakon said. “But you’ve made your point. Now what happens?”

“You bend the knee,” King Olav said.

Hakon swallowed, hawked, and spat. He reached for his ax, and metal rippled behind King Olav as four hundred seasoned warriors showed steel. With great effort, the old chieftain stayed his hand and stepped into the cleared square. King Olav did the same.

Finn thought he saw flashes of disgust in the faces of the northerners when their chieftain chose life over death and knelt before his king—their king.

Valgard found the healers in the town without too much trouble. One was a green-faced apprentice boy who would be useful for nothing but clearing shit; the other was an old crone who knew her work but was painfully slow at even the simplest jobs. It was clear that it had been a while since Trondheim had seen any kind of scrap. He’d asked for the town’s master healer, but apparently the man had been unable to put his own head back on his shoulders. Valgard sighed, ordered them both to work making poultices and supplying water, and then set about healing the wounded.

He worked without pause until sundown, then had someone fetch a light. The stink of the big seal-fat candle was rank at first, but it did help mask the blood. Valgard kept his mind on the work, bandaging the wounds of friend and foe alike, sending them away better than they came. He couldn’t help but note that there were significantly more foes to bandage. Some of them were mean-spirited and required special attention—if he disliked them enough, he asked Skeggi’s men to look after them for a little while. Most of the fighting men accepted their fate wearily—they’d been in scraps before, on both sides. Some were even grateful for his skill, and Valgard made a point of noting their faces.

King Olav had forbidden the taking of spoils, and for the most part the men adhered to this command. After dark, however, a few women showed up with familiar wounds, and Valgard could not help but think of Harald. He would have been worth any five of these men, but he would also be out now, delighting in causing pain and fear, sowing the seeds of hate and leaving before they sprouted. That was the old way.

The boy drifted nervously into his field of vision and Valgard squeezed out a smile. “What is it?”

“It’s . . . it’s . . .” The boy turned beetroot red.

“Bring her,” Valgard said.

The boy darted out and returned with a slim young girl hanging off his shoulder, only barely supporting her own weight. Her clothes were in tatters, and lank, dark hair hung in front of her face. Valgard didn’t need to look in her eyes to tell how much she was hurting—her legs shook, she twisted her upper body as if trying to relieve something in her shoulders, and blood dripped on the floor where she stood. Two of her fingers on each hand were pointing in the wrong directions.

“Get hot water,” Valgard snapped. The boy looked at the girl, then him, then sprinted off. The girl almost fell, and Valgard took three quick steps toward her. His back flared, but he didn’t care. Gently brushing her hair away from her face, he tilted her head up.

Both her eyes were blackened, and a tooth had been knocked out. Her hair had been pulled so hard that her scalp had torn, and thin, pinkish blood seeped out past a crusting scab.

Her eyes were open, but vacant.

Valgard frowned. He’d never understood why big, strong men needed to hit girls to get their cocks hard. He’d seen quite enough to know what had happened here: the screaming might start at some point, but not just yet, so it would be good to get the work done first. Putting his hand on the girl’s good shoulder, he guided her gently to a table, laid her down, and started tending her wounds.

As he worked, an idea came to him, and he smiled even as his hands continued working gently to ease the girl’s pains. Maybe there was some light in the darkness, even this far north.

Hakon Jarl’s hall was as big as the hovels in his town were pitiful. Rich furs covered every inch of the benches, and polished silver overlapped copper and gold on the walls. A tapestry from Ireland depicting a thin man being attacked by flying beasts held pride of place on one long wall; the other had a picture of an impossibly long raiding ship; at the bow end was a broad-chested figure wearing a white bear cape.

The dais at the end of the room was easily the height of a man. Steps were set into one side, and there was a chamber off to the back. In front of it stood three chairs, positioned to be at the chieftain’s feet. King Olav sat in the high seat and looked down on the hall with disdain. “Savages,” he muttered. “Magpies and savages, stealing and murdering. Treasures gained by wickedness are worth nothing.” He made the sign of the cross as he cast a lingering glance toward the tapestry of the ship.

Finn entered at the far end. The size of the hall and its furnishings made the warrior look almost small. He saluted from the doorway and bowed his head.

“Come, Finn,” King Olav called. “Bring a chair.” He gestured to the space beside him.

Finn approached the dais and looked up. “Are you sure, my King?”