Blood Will Follow (4 page)

They sat like that for a while, listening to the soft crackling of the fire. Audun chewed on the meat, savoring every bite. The steady movement of Fjölnir’s hand was mesmerizing as it flicked away the bits of wood that weren’t supposed to be there, carving out what looked to be a head on broad shoulders. Despite the aches and pains, Audun felt the weight of the last two weeks slowly ease off his chest.

After a while, Fjölnir put down the knife, reached out, and stirred the embers with a poker. He glanced at Audun as he said, “Fire . . . It’s a strange thing. It’s almost like an animal. If you treat it well, it does you good. But feed it too much and it burns down your house; put it out and you’re cold and miserable. It’s a strange thing, fire.” He looked at Audun again. One of the old man’s eyes, the right one, didn’t appear to be working properly, but the left eye sparkled, and a faint smile played on his lips. He looked about to say something; then he checked himself and went back to the whittling.

Audun frowned, but he was too tired to think. Fire . . . He remembered the flames on the wall, the heat in the forge. A short while later, he fell asleep to the sound of Fjölnir humming parts of an old tune.

He woke to the sound of hammering. Shutters had been opened, admitting the feeble rays of the sun, and Audun could smell the mist
on the morning air. Still half-asleep, he got out of bed and stood up, putting all his weight on the bad leg. His brain caught up with him and the shock of impending pain made him draw his breath—but there was none. He pulled the string on his worn, dirty pants very carefully and checked his hip. All that was left of yesterday’s fall was a fading yellow-and-purple bruise. The injury in his side already looked days old. He reached to scratch the phantom wound in his chest. His thick, calloused finger pushed through the hole in the tunic, searching for an itch, but all he found was scar tissue. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the memory of the wall, the wound, and the darkness howled and strained against its chains.

Unforgiving pressure from his bladder brought him back and told him in no uncertain terms what needed to be done. “Fine, fine,” he muttered. There were no things to gather; he’d say good-bye to Fjölnir, thank him, and be on his way, then take a piss in the woods when he was clear of the farmstead.

The old man had been busy in the yard. He’d set up a workbench and was chiseling something that might become a statue of some sort. He looked up, smiled, and nodded, then went back to work. After a moment, he looked back up and grinned. “Want to earn yourself a bowl of broth? There’s an ax in the shed. If a man were to need to go to the woods for whatever reason, he could do worse than bring back a bit of lumber. Half again a man’s height, about as thick as yourself. Like the piece I have here.”

“That’s a tree,” Audun blurted out.

“See? Sharp as a blade, and this early in the morning, too. Pine, if you please.” There was a definite glint in Fjölnir’s eye, and Audun was sure he saw a smirk as the old man went back to the carving.

Audun stood in the doorway for a moment. Then, cursing inwardly, he went to the shed.

For a farm that looked to be in the winter of its life, old Fjölnir kept some pretty sharp tools. Audun hefted the wood ax. The weight of it was satisfying. The handle was worn smooth.

When he came out again, Fjölnir caught his eye and smiled. He gestured to the east, and Audun, following his directions, was soon
walking in a sparse forest. Birches stretched their slim branches toward him, but he ignored them. A couple of days ago he might have seen the claws of cold death in the shapes of the soggy trees, but things were easier now. He had work to do.

When he found the tree he was looking for, Audun smiled for the first time in a long while. The bark felt rough under his hand. “I’ll give you a head start,” he said, patting it like a skittish horse. “Go on.”

The tree didn’t move.

“All right, then. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He flexed his muscles, cracked his neck, and swung.

The ax vibrated with the force of the blow. He strained to free the blade from the trunk and struck again. His aim was true, and a sliver of wood fell out of the wound. The cold, damp air was delicious in his lungs. He could feel his strength flooding back with every vicious swing of the heavy ax. His shirt soon clung to his back, and Audun gave himself up to the work. Before long, the tree trembled with every stroke. A push, a crash, and it was down.

Working without thinking, he removed the branches methodically and cut the tree down to the requested size. When he was done, Audun stepped back, put down the ax, and scratched his head.

“How—?” There was no horse on Fjölnir’s farm, so there could be only one answer. Audun bent down and wrapped his arms around the log. Straining, he managed to shift it up onto the stump of the tree. “How in Hel’s name did he—?” Audun reached around the log again. Frowning, he let go, picked up the ax, and cut a handhold on each side. Then he drew back and buried the ax in the wood, well past the midway point.

Audun bent his knees, growled low and hoisted the log onto his shoulder, grabbing the ax for support with his free hand. Turning carefully, he marched back to the farm.

When he got there, Fjölnir was waiting for him next to a big pile of woodcuttings. “Very good!” the old man shouted. “Need any help with that?”

“Not from you, old man,” Audun shot back. Normally he wouldn’t have said anything, but something about the graybeard set him at ease.

“Thank you,” Fjölnir said. “Could you put it over there?” He pointed toward a shed half-hidden behind the house; Audun hadn’t noticed it the night before. Fjölnir’s farm was definitely in better shape than he’d first thought.

When he came back, the old man had brought out a battered old handcart filled with lumber. He turned to Audun. “If you’re not in a hurry to leave, stranger, I could use some help with these fence posts.”

Audun shrugged. “Sure,” he said. To his surprise, he found that he rather liked Fjölnir’s company.

The day fell into a steady rhythm: heave rough wood, hammer, nails, move on. Audun had to admit that the old man was an excellent worker. There was no fuss, minimal talking, and no stupidity. The old man did what needed to be done and never got in his way.
Thank the gods for every man who isn’t an idiot
, Audun thought. Then he grinned. That would be the kind of thing he’d have muttered under his breath crossing the square in Stenvik, before . . .

“What happened?”

The question came out of nowhere and broke the quiet.

“I . . . What?”

“Tell me.”

Audun looked at the old man, who just looked levelly back at him with his one good eye. “There . . . um . . . there was a siege. Around Stenvik. Someone called Skargrim surrounded the city.” Fjölnir nodded at the mention of the name. “A lot of good men died.” Audun found he was grasping the handle of the sledgehammer. His knuckles were white. With great effort, he managed to relax his fingers and put it down.

“And?”

“And . . . we defeated him. Them. There were more.”

“And was that it?”

“No. King Olav came and took over.”

Fjölnir frowned. “And how did you survive?”

Audun’s throat was suddenly dry. His chest itched something fierce, but the words caught in his throat. It felt like Fjölnir was looking through him now. His face flushed, and he reached for the sledgehammer.

“I just did,” he growled.

The hammer blow split the fencepost in two.

Fjölnir handed him another without a word and Audun drove it into the ground.

They continued working as their shadows grew longer. Finally, Fjölnir spoke. “Time for home and food.”

Audun threw the sledgehammer on the cart. He could feel his muscles, but in a pleasant way; it was an ache that said he’d put in a day’s work. The pain from his back was gone, and the wound in his side had all but disappeared. After he had smashed the fencepost, Fjölnir had not brought up Stenvik again. Audun frowned. Part of his mind sought to understand his current situation, but another part of him remembered all too well. He did not want to think about how the cold steel had pierced his skin, ripped through his muscles, and punctured his heart as it tore through his back when Harald had skewered him on the wall.

The thought came like a bucket of cold water.
Injured.
He’d been injured, badly. But it had been all right because Ulfar had jumped and they’d escaped.

Injured. He’d just been injured.

“What do you want to eat?” Fjölnir asked as they headed back home, following the line of the fence they’d erected.

“Food would do,” Audun mumbled.

“Oh. So you can still talk,” the old man said. “Good. I was beginning to worry that I’d shut you up. So Stenvik was bad, was it?”

“It was,” Audun said.

“You saw things you wish you hadn’t seen,” Fjölnir said.

“I did,” Audun muttered.

“And did things you didn’t want to,” Fjölnir said. Audun stopped, turned and looked at the old man, who stood his ground and
returned the gaze. “And now it’s eating you up, and you’re afraid that if you talk about it—if you even
think
about it—it’ll come back and you’ll do it again.” Audun felt his breath quicken, felt his hands clench into fists, and still the old man did not move. “And you’re always angry.”

Fjölnir turned and walked toward home. “I know how it is. Come on, old bull,” he said over his shoulder. “You’ll tell me when we get home.”

Nothing more passed between them until the sun had set and they were back at the farmstead. Fjölnir busied himself getting a fire going, then disappeared for a moment and returned with a basket full of food. Audun saw turnips, roots, and a handful of green things, along with meat. “You’ve been working hard; you’ll need this,” he said as he gestured for Audun to remain seated. “You’re a big lad,” he added.

Soon something was bubbling in the pot, and a fat chunk of pork was roasting on the fire. Audun tried to speak up, but he was too tired.

“Right. That’s everything. I’ll just go and . . .” Fjölnir’s voice trailed off, and he stepped out again. When he came back, he was carrying a travel chest, which he put down by the door.

“Now,” he said, “we talk. First I’ll tell you of my son. He was like you, a big, strong lad. Not too sharp. He meant well, but there was always something in him. Pride, anger, I don’t know. I could talk to him, teach him, but only up to a point. The
thing
—the fire in him—it always took over.” The fire in the hearth crackled in agreement, and the room twisted and warped with the dancing shadows. “He left to go and find things—adventure, maybe, or honor, I guess. His place in the world. I used to be . . . I wasn’t always a gentle father.” The old man was miles away now. “So he needed to go away.”

“Do you know where he is now?”

Fjölnir blinked, and for a moment Audun was sure the old man didn’t recognize him. Then he smiled. “Oh yes. I do know. See, I had another son by another woman. Wish I never had. Nasty piece
of work, just like his mother. He was smart, too. Had a real knack for letting other people do his dirty work. And he . . . poisoned the mind of my son, turned him against me. He told him I was weak, old, and feeble.” The shadows behind Fjölnir were moving more than Audun thought they should. “I had to . . . I had to discipline them. But they’re out there. They’re out there waiting to come for me, to claim what’s theirs.”

The old man stopped talking, and a silence spread in the hut, only occasionally broken by the crackling of the fire.

“Food,” Fjölnir finally said. “We should eat.” He reached down and produced two mugs of mead from somewhere. “Drink this,” he said to Audun, who did not need to be told twice.

It was the sweetest, most delicious thing he’d ever tasted.

“Eat,” Fjölnir commanded. He’d carved off a chunk of glistening roast pork. The smell alone was enough to make Audun’s stomach lurch with hunger.

They ate and drank.

After a while, Fjölnir said, “I will guess that you didn’t have a good time with your father.”

“You’d guess right,” Audun said.

“What happened?”

“I killed him.”

Fjölnir sat in silence for a little while. “And was that when it happened?”

The tone—the understanding in the old man’s voice—sent a wave of sensation up Audun’s arms. “Yes” was all he could say.

“Tell me,” Fjölnir said.

“He was . . . I know now what he was. He was a coward and a bully, and he had no interest in a fair fight. I think he might have been good to my mother at the start, but as long as I could remember he’d beaten her. And me, if I made any noise.” The words that had been kept down for so long tumbled out of him. “And he beat us thoroughly. Mother didn’t go out for days on end. Fucking bastard,” Audun snarled. “He didn’t care about anyone but himself, so I started trying to find a place to work. There was a blacksmith in
my village; I began doing odd jobs for him, sneaking out when the old man was drunk. For some reason I grew up quick and was soon doing hammer work. In my twelfth summer, I packed on some muscle, but my father didn’t notice. Then once, he came home from drinking and I was standing too close to the door, so he punched me, sent me flying across the room. Then he grabbed Mother. He was rough with her, so I stood up, told him to let her go. He laughed at me. I told him again. He said, ‘Or what?’ I said I’d make him.”

Audun took a sip of mead. “That was one step too far. I got his attention. He went for me with his belt, tanned me, then grabbed me around the neck. He was going to strangle me, and I . . .”

“You felt the fire,” Fjölnir said. “There was a fire inside you. Something that burned. Some kind of beast that needed to get out.”

“Yes.”

There was a long pause as the two men eyed each other up.

“How did he die?” Fjölnir finally asked.

“I knocked him to the floor and broke his face,” Audun said. “I smashed it. I couldn’t stop hitting him.”

“And then . . . ?”

“My mother—she put a hand on my shoulder. I turned around and the look on her face made . . . It made the fire go away.” Audun took another, deeper, swig of mead. The sweetness was cloying. “I couldn’t stay. His friends would have rounded us up and killed us. My mother pleaded with me, insisted I take all she owned, which turned out to be three pieces of silver. She cried so much that I took them. Then I broke into the forge and took a hammer. I left the silver. I have been running since.”