Blood Will Follow (20 page)

Grinning, the green-eyed youth turned and leapt off the cliff edge. Moments later the silence was broken by the beating of newly formed wings and an unnaturally large raven ascended, borne on the wind, heading north.

TRONDHEIM,
NORTH
NORWAY

EARLY
NOVEMBER,
AD
996

Valgard exhaled and watched his breath rise in a pale-gray cloud toward the rafters of the barn. His chest was tight with worry; it had been ever since he woke up. From his vantage point by the door he watched the men as they loaded horses and packed bags; his chest grew tighter still. This was it. He was setting out to find the source of whatever had nearly brought Stenvik to its knees.

Inside, the men worked in silence. No one asked, no one commanded: they all knew what they needed to do, and they were going about it with quiet efficiency. It had taken three days to assemble the group. Some he’d known already, some had come from Botolf, and Finn had supplied a few. While there had been those more than ready to leave Trondheim, others had needed a little more convincing.

A shape moved in the shadows on the edge of his vision. “Good morning to you,” Valgard said.

“Hmph,” Botolf said as he appeared out of the darkness.

“Not a friend of the dawn?”

“Stupid time of day,” Botolf grumbled.

“Depends,” Valgard said.

Botolf spat and stepped forward. “We’ll need more men.”

“These are the ones our lord gave me. Why do we need more? They look hard enough.”

“We’ll lose some,” he muttered.

“Lose some? Why? To what?”

“The cold. The north.” The lanky chieftain looked him up and down, then looked away again. “I forget. You’ve not done much of this.”

Valgard pursed his lips and swallowed the first three things he wanted to say. At first glance, he and Botolf weren’t that different in shape, but he’d seen enough murderers in his time to know that size would count for little when the blades came out. “No, you’re right. We need more men. I’ll go and see what I can do. Maybe we can ask him,” Valgard said, gesturing through the open door at a scrawny youth with his face pressed up against the wall, peering in through a crack.

Botolf glanced and frowned. “Skeggi’s pot-boy. Hmph.” He cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders. “If you need to go away and do something, maybe talk to someone for a while, now would be a good time.”

When Valgard looked outside again the pot-boy was gone.

“Why?” King Olav’s eyes narrowed. He shifted in the high seat, trying and failing to find a comfortable position.

Valgard cleared his throat. “I need to extract some information—you know, about the best places to collect taxes.” He teased out a sly, knowing wink and managed to keep his eyes from straying to King Olav’s sword, resting in its scabbard by the throne. One step, one word, and . . .

“It would be better if I go. He might let something slip.”

“I see. Taxes. Yes.” A flicker of a smile flashed across the king’s face.

He looks tired
, Valgard thought.
Worn out
.

“You make sure you collect the king’s taxes. Not too much—avoid unnecessary killing. Just gather the information.”

“I will, my King. I will. Where is he?”

“He’s taken to hiding in the chambers of his old mistress, says it helps him think.”

“If that’s where he does his thinking, I can see why he didn’t see us coming.”

The king smirked, pointed toward a door at the back of the hall, and promptly appeared to forget about him.

Without waiting for further permission, Valgard hurried out of King Olav’s sight.

So far, so good.

Beyond the door, steps led to a long earthen corridor that had fallen into disrepair. Chipped struts and skewed slats made it look like an old jawbone. Rubble covered the floor. “Into the belly of the beast,” Valgard muttered as he picked his way along.

The corridor ended in steps leading up to a thick bearskin covering the entrance to Hakon’s rooms. Valgard pushed the fur aside, and warm air flowed out to meet him, carrying with it the smell of old sweat and bad blood.

Hakon stood in the middle of the room, one hand on the hilt of a long-hafted ax, watching him. He still struck a formidable figure, but the shoulders sloped, the hands trembled ever so slightly, and there was more white than gray in the beard.

“I thought he’d send them in the night—and I thought they’d be bigger. And louder. What do you want?” the old chieftain snapped.

Valgard stopped, one hand on the bear pelt. “I want nothing,” he said. “Well, almost nothing.”

Hakon sneered at him. “You’re not offering me anything to eat or drink,
Healer
, that much is certain.”

“Because you’re neither a halfwit nor a suckling,” Valgard shot back. His stomach sank as the words left his mouth. There was nothing for it, then. This was how it would have to be played. He watched Hakon’s feet for the first signs of the swing.

Nothing happened.

He looked up at Hakon’s face; there was a hint of a sparkle in the old man’s eye.

“Hm. Maybe you’re not all bad.” He shuffled toward a table by the far wall, grabbed two mugs, and dunked them in a mead barrel. He turned, smiled, and pointedly took a sip from each mug. Then he slammed the mugs on the table and sat down. “So tell me. What do you want?”

Valgard did not move. “What do I want?” He smiled. “I only want what’s right—”

“Big breath for bad words. If I was—”

“—for the old gods.”

Hakon Jarl frowned. “What?” Valgard met his gaze. “What do you mean?”

“What I say,” Valgard said.

Moments passed like winter nights.

“I am listening,” Hakon said at last.

“King Olav has given me fifty of his best men to go ‘collecting.’ He has told me that we are to find anyone who worships the old gods and gut them on the spot for not paying their taxes.” Hakon Jarl’s grip on his ax tightened, but he didn’t say a word. “I want another fifty of your trusted men to come with me. I want to have them dispose of Olav’s murderers in their sleep, then go around the valleys and the highlands to raise an army for you. I will deliver your message. You are the ruler Trondheim deserves, and I believe you should have all the help I can give you.”

“Hmh,” Hakon Jarl said. “And what would you do with an army raised in my name?”

Valgard looked straight into the ice-blue eyes of the old chieftain. “Kill King Olav,” he said.

Botolf watched as the silent workers finished packing bags and preparing the last of the horses. The trek-master, an ugly, fish-faced man named Ormslev, waved a hand in his direction, then headed off with his men.

When Skeggi finally arrived, Botolf was alone.

“So, what’s this?” the big raider growled.

“What’s what?”

“This.” Skeggi pointed at the horses, laden down with baggage.

“Looks like horses,” Botolf said.

“Fucking cute. Where are you going?” The big man stalked toward the tethered animals.

Botolf stepped to the side. “Pleasure trip. Thought I’d see the countryside since I’m this far north.”

“Don’t lie, you skinny turd.” Skeggi walked around the horses, inspecting packs. “You don’t need this many blades to go and see anything. Unless you intend to kill it.”

“Don’t spook the mares, now,” Botolf said.

“Fuck you. I’ll spook anything I want. Always have.” Skeggi stepped in between the animals and tugged at a saddle; the horse snorted and tried to step out of the way. The other animals shifted and stamped.

“I know,” Botolf said softly. He moved around toward the horses. When he got to the animals beside Skeggi, he reached for the reins.

“So what’s going on?” Skeggi snapped over his shoulder, ripping open a saddlebag and growling at the frightened horse. “Whatever it is, you’re not going without me. I can smell it on you, you little bastard. You’re on to something. You’ve got a plan—a scheming weasel plan. You’re going for an easy kill somewhere. What is it? Tell me!”

He didn’t see the loops until they fell over his head.

The horses whinnied and reared to get away from the pain in their mouths as Botolf gave both sets of reins a sharp tug. Skeggi’s face went red, then purple, as the ropes pulled at his neck from both directions. He kicked, hissed, and spat, clawed at the ropes digging into him, and tried to loosen them, but that only made the horses back up harder. The tortured wheezes from his crushed windpipe grew fainter. His eyes rolled up into his head, and the life left his body.

The horses still tossed their heads and snorted, tugging on the lifeless body until precise strokes from Botolf’s sword cut it loose.

As Skeggi’s corpse hit the ground, Botolf started muttering soothing noises to the startled animals.

They settled down once he’d dragged the heavy body away, and none of them reacted when he brought out a wooden mallet and a horseshoe from the back of the barn.

NORTH
OF
TRONDHEIM,
NORTH
NORWAY

NOVEMBER,
AD
996

The lines of smoke were only visible when the grayish-blue sea was behind them. Trondheim was already fading into nothing, just dots of brown and green on a vast white carpet that sparkled with the early rays of morning sun.

“Fucking shithole,” Thora muttered. She staggered and righted herself, swinging her bound hands for balance.

“Where are you from, then?” Valgard asked.

“Another fucking shithole,” she snapped.

The snow hung heavy all around them, piled on the green branches of pine trees, covering rocks and potholes, muffling sound, and throwing the feeble light back at them. The party marched in the thick, woolen silence.

The sun climbed higher and higher still. The cold air burned Valgard’s lungs, but he had decided he would put up with anything because this was it. This was his chance. If he could find it—and harness it—

“Here.” The trek-master, an odd-looking man with a fat lower lip and bulging eyes, appeared by his elbow, showing Valgard his fingers. A glob of something sat there, looking like week-old snot.

“Oh. Yes. Thank you.”

“On your face.” The man grabbed his hand, slathered the glob on it, shrugged, and walked away.

His stomach turned. It smelled like . . .

“Seal fat. Old seal fat,” Valgard muttered. “I’ve really been missing out.”

He took a deep breath through his mouth and started slathering it on his exposed skin. As the grease covered his flesh, he almost thought he could feel the warmth returning. As they crested the hill, the bay spread out before them; the boats were already waiting to take them to the other side.

“So where now?” Botolf asked. The soldiers trudged along behind them, huddled in their thick furs and pushing one another to win
the coveted spots between the horses. They’d lost sight of the water early in the day as they headed north, as near as they could, staying out of snowdrifts and out of sight. Old habits died hard.

“Untie me,” Thora said, turning to Botolf. “Do it, and I’ll make it worth your while, big man.”

Botolf smiled. “Nice try, bitch, but you still have teeth. You’ll know we’re in real trouble when I do untie you. Now tell us.”

“Or what? I’ll have an accident like that big, fat bastard?”

Botolf fixed her with a level stare. “I don’t know what you mean. Poor Skeggi had his head kicked in by a horse. That’s why his face was so badly smashed.”

“Did you bring the mallet?”

“If you keep talking, you’ll find out,” Botolf replied.

Valgard watched as a grin slowly formed on Thora’s face. “I like you, Scrawny. I’ll kill you last.”

Botolf smiled back. “Look forward to it. So where are we going, my queen?”

Thora stopped and peered upward, looking to the skies. “I think we’re roughly right, but I won’t know for sure for a half-march. Ask me again when the stars are out.”

“Fair enough.”

Thora twisted to look at Valgard. He noted that she didn’t struggle for balance at all this time. “So, Slimy. What are you here for?”

Valgard looked at her with all the contempt he could muster. “Tell us about Skargrim’s fleet. And about the other woman.”

“I asked you a question,” Thora snapped. “You’re forgetting—”

Valgard stepped up quickly and jabbed her in the throat with his knuckles, just above the collarbone. He felt oddly calm as he watched her struggle to regain control over her lungs. “Hard to breathe?” he asked, and jabbed again. Her eyes screamed at him, but her face had started turning red. He shrugged it off. “Oh, yes. I forgot.” She tried to evade him as he grabbed for her hair, but he was quicker. He yanked her to her knees and forced her face-down into the snow.

“You’re getting enough air,” he said calmly, keeping his knee on her back. “You’re not going to die.” He twisted her head around so she could see him. “Unless you keep flapping your mouth like that, in which case I will slit your throat when I fucking feel like it. Understood?”

“Valgard . . . ,” Botolf said.

Thora coughed and spat. “Understood,” she wheezed, blinking away tears.

“Good,” Valgard said, pulling her to her feet.

She coughed again, hawked, turned her head carefully, and spat away from him. “Just wanted to check,” she said when she turned back.