Blood Will Follow (9 page)

Sixty ships spread out behind them, a wake of wood and wind and blades.

Stenvik was somewhere behind them, a shell of a town.

While he’d questioned the wisdom of setting off with winter so close, he had to say that it felt good to be on the move. Runar had suggested that when they beached after King Olav had been taken care of, he should pin the murder on Botolf and Skeggi and let the fanatics do what they wanted. Like all of Runar’s ideas, it was solid.

They were a good team. A good team that was going to run the country a whole lot better than King Olav would, standing at the bow with Finn and his slimy adviser. Praising the White Christ for his benevolence, no doubt.

They were flying before the wind. The oars were up. It was time.

Jorn caught Runar’s eye and nodded. The archer shifted to his left, nodded at Botolf, and signaled to Skeggi. All three of them turned and nodded to him.

Jorn cleared his throat and shouted. “Olav!”

The men sitting on the rowing benches shifted, their eyes on the king. Jorn could see some of them reach for weapons. The king didn’t turn.

“Olav Tryggvason!”

Finn appeared to hear him, but he did not move. A couple of Skeggi’s men were on their feet.

“
King Olav!
”

The man at the front of the ship turned slowly. He set his feet and looked at Jorn as if he’d never seen him before—as if he’d woken up and found a stranger in his bedchamber.

“Your mission is mindless! And now your reign ends! You are not fit to be a king!”

At this, King Olav smiled. “And I suppose you are, Jorn, Prince of the Dales?” Even against the wind, the king’s voice carried well.

“I am!” Jorn shouted. His voice broke, and it came out as a pathetic squeak. “Skeggi! Botolf!”

Botolf’s arm moved almost too fast to see. Blood burst out of Runar’s throat and he went down, coughing, kicking, and clutching a throwing knife. Jorn’s stomach dropped, his jaw dropped, and he only just felt the touch of the spear tips as they nudged his rib cage, his spine, his stomach.

Glancing down, he saw the thuggish, grinning faces of Skeggi’s men. Their spears were angled upward. Spear points tickled the backs of his knees. If he moved in any direction he’d be dead.

King Olav looked at him and smiled. Then he leaned over toward Finn, whispered something in his ear, turned around, and took up his place at the stern.

“Wait!” Jorn shouted. “Listen! I can—I was just testing them! This is a misunderstanding! It was all Botolf’s plan!” A spear point pressed uncomfortably hard in between his ribs.

The king did not move.

Finn and Valgard walked toward him. Behind them, daggers flashed as Botolf’s men made sure Runar was dead before they threw him overboard. Jorn watched the corpse of his childhood friend disappear in an instant beneath the waves.

Valgard ducked under the boom and looked at him with something resembling pity. “Your instinct was right,” he said. “You should always keep your voice down. You never know who might happen to be walking past your house. I heard everything you said.”

“You . . . you . . .” Words escaped Jorn. All he could feel was the horrible plunging sensation in his stomach, behind his ribs. He wanted to throw himself on a spear, but the urge to live burned him, screamed at him. With tears in his eyes, he looked at the healer. “Please,” he whispered. “Show mercy.”

He saw the creases form in the sallow skin before the laugh burst out of the skinny man’s mouth. Valgard smiled the gentlest smile, nodded, and tapped Finn on the elbow. The big man turned reluctantly and made his way forward. He shot Jorn one last, hateful glance before he was obscured by the mast.

Skeggi looked up from polishing a set of long metal pins with sharp points. Some were smooth, others were barbed, yet others square. One of them had a hook. “Right,
Prince
,” he said. “I have no quarrel with you. Not really. Except for thinking I could be bought and that I was disloyal to the king, which is a bit . . . you know.” He turned to a small metal dish mounted on three legs, filled with coals, twigs, and grass. He lit it casually with a fire-steel. “Neither does my father with your father. But your grandfather . . . he once stole three pigs and blamed it on my grandfather. So I figure I am owed an excuse.”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I beg your forgiveness!” Jorn blabbered.

“Oh, no,” Skeggi said, placing the tips of the pins gently on the brazier. “You’re going to have to be a lot louder than that, Prince.”

Jorn’s screams carried across the waves for quite some time.

NEAR
BYGLAND,
WEST
NORWAY

OCTOBER,
AD
996

“We come here for the king!”

Audun swallowed and blinked. They sounded far away, maybe two or three hundred yards. Hoofbeats echoed off the walls. The door was his only exit—straight into the face of whatever was out there. A cold fear gripped him. They knew. He’d said too much, and they knew. They had found him somehow. They were here for him. Audun tried to move, but his feet did not obey. He only just remembered to breathe.

“Well met, strangers,” Fjölnir shouted. “I’m afraid I can’t help you. The king isn’t here.” He sounded like he was smirking.

“Funny,” the other voice said after a while, sounding closer. In the yard. “Well met, old man. We come on behalf of King Olav.”

“And welcome you’ll be,” the old man said. “I am Fjölnir, and as you can see, mine is a humble home. What can I do for you?”

Dreamlike, Audun noticed the feeble autumn light leaking around the shutters covering the window, seeping in between wall boards, dancing around the dust motes.
Should fix that before winter
, he thought in a daze. Hooves on hard earth shook him out of it. Sharper now. Closer. Two horses? Four? The way the sound bounced off the buildings made it hard to determine. There were many of them, though. Too many. Audun’s chest felt tight, and his heart swelled. The horses were slowing down outside.

“You can give up whatever farmhands you have to the fight for the kingdom in the name of Our Savior Jesus the White Christ,” the voice snapped.

A brief pause. “I wish I could,” Fjölnir said. “But as you see, the time of young men has long passed in this corner of Setr Valley, I’m afraid.” There was a note of regret in his voice.

Men dismounted outside. “That’s a shame,” the voice said. “So you’re the only one here.” It snapped out orders. “Look in the barn. Search the house as well,”

“Do you seek shelter?” There was a cold formality to Fjölnir’s tone now. It was part question, part command, followed by a thump and a groan.

“Fuck your shelter, old man,” the voice snarled. “See if there is anything of use here.” The sound of wood breaking; doors smashed in.

“Over here,” someone else shouted.

Movement outside the walls. Indistinct voices, shouting. Sounds of anger and violence washed over Audun and finally the memory caught hold of him, squeezed him until he almost couldn’t breathe. Stenvik came back in rushes of sound, smell, sight. How he’d felt his body go cold, blacken from the fingertips, how he’d faded away until he was almost gone. How the center of him had felt blue and cold and hard like a fist-size diamond, and the words:

He remembered being dragged back in agony from death, screaming into the disappearing blackness. Tears rolled down his
face, caught in his stubble. His breath came in gasps. Snarling, he pummeled his thighs.

“Move!” he spat. “You bastard! Move!”

“Tools!” someone shouted from the yard. “Find some fucking tools!” The voice came closer. “You fucking—” A thump and a groan. And another. “Come on. Get up.” Pause. “Pull him up.” Pause. “You’re lucky that the king says thou shalt not kill—” Thump. “—unless necessary. Fucking—” Thump. Thump. Cough. Spit. “—lucky.” The voice was out of breath. “But it looks like you’ve spent some time making those, so you’re going to watch.”

Something scraped along the earth. Sounds of logs thrown down.

They’d found the statues.

Audun stared at the door. It looked infinitely far away. The walls warped and twisted before his eyes, lengthening in all directions.

“Check the house.”

Time slowed down. Audun watched himself dive to the floor, squeeze his bulk under the bunk in the corner farthest from the door, reach and haul Fjölnir’s traveling case in front of the bed just before there was a wall-shaking crash. Footsteps, then nothing. The case in front of him disappeared up and out of sight with the sound of a man straining; tough leather boots not five inches away from his nose. The smell of horse sweat and wet earth washed over him.

“This better be good,” someone mumbled. The boots turned, and the man walked away, over the smashed door, out into the dusky morning light. “Look at this!” the man shouted.

Audun tried to move, but he couldn’t. His body no longer felt like his own.

“What’s that?”

A crash as the box hit the ground.

“What’s this, old man? Leave the belt. Arngrim, take that hammer. Looks all right. See if you can improve on the looks of those statues.”

The first stroke of metal on wood blended into the second and the third, until all he could hear was one sound of destruction and pain.

Words came later. Shouted words. More pain.

After the horses left, there was silence.

A long while later, the steps creaked.

“You can come out now,” Fjölnir said. “They’re—” He coughed. “They’re gone.”

The rough wooden floor scraped Audun’s elbows as he inched from under the bunk, rose to his feet, and looked at the man in the doorway.

Fjölnir’s right eye was swollen shut and turning a dark shade of purple. His lips were cracked and pink, spit-mixed blood seeping from his gums. He stood in the doorway wheezing, bent at the hip, clutching something in his hand. Audun swallowed and started to speak but fell silent as another series of coughs wracked the old man’s body.

As Audun went to help, the old man shook his head without looking at him, raised his hand, and straightened up as much as he could.

“I was going to give you a good hammer, blacksmith,” he said. “They did not—do not—know what they’re doing, and that will be the end of them.” His face was a grimace of pain, but the left eye was hard and cold. “They did leave you this.” In his outstretched hand was a belt.

Burning with shame, Audun swallowed again. He tried to speak but the old man looked at him, almost kindly, and shook his head. “Take it,” he said.

He touched the belt. It was wide—nearly two inches—and felt supple under his fingers. The leather was thick, but the buckle made him pause. It was woven with what looked to be strings of steel, and the clasp was made of two interlocked hands that were somehow both delicate and oversized. It was a piece of singular craftsmanship. Out of habit, Audun turned it around to look at the back; familiar runes were etched on the flat side.
Control
and
force.

“What is this made of?” he asked.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Fjölnir said. A shadow of a grin ghosted into his one good eye. “Put it on.” He motioned
for him to put the belt on. The movement made him wince and clutch his ribs, but the old man still fixed him with a firm look. “This belt will give you strength, Audun Arngrimsson. It will help you keep the flames at bay. I wish I could say otherwise, but the words she spoke will give you trouble wherever you go. The quicker you embrace it, the better. Stay alive and stay strong.”

The belt fitted perfectly. When the hands clasped with a soft
clink
, something unlocked inside him. A sudden plunging feeling took his breath away, and he felt . . .
alive
. In control. Something swelled in his chest, and for a moment he felt like he belonged up among the stars.

The old man looked intently at him. When he saw Audun’s eyes open again, he grimaced. “It fits you well enough. You need to go now, though.” Fjölnir shuffled to one of the beds, still talking. “Those bastards are like to come back at any moment. If you stay here, there’ll be more trouble—it’ll seek you out. Keep moving.” He rummaged under the bedding until he found what he was looking for. “Here—take these as well,” he said, handing Audun a bundle of clothes. “Your pants smell like horseshit, and your tunic has a hole in it.”

In a daze, Audun accepted. The old man shuffled back and almost pushed him out of the house. “Now go, blacksmith,” he said. “Go and find whatever you need to find. And remember—you know fire. You’ve run a forge. Go.”

“But . . . you’re hurt,” Audun said.

“Yes, I am. But I’ll heal,” Fjölnir said. “I’ll heal faster if you’re not here to cause trouble and eat all my food,” he added with a grin. “Swear you will go.”

“I swear. Thank you,” Audun muttered, but Fjölnir waved him off. He walked backward over the smashed door and out of the house. Turning around, his breath caught.

The doors to the barn and both of the sheds had been broken. Six of the statues, half again the height of a man, had been dragged out into the yard and thoroughly destroyed. Audun bent down and picked up a piece. The detail in the carving showed a full-figured woman with flowing hair. Her fractured face looked back in sadness.

The scraping of wood on wood made him turn his head, just in time to see the remains of the door to the old gray house slot back into place.

A heavy loneliness settled on his shoulders like the yoke on an ox. Without a word, Audun got his bearings and walked toward the south.

When he had been gone for a good while, the door to the house toppled outward and Fjölnir stepped into the yard, leaning on a sturdy walking staff. He put his thumb and forefinger in his mouth and whistled loudly. Two large dogs came bounding from the forest. The smaller one, a white mastiff, sat down at the old man’s side. The larger, a gray wolfhound, stalked around him. Sniffing at his wounds, the beast growled.

“Shh, Frec. None of that. There is no need to chase. Where they’re going there are plenty of wolves in the woods.” The old man smiled and straightened up, looking an inch or two taller and a decade younger. There was a military air about him now. “No, they’ll get what they deserve,” he said. “Come on. We have work to do.”

He snapped his fingers and strode off into the forest, toward the east. The dogs fell in line behind him.

Alone on a long, winding road heading south along Setr Valley, Audun tried his best not to let his mind wander. The sky above him was clear and blue, with only the occasional wisp of a cloud spread across it. After putting on Fjölnir’s old clothes he looked more like a migrant worker and less like a roving wild man, but he still dreaded meeting the next traveler. So he walked.

Left, right, left, right.

Why had he not been able to charge into the fray and save Fjölnir from the beating?

Left, right, left, right.

Had he . . . died on the wall?

Left, right, left.

What was that thing he could feel? The blackness in his chest?

Right, left.

His heart beat faster. Filled with an urge, a longing to move, Audun started running, away from the farm, away from the shame, away from the questions in his mind.

The sun was past half-set, and darkness crept across the fields in its wake. The shadows had lengthened around him as he ran, and he was already winded and sore when he saw the fire. It was still just a dot, but it was clearly on his path. Breathing hard, Audun realized he could see white vapor coming from his nose and mouth.

It would not be a good night for sleeping rough.

His feet hurt from the running, as did his legs and back. He’d really given himself to it, enjoyed the raw feeling of cold air scraping his lungs, the soft ache in his legs. When he found his stride he’d decided that he was not allowed to stop; then he had started counting things as he went, anything to keep from thinking about everything. Slowing down now, Audun tried to gather his swirling, scattered thoughts. He waited for them to sweep him away, but they didn’t. Instead they were just . . . there, like a fire in a forge: a fire that could be stoked and controlled. Without thinking, his fingers brushed the girdle of his belt. It felt slightly warm to the touch. He pushed the thoughts away and tried to remember how to speak to people.

It was almost dusk when he neared the camp. There were a handful of travelers, men and women. He took this for a good sign and approached, making sure to show himself.

“Well met!” he shouted. His voice felt rusty.

Two of the men rose from the crackling fire and peered out into the darkness. “Well met, stranger,” the shorter one said.

“I seek shelter and a bit of warmth from your fire,” Audun said. “It’s getting cold out there,” he added lamely.

“Step closer and give us a look at you,” the shorter one said. Moving into the outer circle of flickering firelight, he showed his empty palms to the two men.

A brief glance passed between them, and then the shorter one nodded. “Enjoy our fire, stranger. Do you have a name?”

“Audun . . . Fjölnisson,”

“Well met, Audun, son of Fjölnir. I am Breki and this is my brother, Bjorn.”

“Well met, brothers,” Audun said. He could feel the soft touch of the fire on his skin as he came closer.

“Bjorn will sit the first watch. You’ll sit with him and make sure the fire does not go out.”

Audun nodded. Twelve men and women sat around the fire; some acknowledged him with a look, others muttered a greeting, yet others did not seem to care. At the far edge of the light he could see four horses grazing, and behind them he could just make out the shape of two carts.