Blood Will Follow (5 page)

Fjölnir nodded. “Thank you for telling me your story.” They sat quietly for some time until the old man rose, picked up a poker, and moved to the fire. “Look,” he said and blew on the embers. Flames danced toward the ceiling, tendrils stretching like flowers to the sun. “The flame is dangerous. It burns. But you decide how bad it gets.” He looked at Audun. “It does not own us. It does not decide who we are.
We
do.” He walked over to the chest by the door, picked
it up, and placed it in front of Audun. “I want you to have this,” he said. “It belonged to my son, but he has no claim to it now.”

“I can’t take it,” Audun said. “Whatever it is.”

“I would ask you to do it for me, as a favor. There will be a lot of trouble on your path before your journey is done, Audun Arngrimsson.”

Grinning, the old man reached into the apparently bottomless food basket. “Now we eat till we’re fat and drink till we’re drunk, and I’ll tell you a story of what happens if you spend a night in the forest when the moon is full!”

Audun accepted the refilled mug Fjölnir thrust at him and took another deep, long swig. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for my food. Thank you for—” His words failed him. “Thank you.”

The old man smiled. “Shut up and drink. Now, there are many places you can go when the moon is round as a whore’s teat, but my forest is not one of them. Let me tell you a story . . .”

The hammer blows from outside reverberated around the inside of Audun’s sore head. His mouth felt like an old sock, and his bladder was full to bursting point. He rolled out of bed and banged his knee on the chest. Muttering a curse, he stumbled to his feet and noticed that the hammering had stopped.

Fjölnir’s voice rang out across the farmstead. “Well met, strangers! What brings riders to my end of Setr Valley?”

VALLE,
WEST
NORWAY

OCTOBER,
AD
996

The air in the barn stank of moldering hay and horse sweat. Ulfar’s stomach turned. His skin was clammy, intermittently cold and hot, and he could feel the sheen of dirty sweat on his forehead under the greasy strands of long, black hair.

She was writhing under him, trying to make a good show of it, whoever she was. “Come on,” she whispered. “Come on, stranger. Come on.” There was an odd sort of desperation in her urging, he thought. She groped for him, with little luck. He tried to focus on her face. Sparkling blue eyes, blonde hair, tiny upturned nose. Freckles. She was pretty, in a country sort of way. He reached for her name but got lost in a fog of mead. Nothing was right. All he could feel were his breeches rubbing against the underside of his deflating cock.

He rolled off her. The straw scratched at him. She didn’t even say anything, just made a sound in her throat, a mixture of disappointment and disgust. He felt her buck her hips next to him as she struggled to adjust her clothes.

“Fucking wimp,” she spat as she rose and stormed off.

Ulfar didn’t care, wouldn’t have cared even if he were considerably less drunk. Still, if he hadn’t been so busy drinking away his winnings, he wouldn’t have boned her—or tried to, at any rate.

He snorted, rolled his eyes, and mumbled something that might have been a joke as he tugged up his breeches and pulled himself
to a position that was almost standing. When he stumbled outside the stables, the cold air hit him like a slap in the face. All the smells of the autumn night were amplified: the manure, the sour reek of horse piss and wet hay, the rotting leaves in the forest just past the fence. His stomach lurched, and he felt the bile rising. He leaned against the wall and fought it back down with great effort.

There was no denying it any longer.

“I fucking stink,” he slurred. “Fucking
stink
. Need to find clean clothes or something. And a bath.” He grinned, straightened up, and looked sternly at the tethering post. “Where’s my bath?” he commanded. “You there! You’re short, but you’ll have to do. Fetch me my bath. And a wench to put in it and put it in! Hah!”

“Hey! Limp-dick!” Someone rounded the corner and headed toward him: short, not too skinny. Farmer’s build, farmer’s clothes, fighter’s walk. Behind him came the blonde girl he’d just been with. Ann. Ann something.

“And I’m Ulfar!” Ulfar shouted back. “Nice to meet you!” He giggled. “What can I do for you, King Limp-dick? And your fetching wife, Queen Limp-dick?” He bowed unsteadily.

“That’s him, Torulf! He tried to rape me!” the girl said.

Ulfar laughed. “More like the other way around, sweetness,” he said. “Your wife . . . sister? Both? Tried her best to get me going, only she wasn’t very good. If you wait till morning, I might be able to teach her a couple of tricks. Won’t charge you much, either.” With great effort, he pushed off from the wall and balanced on his feet.

“He’s lying! Hit him, Torulf! Punch him in the face!” The girl’s voice was shrill with fury. Torulf was now close enough for Ulfar to get a good look at him, and the man turned out to be a boy, and the boy was younger than Ulfar had been expecting. Fourteen, maybe—but country strong. There was murder in his eyes, and somewhere in the back of Ulfar’s mind a little bit of common sense appeared.

“Listen . . . Torulf? Torulf. This is a mistake—a misunderstanding. I didn’t mean to say those things. Nothing happened. We can
talk—” The first blow landed on his shoulder. Torulf did not want to talk. “Stop. We
oouf
—” The second punch hit a lot harder, just below his rib cage. Ulfar lost the fight against the contents of his stomach and vomited all over his attacker, who squealed very unheroically. His lady unleashed a string of expletives at Ulfar.

“You should watch that language,” Ulfar slurred, drool dripping from his mouth. “You could shrivel a man’s cock with that mouth. Oh, wait. You already did.” The girl shrieked, pushed Torulf out of her way and picked up a stone to throw at him. The fury in her eyes awoke Ulfar’s survival instinct, and he stumbled away. She did not let up until she’d chased him out into the woods and the last missile had whizzed past his head, thwacking into a tree.

Ulfar collapsed in a huffing, sweaty, drunken heap. His limbs felt soft and squishy; his head was starting to pound. “Fucking bitch,” he muttered. “Fucking bitch fuck it all.” He hawked, spat, and lay down on his back. The ground was cold, wet, and solid. Above him, stars dusted the night sky. The night air was sobering him up some, and through the thumping in his head he could hear running water somewhere.

He vaguely remembered crossing a stream earlier in the day, just before he’d walked into town. If you could call it a town—longhouse, a few huts. Farmers nearby, fifty people at a push. He’d heard a few mutterings about King Olav taking some of the best farmhands but thought it prudent not to ask questions. They didn’t care much for their new king—that was good. They had ale and they had a worn old Tafl board, and so he’d quickly found himself hustling for coin. Now he wished he hadn’t spent it all on drink in the hope that it would help.

It hadn’t helped. However much he drank, she never went away.

It hadn’t helped to crawl on top of that village girl, either, and somewhere inside he’d known it wouldn’t. Now he just felt dirty. No matter what he did, his mind still went to Lilia every night, and the time they’d stolen in Stenvik. Little flashes of her were burned into his eyes: her crown of red hair made of fire in sunlight,
the necklace of blood that dragged her down to the ground like a stone in the ocean. And she would come back to him tonight, before he slept.

“So I might as well enjoy life until then,” he muttered. Grabbing hold of a low-hanging willow branch, he levered himself up and went in search of more ale.

“He was horrible. Really drunk. And he
stank
.” Anneli sniffed, wiped her face with her sleeve, and moved closer to where Jaki was sitting on the edge of his bed. “He held me down and . . . and . . .” She whimpered. “And he would have taken me, too, if your brother hadn’t dragged him off and punched him.” She pushed her chest against Jaki’s arm. “But then, instead of fighting like a man, he threw up on poor Torulf!”

Jaki’s laugh was harsh and mirthless. “Pussy Swede,” he sneered.

“Yes,” Anneli said, “not a real man, like you.” She leaned in and her hand landed on Jaki’s thigh. “My boys. You and your brothers have always protected me from everyone, Jaki. Everyone. And now this . . . stranger comes into our village—”

“What’d he look like?”

“Tall. Maybe taller than you. But skinny, and long black hair. Like a girl,” Anneli spat. “Disgusting.” She sniffed again. “I don’t know what he was wearing—maybe a blue cloak over a gray tunic, with a silvery dragon brooch and a brown leather hairband? I didn’t really look. I’m so scared, Jaki. So, so scared. He might wait for me and try to do it again, and maybe you won’t be there to protect me and—”

Jaki stood up and puffed out his chest. “That’s enough. No more talk now. I’m getting Jarli, and we’re gonna sort this out. Stay there.” He grabbed a shift and struggled into it.

“Of course. Just . . . ,” Anneli started, then, “Jaki—be careful . . . please?”

The young man set his broad, powerful shoulders and scowled. “I’m not the one who should be careful,” he said.

Anneli watched him leave. The moment the door closed, she stood up and followed, a glint in her eyes.

“Jarli!” Jaki banged on the door-frame of his brother’s hut. “Come on! Now! Hurry!”

The planks that formed a makeshift door moved, and a large, stocky young man peered out, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His blue eyes matched Jaki’s, as did the turn of his mouth. “Whadye want?” he slurred.

“Get your clothes on. Stranger tried to rape Anneli,” Jaki snapped.

The sleep vanished from Jarli’s face. “Coming,” he said. The door shut; moments later he stepped out, holding two inch-thick ax handles, one for him, one for his brother. “Where is he?”

“Torulf tried to fight—the bastard threw up on him and staggered into the bushes,” Jaki said. “Can’t have gone far.”

Jarli looked at him. “Threw up? Really?”

“Yes. Anneli says he was very drunk.”

“Right.” Jarli’s lip curled. “Let’s go. Wanna get more?”

“No. This is for us.”

Jarli nodded, and the two brothers strode off into the night.

The longhouse was almost quiet now, save for a few graybeards. Ulfar pushed his opponent’s king over. “And that’s you done,” he said.

“Bastard,” the old man spat. Behind him, his three friends shook their heads and muttered into their beards.

“Stay away from the corners next time. Might give your opponent a bit of a challenge,” Ulfar offered. “And pay up.” He raised his mug, drained it, and licked the last honeyed drops off the rim. “Or get me more ale. Your choice.”

The old man slammed two copper coins down on the table. “Fucking Swedes,” he growled.

“Yeah. Fucking Swedes. Horrible Swedes. It’s all our fault,” Ulfar said. “Always has been. And a good night to you. Who wants to go next?” None of the men standing around the table volunteered,
and Ulfar cursed himself inwardly. He was too drunk; he’d forgotten a cardinal rule—work the room, make them like you, never turn them on yourself. Sven would have said something about leading a lamb
to
rather than away from the slaughter. With great effort, Ulfar strapped on a smile, which was much harder to do after thinking of the old rogue. “Come now, lads. Anyone fancy their luck? I’ll put two down to your one.” He grabbed his empty mug. “Or three if someone fills this up.”

The door to the longhouse flew open, and two burly young men stepped in, scanning the room. Ulfar was up before he knew fully what he was reacting to.

“You,” the shorter one said, pointing at him.

“Yes?” Ulfar replied. The men around him shuffled quickly toward the walls. He could feel the warmth of the liquor draining away, replaced by the sinking feeling in his stomach. The headache started about then, too. This did not look good.

“Out,” the short man said.

“I’m fine here,” Ulfar replied. “Would you like a game? We were having such a nice time.”

“Jarli,” the shorter one said. The big guy stepped toward him and leveled what looked like the haft of an ax at his chest. “Out,” he rumbled.

“Why?” Ulfar said, retreating. He felt for the sword at his hip. “I don’t have a quarrel with you.”

“
Shut up!
” the smaller one screamed. “Shut the fuck up, you fucking piece-of-shit Swede! You know what you did, and you’re not fucking walking away from my town! He tried to rape Anneli!” he exclaimed to the graybeards in the longhouse. His big companion advanced, careful brawler-style.

Still holding the mug, Ulfar jumped up on the table and kicked a soup bowl at the larger one’s head. He swatted it away and took two more steps. He’d be within striking range in moments. “I didn’t—
do
—anything!” he shouted. “The girl wanted to go with me. I was drunk. I was too drunk, in fact, and then she stormed off! Just leave me alone!”

“Liar,” the big one growled and swung for Ulfar, hard enough to break both his legs.

Screaming with rage, Ulfar leapt over the ax handle, landed, and smashed the mug on the big man’s forehead. The big man bellowed and staggered, clutching his bleeding head and tilting it backward to get the blood out of his eyes. His smaller companion screamed and rushed toward them, but at that moment Ulfar jumped off the table, planted his foot on the big man’s chest, and pushed hard, sending the two men crashing back toward the door. He landed softly and was up in an instant with his sword drawn. He took two steps toward the young men getting up off the floor, who suddenly looked a lot less confident.

“I said—leave me—the
fuck
—alone!”

“You raped—,” the smaller one started, squirming away from the point of the sword.

“You say that one more time and I will spit you like a pig. I didn’t rape anyone. Your little slut friend was begging for it, and she’s pulling you along by the cock to make things happen in this shithole so she can have a thrill,” Ulfar said. “Now get the fuck out of my way so I can leave you sheep-fuckers to it.” The larger one shot him a baleful look as he stood up, but he stepped out of the way. “And drop the stick,” he added. “You, too,” Ulfar snapped at the shorter one, who looked reluctant to let it go. “Get some sense, boys.” Exhaustion hovered at the edge of his fury. “Just . . . get some sense.”

The big man grabbed his brother by the shoulder and pulled him aside, and Ulfar walked out of the longhouse with his sword drawn.

Something moved quickly in the shadows to his side, just at the edge of his vision. Still tingling from the fight, Ulfar spun around, seized the hand holding the rock and pulled the arm down hard across his knee, dragging his surprisingly light attacker off balance. He felt the snap and heard the rock tumble to the ground. The piercing scream was loud enough to save Anneli’s life—Ulfar’s sword stopped a finger’s breadth from her neck.