About the Author

Snorri Kristjansson was born in Iceland and is a writer and a teacher, as well as a stand-up comedian, actor and musician. He currently lives in Edinburgh with his artist wife. The Valhalla Saga, his Viking fantasy series, and The Helga Finnsdottir books, his Viking historical/crime series, are all published by Jo Fletcher Books.

Praise for Snorri Kristjansson

‘For Vikings done right, come to Snorri Kristjansson’
Mark Lawrence, bestselling author of Red Sister

‘The Valhalla Saga has definitely marked Snorri Kristjansson as an author to watch’
The Book Plank

‘Fans of David Gemmell’s work should feel right at home with this one’
Starburst Magazine on Swords of Good Men

‘These books are really rather spiffing and do indeed make Vikings seem like real men and not just a part of history that you learn about in school’
Book Geek Says on Blood Will Follow

‘Kristjansson’s sprawling cast of colorful characters and eye for historical detail lend this story gratifying verisimilitude’
Publishers Weekly on Swords of Good Men

‘Kristjansson takes the reader along at a breakneck speed, and it doesn’t let up until the final very end’
Historical Novel Society on Swords of Good Men

‘Kristjansson delivers another gripping read, proving he knows how to weave a tale that will enthrall his readers’
A Fantastical Librarian on Blood Will Follow

‘An action-filled book with a heart stopping plot and adrenaline fuelled battle scenes. 10 stars’
Fantasy Faction on Swords of Good Men

‘A frenetically fast fantasy novel . . . which due to its originality easily rises above the crowd’
Upcoming4.me on Blood Will Follow

‘I was gripped from beginning to end’
The Eloquent Page on Swords of Good Men

The Valhalla Saga

Swords of Good Men
Blood Will Follow
Path of Gods

Snorri Kristjansson

Swords of Good Men first published in Great Britain in 2013 by Jo Fletcher Books
Blood Will Follow first published in Great Britain in 2014 by Jo Fletcher Books
Path of Gods first published in Great Britain in 2015 by Jo Fletcher Books
This omnibus edition first published in ebook in Great Britain in 2018 by

Jo Fletcher Books
an imprint of
Quercus Publishing Ltd
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ

An Hachette UK company

Swords of Good Men copyright © Snorri Kristjansson 2013
Blood Will Follow copyright © Snorri Kristjansson 2014
Path of Gods copyright © Snorri Kristjansson 2015

The moral right of Snorri Kristjansson to be identified as the author of these works has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781787473683 (EBOOK OMNIBUS)
Swords of Good Men ISBN 9781782063339 (EBOOK)
Blood Will Follow ISBN 9781782063377 (EBOOK)
Path of Gods ISBN 9781784290467 (EBOOK)

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Also by Snorri Kristjansson

The Helga Finnsdottir Mysteries
Kin

To my wife and family.
Thank you.

Prologue

STENVIK, WEST NORWAY, SEPTEMBER AD 996

A line of pale grey moonlight crawled across the water. The heavy clouds drifted apart and a faint outline of the coast shimmered into view.

The man at the rudder broke the silence and pointed to shore. ‘That’s Stenvik there.’

Ulfar heard it before he saw it. Voices, shouts and cries carried across the sea, skipped past the line of moonlight, over the deeper, darker swathes of water and blended to form the noise of a town at night. A year ago his heart would have lifted to hear it. Now he just ached and stretched, moving slowly to work the cramp out of his long legs. When he’d sat up he nudged the man who slept in the boat next to him. ‘We’re here.’

‘… What?’ his cousin Geiri mumbled and rubbed his face, still more than half asleep. ‘When do we land? Where are we?’ He clambered to a sitting position and winced. ‘Next time I suggest sailing because it saves time—’

‘— I’ll just punch you in the back a couple of times and find a horse, shall I?’ Ulfar replied. Behind them the quiet sailor smirked. The merchant who owned the boat was sound asleep on all the furs he intended to sell in Stenvik. He’d left the two young men to squeeze in between sacks of wheat, planks of carved wood and blocks of amber. Geiri was shorter, so he’d had an easier time finding a comfortable position. Ulfar had retaliated by poking him in his sleep. Still, they couldn’t complain. Geiri had negotiated free passage from Hedeby all the way to southwest Norway just by mentioning his father and hinting at some undefined favour in the future. They could have navigated most of the way just by the blaze of greed in the merchant’s smile.

Tiny dots of fire caught Ulfar’s eye. He pointed them out to his cousin and they watched as Stenvik grew out of the dark.

‘Doesn’t look like much, does it?’ Ulfar muttered.

‘After Hedeby? Not really. But we still need to go there. Cheer up, you miserable goat. It’s the last one. After this one we go home.’

‘Good,’ Ulfar replied, and thought of Svealand. After the … accident, after Geiri’s father had intervened on his behalf and suggested – no, forced him – to go travelling with his cousin, he’d spent the first six months of the journey cursing his own stupidity, the next year or so enjoying the travel and the last four months being thoroughly done with the road. He touched the rune on the string around his neck. After Stenvik he was going back home no matter what.

‘Who’s there?’ someone cried from the docks.

‘Friend,’ the sailor yelled back. ‘Bringing a merchant with goods to trade and two passengers.’ At that the merchant awoke with a start, grabbed for his chest and fondled for his pouch. Satisfied that he had not been robbed at sea he sank back down, mumbling to no one in particular.

‘Dock over here,’ yelled another voice. The sailor pulled on the rudder and the boat changed course. A torch flared on the jetty and a big, grubby dockhand’s face emerged from the dark. ‘You’re out late, sailor,’ he barked.

‘Caught calm seas and tide out of Hedeby, thought I’d push it. Out late is better than out cold,’ the sailor replied.

‘That’s true,’ the man on the dock grunted. The two men went about the business of mooring the boat with easy, practised movements, and before long Ulfar and Geiri stood on the pier. Ulfar glanced at his cousin, who was still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. A full head taller than Geiri, right now Ulfar looked nothing like the son of a lesser noble. He brushed a strand of long black hair away from his eyes. Geiri was a good man, there was no doubt about it. They’d practically grown up together, and Geiri’s father was a great man, Ulfar knew. It was just frustrating to watch his cousin sometimes. He simply wasn’t … sharp enough. He hadn’t realized that the dockhand was going to offer them a place to stay, for one. Ulfar sighed and counted. One, two …

The grubby-faced man turned to Ulfar. ‘If you boys need somewhere to sleep I reckon I could help you out,’ he wheezed.

Ulfar would have brushed the man off, but Geiri spoke. ‘Thank you,’ he replied. ‘Stenvik impresses with its kindness to weary travellers. We’ll be glad to take you up on your offer.’

Wincing inwardly, Ulfar resisted the temptation to elbow his cousin and instead took the time to look around. Truth be told, the town of Stenvik didn’t impress with much apart from its gap-toothed hospitality. The jetty was serviceable enough, which made sense for a town this far west. He knew they raided the isles from here, and even down to the land of the Franks, but for all the stories he’d heard of their chieftain he’d expected … more. Something fiercer, maybe. Dragons’ heads and huge raiders on watch. The big, paved half-circle in front of them must be some kind of market area, he reasoned, but the houses around it looked rickety and run down.

‘Heh,’ the man replied. ‘You won’t be staying in the new town, so don’t get too chirpy about your lot.’

‘The new town?’ Geiri asked.

‘This is the old town,’ the dockhand wheezed. ‘Now we just unload the ships and such here. Nobody really lives here any more if they can help it. The new town is up there’ – he pointed to some kind of hill or mound. Unsure what to say, Geiri glanced at Ulfar. As usual Ulfar took pity on his cousin and rescued him from the awkward pause.

‘Yes. Very nice,’ he said. ‘It looks very … new.’

‘It’s good, isn’t it? But you’ll probably see it all in the morning. Follow me,’ the dockhand said. He shuffled out of the small circle of torchlight and towards a clump of houses. Geiri made to follow him.

Ulfar sighed. He had a mind to let the boy wander into the shadowy alleys of an unknown town by himself. He didn’t; instead he walked behind Geiri and looked after him, as he’d promised. As he’d been made to promise.

The man led them into the shadows between lean-tos, houses and wattle-woven shacks. Ulfar briefly felt for his shortsword, just to be sure. ‘Ain’t done too much to the old part since we built the new town,’ the dockhand rumbled as they tiptoed along the wooden walkway between the houses. ‘Still, it serves its purpose. Here we are.’ He stopped outside a hut. ‘Give me your packs, I’ll throw them in and then I’ll take you down to the old longhouse so you can get a bit of refreshment and maybe meet some of the locals.’ Ulfar grimaced in the dark. He’d met enough locals to last him a lifetime.

‘Thank you,’ Geiri said. ‘You’re a credit to your town.’

‘Heh,’ the dockhand said. ‘Not so sure about that. Not so sure at all. This way, boys, if you please,’ and with that he disappeared back into the shadows. Ulfar looked at Geiri, who simply shrugged.

‘We’re here now,’ he said. ‘Might as well go see what this town’s like. It’ll give us a head start on tomorrow.’

‘Lead the way,’ Ulfar replied, and they followed their guide’s fading footsteps towards the feeble pools of torchlight.

They found him waiting for them by the doors of an old long-house. ‘Here you go,’ the dockhand said. ‘This is where we feed the workers, the traders and whatever else might be floating around. As you know we’re in market season, so there might be some guests there as well. Take care of yourselves.’ With that he nodded to them and shuffled off into the darkness.

‘After you, my lord,’ Ulfar said.

‘Oh shut up,’ Geiri snapped back.

‘My sincerest pardons, highness,’ Ulfar said.

Geiri rolled his eyes. ‘One day I’ll find out what I’ve done to the gods and why they sent you to punish me.’

‘I think your majestic good looks offend Loki,’ Ulfar replied.

‘Probably,’ Geiri said as they stepped in.

Steam drifted lazily up to the smoke-stained rafters from the pots at the far end of the hall. Sturdy tables lined the timber walls and the smell of roasted meat lingered in the air. The long-house was about half-full. Without thinking Ulfar scanned, counted and evaluated. A handful of boisterous groups, jostling and laughing. About half of the others were tired-looking workers, quietly resting. The evening seemed to be winding down and turning into night. Ulfar spotted a table where a slim young man with thinning hair and sloping shoulders sat nursing a mug. He saw Ulfar looking and shrugged by way of permission.

‘I’ve found us a table,’ Ulfar said.

‘I’ll go get the ale,’ Geiri said.

‘Wait and watch, cousin,’ Ulfar said as he took a seat. ‘Wait and watch. One of these days I may be able to teach you to … observe.’ He gestured for Geiri to sit and nodded towards a big pillar on the wall halfway down the hall where a big, dishevelled man sat alone at a table, muttering to himself. Everything about him spoke of poor manners and worse grooming. Thinning, limp, dirty blond hair crept forward over a creased forehead, ending just above beady eyes and a mouth stuck in a permanent sneer of displeasure.

‘You bastards!’ the big man suddenly shouted, his pockmarked face beetroot-red. He squinted at the others inside the hall and banged on the table for emphasis. Snarling, he raised a battered wooden mug to his lips. ‘Y’think you’re so much better’n us just because you live in a stupid town! Think you’re—’ The rest of his words drowned in ale. He sputtered, swallowed and coughed. ‘And you charge too much for this piss!’

‘Shut up, pig-lover!’ someone shouted.

‘Who said that?’ the farmer yelled back, furious. ‘Who said that?’ He rose and staggered out onto the middle of the floor, his big frame swaying. ‘Come on then! I’ll have every last one of you!’ he shouted, brandishing his mug.

‘What are you going to do – grab us by the tail?’ someone shouted from another table. Pig snorts bounced off the walls, followed by raucous laughter.

Ulfar and Geiri watched as the farmer spun around, trying in vain to find the source of the insults. Groups of workers sat on benches up against the walls, eating, drinking and talking. No-one seemed to pay him any special mind, but his blood was up. He staggered over to a man sitting alone at a table in the corner by the door. ‘You!’ he shouted. ‘You’re in my seat.’

Ulfar nudged Geiri and pointed discreetly at the groups behind the pig farmer. Some of the men had stopped talking and were watching the exchange in the corner intently, but the fat pig farmer didn’t seem to notice. The man in the corner ignored him.

‘I said you’re in my seat. Move.’ The farmer’s voice was strained but the man at the table still ignored him, as if willing the big drunkard to disappear. ‘Move now, dogface, or I will break your head.’

One by one, the tables in the longhouse grew quiet. The sitting man sighed, reached for his mug of ale, drained it and rose.

‘… oh,’ Geiri whispered. A deadly silence filled the longhouse.

There was a tangible sense of mass about the man in the corner. A shock of unruly blond hair. Big shoulders, long arms, calloused hands with thick fingers. The man was short, but built like a bear. He put his mug down carefully and looked the pig farmer straight in the eye. Two steps took him to within fighting range. He stopped for a heartbeat. Then the stocky man moved past the pig farmer and walked towards the door without saying a word.

No one in the old longhouse spoke.

The farmer looked at the lone man’s back and seemed to struggle with the impulse to shout something, but thought better of it and sat down in the corner as the blond man left the longhouse.

Ulfar grinned. ‘See, Geiri. I am fortune’s gift to you. If it weren’t for me you’d have been pig fodder.’

‘It looks to me like the pig farmer had all the luck tonight,’ Geiri replied.

‘If that’s what you want to call it,’ the thin man next to Geiri said curtly. ‘Maybe fighting with Audun would have knocked some stupid out of him. Although if you want to pick someone for a drunken bash, maybe not the town blacksmith.’

‘No,’ Ulfar said, nodding. ‘No. Maybe not.’

They looked over to the corner where the pig farmer sat hunched over his mug, looking even more miserable than before. ‘I’m glad he didn’t – I’d have to clean up the mess. My name is Valgard, by the way. I make potions and mend wounds in this lovely town.’

‘Glad to meet you,’ Geiri said. ‘I am Geiri and this is Ulfar. We’ve come from Hedeby on business.’

‘Really?’ Valgard said. ‘You’re not drunk, you’re not slavering and you don’t smell of sheep. Are you sure?’

‘Yes,’ said Geiri. ‘We’re here to meet with Sigurd Aegisson.’

‘Ah,’ Valgard said. He finished his ale, stood up and smiled. ‘I wish you the best of luck.’ Then he left.

Geiri gave Ulfar a puzzled look. ‘What do you think that meant?’

Ulfar frowned. ‘I don’t know. I somehow doubt that it’s anything good. But on the other hand, with danger averted and the table to ourselves, you may now fetch us that ale.’

Geiri rolled his eyes. ‘You’re too kind.’

‘I know,’ Ulfar replied, grinning.

THE NORTH SEA

A few days’ sailing further north, the cold moonlight danced on decks, slid over tarred wood, caught on edges, hilts and the eyes of hard men. Some murmured to themselves. Others touched small tokens on leather thongs underneath their armour. They looked like ghosts gliding across a sea of silver. Moving nimbly, an armed man picked his way to the prow of the foremost ship. ‘We’ll be at Moster soon,’ he whispered into the shadows cast by the big masthead.

‘Good,’ a deep voice replied. ‘Good. She will get what she needs.’

A sharp wind whipped the salt-caked sails and drove the twelve sleek ships forward. Above, grey clouds scudded over the waxing moon. When they passed, the pale light fell on a small island ahead of the ships. A handful of stone buildings clustered in the lee of a hill; trees shied away from the cold sea winds.

The ships landed like a whisper.

Sails fell, sixty men leapt overboard and suddenly the beach was alive with moving bodies. A big shape emerged from the shadow of the masthead and made to leave.

‘Come to me.’ The voice was a whisper, a breeze on a freezing winter’s night, drifting in from the stern. A woman followed the voice, and walked to the mast. The big man walked to her and suddenly everything was quiet around them. ‘Here,’ she whispered. ‘Take this.’ She handed him a length of wood.

As he took it, she touched his bearded cheek and smiled.

‘Burn them. Burn them as they want to burn us.’

The spar of wood burst into green and white flames, revealing three vicious scars on the big man’s neck.

Screams and cries for help pierced the stillness. He jumped over the side of the ship and ran towards the house with the cross.

STENVIK

This had to be the mother of all headaches, Ulfar reasoned. Surely nobody had ever suffered like this. His skull seemed to be bursting slowly. Even the morning sun, shining cheekily through crevices in the walls, added to the pain. As did the sound of every laughing child, every hammer blow, every squealing pig. Especially the bloody pigs.

Maybe he shouldn’t have goaded Geiri into a fight last night. He liked his cousin; he was good company for travelling and had his head on straight most of the time. But they’d drunk too much, he’d been bored and Geiri was an easy target. Besides, the girl had been all right, and worth besting him for. Ulfar frowned, trying to remember. Inga, probably. Damn, his head hurt!

Ulfar smiled despite the pain. He’d always had it easy with girls. Although to be fair he hadn’t really had that much in the way of competition. He was handsome, clever and quick-witted. Most men he saw were either ignorant boys or oafish lugs with the grooming skills of a blind cow, so he’d learned to feel confident about his chances. Besides, he was a man of the world by now.

He stretched on his pallet, yawned and sighed. This constant travelling was such a chore. ‘I suppose it’s time to go find the chieftain of this pig town,’ he said to no one in particular, and got to his feet.

*

Audun sneered and spat. He did not like the market traders one bit. Idiots selling useless crap to fools. Changing things. Getting in the way. He’d been so close to letting go on one of them last night in the longhouse. So close.

‘Move!’

The stocky blond blacksmith grabbed a small, nervous cloth merchant and pushed him out of the way. The autumn market seemed to bring an endless supply of them from all over the world, shouting and yelling, pitching tents around the old town, hawking their wares in the streets, in the square and anywhere else they could find room. Drinking too much and trying to get him to fight. That ugly bastard last night had almost succeeded, too.

And now they were blocking the gate.

Of course the broken cart didn’t help.

He’d seen it happen, seen the driver, who was obviously another idiot, lead the cart too close to the side of the road in an effort to squeeze past another wagon and slip through the south gate, towards the harbour. He’d seen the rock and the hole, he’d seen the wheel bounce off one and into the other, and he’d heard the sharp crack when the axle gave. As the cart lurched, the man had tumbled off and banged his head. Served him right, Audun thought. Shouldn’t have let them in to begin with. But the road was blocked and this would not do. It would slow people down, keep them from the smithy and cost him business. And that he couldn’t afford.

He shouldered through the crowd in the market without thinking. Shouts and curses followed, but he didn’t care. Never had, never would, he muttered to himself. Talk is air.

When he first came to Stenvik, he’d been awed by the sheer size of the walls. At a towering twenty-five feet, covered with turf and sloping upwards at a steep angle, they had seemed impossibly wide at the base. Audun had admired the construction as he rode through the north gateway with his travelling companions. A stone-walled corridor wide enough to take two carts and high enough with room to spare for a man to walk upright, it had still taken their caravan a decent time to get through. He’d thought highly of the stonework, although some of the logs in the ceiling near the inside had struck him as oddly placed. On both ends of the gateway massive wooden gates were suspended over the openings, secured by thick ropes used for raising and lowering. What they lacked in the craft shown in the stonework they more than made up for in reliability. The gates were essentially sturdy, iron-bound pine logs stacked horizontally and set to be lowered into grooves in the walls. A short tour of the town had confirmed that the other three gates followed the same model.

At the time he’d been pleased with the craft of it.

Standing in the shadow of the same walls nearly two years later, looking at the suspended south gate, it seemed more like a cage door. And now the gateway was partially blocked by the cart. The space around the cart was crammed with the usual group of useless onlookers that seemed to gather on every such scene to lay blame, give pointless advice and avoid taking any action whatsoever. Audun gritted his teeth. Three of them were standing around the rear of the cart looking particularly miserable and staring alternately at the wheel, the broken shaft and the placid draft horse still tied to the trace.

He grabbed the nearest shoulder and yanked, forcing the man to face him.

‘You. Lead that half-dead nag on my signal.’

The man blinked and stared blankly back at him.

‘Now! Move!’ Audun half shoved the man towards the horse and turned his attention to the broken axle. Huge bags of feed had been piled topsy-turvy on the cart, and the jolt had proved too much. A quick inspection confirmed his suspicions. The other wheel would stay on, but this one was gone and would not carry weight. The cart would not be mended here, and there was hardly space to unload it.

Audun took up a position at the rear end, feeling under the collapsed side for a grip. When he’d found it, he spat into the palms of his hands, rubbed them together and grabbed the edge of the cart.

He bent his knees, straightened his back and growled low. Breathing through his nose, he slowly straightened his legs and lifted the corner of the cart. Moving his leg behind the wheel, he pushed it away from the wagon. The two men at the back stood by and gawped, as did the hapless farmer standing by the horse. ‘You two – help me, or by Thor I’ll drop it on your feet and smack you in the head!’ Audun hissed through clenched teeth. He turned to the front and snapped: ‘And you – get the bloody horse moving!’

After a brief moment of confusion, the farmers bumbled into action.

The two men in the back squeezed in on either side of Audun and tried their best to help bear the weight, and the third farmer started leading the horse. Sporadic cheers followed them through the gate and out of Stenvik.

‘Off the road!’ Audun commanded as soon as they’d cleared the gateway.

‘But …’ one of the farmers protested meekly.

Audun bit off the words, each a measured threat. ‘Off. The. Road.’

A couple of moments later the wagon was off the path into Stenvik, jolting among hastily pitched tents and rickety wattle huts outside the walls.

‘Down,’ he commanded. ‘Softly. Don’t break anything else.’

The farmers complied, and slowly the cart was brought to a halt.

While the two at the rear coughed and tried to catch their breath, the farmer leading the horse approached Audun, dragging his feet and staring at the ground.

‘Thank you for helping us. We could have been stuck there all day. Now we can—’

‘So this is yours?’ Audun cut in, bent double and breathing heavily.

‘What? Yes … yes it is.’

‘Seven silvers.’

The farmer looked at him, stunned.

‘… What?’

‘Seven silvers.’ Catching his breath, Audun straightened up and looked the farmer in the eyes. ‘I go get the tools and fix your cart. You give me seven silvers.’

‘But … I’ve not … It’s been a poor market for us!’

‘If you’ve made enough money to buy and pile feed bags on your cart until it breaks, you have no cause to complain.’ Audun walked over to the single wheel on the back end of the cart. He put his foot up on the axle, casually testing how much weight it supported. ‘I could always convert it into a sled for you …’

The farmer looked at him, dejected.

‘… Five?’

Audun frowned, then nodded. ‘Five silvers it is. Stay here.’

He turned around and headed back into town.

*

‘Valgard! Come quick!’

The boy who poked his head in through the doorway could not have been more than eight years old. Golden rays slipped past him, casting their light on dust motes dancing in the air in the tiny wooden hut.

A slim man with sloping shoulders sat hunched over a workbench in the corner. Jars and bowls of various sizes were ordered all around him on the surface. A small carved wooden figure of a woman holding a bundle of plants looked down on the tabletop.

‘Calm down. What’s happened?’ His voice was soothing, but he did not move a single muscle to acknowledge his visitor.

‘A cart broke in the south gate and a farmer fell and hit his head. He’s not moving and everybody’s angry.’

Valgard kept his eyes trained on the workbench. In his hand was a short but very sharp knife, on a small slate of stone in front of him a handful of black berries. He had just pierced the skin of a berry and was pressing it into a bowl, counting the drops. Sensing the boy was still hovering in the doorway, he sighed.

‘I’ll be there in a moment.’

‘I’ll go tell!’ the boy shouted as he sprinted off.

Valgard listened to the tread of the boy’s feet fading into the sounds of the town. It had been a good morning so far. He was nearly done with the juice for the mixture. Just two more … His knife hand began to shake. Valgard clenched his teeth and hissed: ‘No. No, you don’t. No.’ He forced himself to breathe as he’d learned. Slow. Slow everything down. He watched as the spasms in the hand died away till at last it was still and steady.

He cut twice more into the berry, collecting the juices into the bowl with practised ease and stowing the berries in a box. Then he took a satchel near the doorway and made to leave, but paused and reached for another small bag that sat on the far right of the workbench, grabbed it and left the house.

Behind him, a drop of black juice dripped from the knife point onto the bench.

It didn’t take Valgard long to find his patient. The cart driver was powerfully built, thick-limbed and out cold. He came to with a shriek and a moan as the cold water hit him in the face.

‘You just banged your head. It’s going to hurt for a while. Chew this when it does. Try not to move too much for a couple of days.’ Valgard pulled something that looked like a sliver of wood out of his bag. The driver eyed it and frowned. ‘Don’t be a fool. Take it. It’s just willow bark. Not too much at a time and you’ll be fine in a week,’ Valgard said gently.

Accepting the bark with reluctance, the driver looked at Valgard, the satchel and the empty water bucket at his feet. He blinked rapidly and his mouth moved, but no words came out.

‘Don’t worry,’ Valgard assured him. ‘You drive carts; I patch you up when you fall on your head.’ He stood up and headed back to his house, leaving the driver to look in confusion at a single wheel on a broken axle and wonder where the rest of his cart was.

*

‘If I ever have a son, I will send him out with gold enough to afford better lodgings than these.’ Ulfar ducked under the rickety doorframe and stepped into the street outside. The dockhand’s shack looked considerably worse in daylight than it had under the stars last night. ‘In fact, I think we might be sleeping in somebody’s outhouse. Indeed, if I ever have a son, I’ll buy him better lodgings, better—’

‘— clothes, prettier wenches, better food, finer wine and a golden chariot to cart your lily arse between silk pillows,’ Geiri finished as he emerged from the doorway behind the tall young noble.

Ulfar flashed him a winning smile. ‘Are we a little bit prickly today, my brother?’

Geiri shot him an annoyed glance. ‘Be quiet if you value your teeth, you traitor. And our fathers may share the same mother, but that does not make me your brother.’

Ulfar threw up his hands in a gesture of mock innocence. ‘Am I not your brother in arms, in travel and in song?’ he said, eyes glinting with poorly hidden amusement.

‘Not after last night you’re not. I’ve a mind to dump you back home and have them collect their debt of honour like they’d planned.’

Ulfar dismissed Geiri with a wave. ‘Forget it. I was bored. It was just one kiss. And you didn’t miss much. She smelled of sheep. Now, do you know your way around this town?’

‘Of course I don’t. Have you been to bloody Stenvik much?’ Geiri shot back. ‘Here’s what I know. It’s the only sizeable town this far west. Most defensible outpost on the west coast, apparently. Done. That’s all. Nobody should ever need to come here and the sooner we’re out the better. It’s an outpost and nothing more.’

‘Geiri, Geiri, Geiri. We must control ourselves.’ Ulfar subtly changed stance, aping someone much older as he beckoned for his travelling companion to follow him down the street towards the harbour. ‘You have been sent …’ he began, sounding remarkably like a pompous middle-aged chieftain. Geiri could not help but smirk. ‘You have been sent out into the world to see the sights, meet the men of note and let them know who you are. As a young man who will inherit the world’ – Ulfar’s sweeping gesture took in three wattle huts, a dirty screaming child running after a dog and a man pissing in the street – ‘it is your solemn duty to get to know other and lesser peoples, find out what they eat, what they use, what they need and what they sell. Stenvik has become an important hub for trading and raiding. It may not look like anything, but there is much to be gained by connecting to their chieftain. Sigurd Aegisson. Man of reputation. Trade connections. Think forward, son.’ At the end of his speech, Ulfar nodded sagely, blinked at Geiri and grunted, breathing loudly through his nose.

‘I’ve said it before and I say it again – I hope you’ve never imitated my father to his face,’ Geiri said with a smile.

‘No. Never,’ Ulfar said gravely. ‘I have, however, done so to your milkmaid Hilda on occasion.’ He winked at Geiri.

‘What? And you never told me?’ his cousin exclaimed. Ulfar shrugged and tried his best to look innocent. ‘It doesn’t really matter, though …’ Geiri added. ‘I seem to remember her telling me that your impressions had made’ – Geiri made a suggestive hand gesture – ‘little impression on her.’

Ulfar considered this then nodded. He’d have to give him this one. ‘Well countered, Geiri. I’ll make a man of you yet.’

‘You always have to win, don’t you?’

‘Always, Geiri. Always.’

‘Well, maybe if you’d not needed to win the fight with Karle you wouldn’t have had to come here.’

‘It was an accident, I keep telling you,’ Ulfar snapped. ‘Not my fault he turned out to be the Queen’s cousin.’

‘His arm broke just as much,’ Geiri replied, enjoying himself.

‘Well he didn’t die. More’s the pity. And his arm has healed now and I’m still out in the middle of nowhere playing nursemaid to clueless royalty,’ Ulfar said.

‘Shut up or I’ll treat you like you deserve.’

‘Much like a bleating ewe, you simply don’t have the balls.’

The insults were comfortable and well-worn by now; something to pass the time. Their walk had brought them back down to the harbour. Behind them lay a town of hastily pitched tents, woven huts and frail wooden shacks. The old, run-down longhouse where they’d been drinking last night was visible over the tops of the houses. Ulfar’s head pounded with the memory. This was what their dockhand guide had called the old town.

‘Right then, Ulfar the Conqueror. Work your winning magic. Find us the way to the chieftain of this important hub of fish smell, street piss—’

‘Will you cease your endless complaining,’ Ulfar shot back as he scanned the area. ‘I’ll figure this out. We’ll ask someone. Find a nice fish-girl … or three …’

She caught his eye because she seemed to be the only person in the square who wasn’t moving. In fact it was almost unnerving how completely still she was. She just stood there, looking out to sea. Ulfar smiled to himself. She looked ripe for the picking.

‘Now, young Geiri.’

‘I’m three months older than you.’

‘Yet you never act like it. Now, young Geiri, I gather you had some trouble with the women last night. Watch and learn.’ Ulfar shot a meaningful glance towards the woman standing on the pier.

Geiri followed his gaze and frowned. ‘That one? She’s clearly waiting for a boat to come in. She’s not going to—’

‘Quiet, Geiri. Just watch the master.’

Ulfar ignored the bustle of the square. Instead he homed in on the girl. She did seem almost unnaturally still, though. As he sauntered towards her he wondered where the conversation would flow. Usually he was good at reading from their initial reactions what they wanted to hear, whether they wanted to be pushed or led, tempted or turned. He knew Geiri was staring daggers at his back and probably hoping he’d trip or something of the sort. Well, let him. Ulfar would never have Geiri’s wealth or honour, but the girls loved him better. Always had, always would.

Only a few steps now.

He planned his route, drifting towards her and stealing a glimpse. She was very pale but he liked that. Must mean she stayed a fair bit indoors, which was strange for this kind of town. Maybe she was a craftswoman. The red hair was nice. Looked a bit Celtic. He’d been with a slave girl a couple of months back somewhere on the mainland – hadn’t understood a word she said, but they’d got on well enough.

The memory made him smile.

He’d let himself accidentally happen to be near her now. Time for playing the lost traveller. In a smooth motion he turned towards the red-headed girl and put on a winning smile. ‘Hello. I’m wondering if you could tell me …’ And the words died in his throat. It was as if he didn’t exist to her. She didn’t acknowledge his presence. Instead she just stared at the sea. A spark shot up and down his spine. A challenge! He’d not had this before. The eyes. The eyes! Catch the eyes. He redoubled the charm, cleared his throat and moved so he was between her and the horizon.

‘Hello!’ He smiled. ‘I just arrived in town and was …’

Slowly, as if waking from a dream, she seemed to register him and realize that he was there. She looked him in the eyes and Ulfar felt like he’d been struck.

‘I’m … I’m … I’ve … We’re …’ he stammered, blushed and turned away. Furious heat burned his face. What? What just happened? His feet decided for him and walked him away from the pier, back towards his cousin.

Geiri looked him up and down. ‘So? Was it incredible? Did she laugh? Did she cry? Did she beg to bear your children?’ Ulfar found he couldn’t speak. Instead his eyes were drawn past and through Geiri, out to sea. After what seemed like an age he finally found some words. ‘She … um … she … Yes. I mean no.’

‘Ulfar … did you hit your head? What happened? What did she say to you?’

Ulfar briefly inspected his feet and fidgeted with his hair. ‘Nothing. Let’s go.’ He turned and walked away. Anywhere would do as long as it was away from the harbour. Vaguely aware that Geiri was shuffling behind him, Ulfar looked around for the biggest road leading out of the harbour square.

There.

A paved road ran due north, past the longhouse. As they breached the half-circle of houses around the harbour the old town thinned out around them. Ulfar drew a sharp breath.

What had looked like a hill when they arrived was in fact a fortress. The walls were massive, curving away in a perfect circle from a gate at the end of the road. They were the height of at least three if not four grown men, almost vertical and overgrown with grass. Sentries walked the walls, patrolling the gate at the end of the road.

‘Slow down, will you?’ Geiri muttered behind him as they walked towards the gate. Ulfar was in no mood to reply. ‘So that’s the new town. These guys seem to be serious about their fortifications, don’t they? This is like Trelleborg,’ Geiri ventured. Ulfar kept walking. The gate in the wall turned out to be the entrance into a short tunnel with a steady stream of people going in and out. They emerged on the other side and into a market square with stalls and carts wherever there was a bit of space. A road led straight north from the market to the centre of town, where a longhouse rose above the roofs of the surrounding houses. Without a word Ulfar walked towards it.

Geiri caught up with him at the door. ‘Okay. So. We’re here now.’ His cousin composed himself, smoothed out imaginary creases in his clothing and stood up straight. ‘Let’s go.’ He pushed at the thick oak doors, which swung open without a sound. He stepped inside. Ulfar followed.

The chieftain’s longhouse was empty save for two old men on an elevated platform at the far end. They seemed to be deep in conversation. Geiri moved towards them. ‘Svealand sends its greetings!’ he said loudly when he’d come halfway towards them.

The two men looked up. Something passed between them and the older one, a short, wiry man with a bushy white beard, stood and moved towards them.

‘Well met, Svealand,’ he said. ‘My name is Sven.’

‘No – I mean – I send greetings from Svealand,’ Geiri stammered. ‘I thought – are you Sigurd?’

‘No. My name is still Sven,’ the old man said, hardly able to contain his amusement. Ulfar could see the colour rise in his cousin’s cheeks. His own burned in response and he thought of the girl by the harbour. Nothing was real in this house because she wasn’t here. He felt like he was watching Geiri and the old man through water.

‘But you’ve not introduced yourself, Svealand. Who honours us with their company?’ the man named Sven asked, eyes glinting in the half-light.

‘Well met. My name—’ Geiri coughed and cleared his throat. ‘I am Geiri Alfgeirsson, son of—’

The old man snorted. ‘Svealand, my boy. Are you about to say you’re the son of Alfgeir Bjorne? Is that what you’re going to say?’

Geiri deflated. ‘… Yes?’

The old man’s eyes sparkled and he curbed a laugh. ‘Really. All right then. Let’s for a moment assume you are. What do you want, Geiri Alfgeirsson?’

‘My father has sent me to—’

‘Trade arms? Offer alliances? Take our gold and promise to come back with ships full of hardened Svear ready to do our bidding?’

Through the water Ulfar saw Geiri look at him with panic in his eyes. He saw his cousin beg for assistance, beg him to get them out of this mess. But she wasn’t there so it wasn’t real. He shrugged.

The old man looked at them then leaned towards Geiri, speaking softly. ‘Now, son. Let me tell you something. If you’ve come into Stenvik to lie and cheat you’re either very brave or not very smart. If you’ve come here in truth, think about this. Like a big sword, your father’s name has weight. If you want to lift something heavy you need to be strong. Now go away before my chieftain gets impatient and has you beheaded.’

Defeated, Geiri slunk off and Ulfar followed, his mind still at the harbour.

*

‘Just give me the damn flask.’ The hand was outstretched, huge, calloused and scarred, palm up.

‘I will, Harald. I will. Have I ever let you down?’

The big man snorted. Crammed into the little hut he looked ridiculously out of place. Like a bull, Valgard thought. Big, strong, clumsy, stupid and very dangerous. Especially when he wanted something.

And now Harald wanted his mixture.

‘Give me the bloody thing so I can go see Sigurd and give an account of the trip. They’re unloading the Westerdrake now but they’ll be done soon and I need to get back. Next time I want more. I ran out four days ago. I am not happy, Valgard.’

Valgard shivered. He had seen first-hand what happened when Harald was not happy, so he spoke quickly, forcing a note of brightness into his voice. ‘I understand, Harald. I do. I will make more for the next trip. Did you have much luck?’

Valgard handed over a small leather bottle.

‘Luck has nothing to do with it,’ the big captain spat as he grabbed the bottle. ‘Luck is for the weak. Luck has no place on a raid. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, of course.’ He brought it to his lips and tilted the flask carefully. A big drop of black, viscous liquid trickled out onto his tongue. Then another.

He lowered the bottle reluctantly and savoured the taste. Then he sighed.

‘That … is exactly what I needed. I will go to Sigurd and tell him of our victories and he will be pleased, I think.’ Harald rose and manoeuvred himself awkwardly out of the hut without sparing Valgard another word. A breeze with a hint of autumn colds to come was all he left as a token of his thanks.

When he was sure Harald had left, Valgard dropped the appearance of fearful respect and looked again at the ingredients on his workbench.

A smile spread slowly across his face.

VINGULMARK, EAST NORWAY

Torches set on pikes cast a flickering glow over the tiny settlement. A solid mass of armed men formed a silent ring of steel and blades, two thousand strong. Inside the metal band, confused and shivering people were being roused from run-down huts.

It was a raw night. The kind of night that bit your skin and chilled your bone. If there was a moon somewhere, it was hiding behind thick banks of grey cloud.

A blood night, Finn thought.

A small shrine to the old gods had been erected in the middle of the place. It was a pitiful thing. Poorly carved statues teetered over stains from animal sacrifices and a faint smell of rotting food lingered in the air. Just like all the others so far. He detached himself from his regiment, strode into the centre of the ring, took up a position next to the shrine and turned towards the locals.

‘Who is your chieftain?’ he shouted.

None of them seemed eager to move, but eventually a council of sorts emerged. Five men shuffled reluctantly from the safety of the crowd and formed a line in front of the big bearded soldier. That would be the council, then. They looked miserable, Finn thought. They were ragged and scrawny, a mismatched family of starved dogs. Filthy rag-wearing mud rollers, the lot of them. But orders were orders, and his were to draw the leaders out and keep them there until the King would speak to them. Still, their chieftain seemed to have at least a little pride left in him. He straightened his back and squared his broad shoulders. With fire in his eyes he looked at Finn and took a step forward. ‘We have done nothing wrong.’

‘That will be for him to decide.’

‘Him who?’

Finn glanced at the man but did not answer. He looked strong. The way he puffed his chest and arched his back, Finn reckoned that’s what he wanted to look like. However, experience had taught Finn the difference between strong men and fighters, and this man was a farmer, not a fighter. Furthermore he seemed angry, and angry farmers had no business being out on a blood night. No business at all.

Out of the corner of his eye he spied movement. Unlike the confused peasants, he did not need to turn and look. He knew very well what was happening.

To his side, the soldiers in the ring made way for a man on horseback.

Straight blond hair framed a handsome, clean-shaven face. The rings in his mail shirt gleamed in the firelight and the silver embroidery on the cloak slung around his shoulders seemed to come to life, flowing up and down his arms and back. A simple metal band sat in place of a crown.

King Olav Tryggvason rode slowly into the centre of the settlement, past the men and the women, the young and the old, towards Finn and the pathetic village council.

As instructed, Finn had made them stand next to the shrine. When the King saw it, he pulled the reins on his horse and stopped. Dismounting swiftly, he walked around the shrine, inspecting the crude idols of Odin, Thor and Freya in turn. Finn watched as he bowed his head and clutched his hand to his chest, thumbing that strange necklace of his, the cross that looked like a Thor’s Hammer but without the head.

As Finn and the farmer watched, he turned and looked at them.

His features betrayed no emotion.

He walked slowly over to the man who had claimed to be the leader of the settlement. When he was close enough he fixed him with a cold look.

‘Who is your god?’

The man seemed confused at this.

‘Our god? What do you mean?’ He looked at the King for explanation. None was forthcoming. Looking at the idols, light dawned. ‘Oh. I understand. We sacrifice to Odin for the battle, Thor for crops and Freya for fertility, just like everybody else.’

King Olav looked straight at the leader. ‘For this you will give me twenty of your strongest men.’ The chieftain’s eyes opened wide, and he moved to protest. King Olav silenced him. ‘Choose them now. If you object, I take thirty.’

The farmer tensed his shoulders and took a step forward, poised and ready to strike. An almost imperceptible gesture from the King stopped him in his tracks.

Finn watched the fighting spirit in the man’s eyes fade from a burning fire to a flickering candle flame. After a brief while he turned towards the crowd and began shouting names. The King’s new men emerged reluctantly from the crowd.

‘You are my soldiers now,’ King Olav proclaimed over the shuffling group and motioned for them to leave. The soldiers stepped aside again, allowing the twenty recruits to leave the settlement.

Their friends, families and lovers watched them depart.

Olav waited until the recruits had left and the circle had closed. ‘I will deal with them according to their conduct, and by their own standards I will judge them. Then they will know that I am the Lord,’ he said softly to himself, and moved towards his mount.

‘This is not right,’ the village leader blurted, taking another step towards the king. His face was flushed. ‘You cannot take the men away from us to fight for you. For what? For sacrificing to the gods? Who’s going to defend us? Who’s going to harvest? We will starve! We will … we …’ the chieftain’s words faltered as Olav turned back towards him, looking him in the eye. Finn watched the man wilt under the King’s steely gaze.

‘Are you the leader of these people?’ Olav asked quietly.

‘Y-yes.’ The man looked around, but found little support. ‘Yes, I am.’

‘Are you the man they have turned to in their hour of need?’ the King continued, tension building in his voice.

‘I … yes.’

‘Have you taken responsibility for their lives? Their eternal lives? And have you led them in worship of’ – the King drew a breath and composed himself – ‘these gods?’ He gestured towards the shrine.

‘Yes.’

King Olav Tryggvason looked at the man standing before him and seemed to come to a decision.

‘Do you have any sons?’ he asked.

‘No. Not yet,’ the man replied.

‘Good.’

In a flash the King drew his sword and cut through the village leader’s throat with one forceful swing.

With eyes wide open and blood gushing from his throat the farmer collapsed onto the ground. King Olav had already moved on to the man next to the dying leader and fixed him with a level gaze, and now he spoke in calm, reassuring tones. ‘You are the chieftain of Vingulmark. This settlement will renounce its heathen ways. You will be responsible for removing the totems. You will not make sacrifices to the old gods. You will answer to me, and I will be your king. In time, I will send holy men to see how you fare, collect my due and teach you about the White Christ.’

The newly appointed leader looked from Olav’s face to the blood dripping off the point of his sword, and from there down to the dead man at his feet. Then he nodded, eyes wide with fear.

King Olav turned and looked at the assembled peasants.

Gaunt faces with hungry eyes stared back at him.

Instinctively, he made the sign of the cross over his chest and turned to Finn.

‘We leave now. Gather the men.’

‘Do we take supplies, my lord?’

Olav paused for a second and cast a sideways glance at Finn. Then he looked again at the forlorn group of peasants, staring at their dead leader.

‘There is nothing more here for me.’ He shook his head almost imperceptibly, mounted up and guided his horse to a slow walk out of the settlement.

AT SEA

Four oars sliced into the velvet ocean, making almost no sound. A small boat skimmed across the water, heading for the darkened mass of shore. Away from the rowers, two figures huddled in shadows in the bow.

‘It is a good night,’ a sibilant voice whispered. ‘She will be pleased that we are fulfilling the will of the gods. The signs are favourable.’

‘And so they will remain if you shut your mouth,’ another voice replied. The oars kept up their silent work as the boat moved on towards its destination.

STENVIK

Geiri leaned against a support beam in the corner, eyes closed, arms crossed. One hand rubbed and pinched at his brow. Without opening his eyes, he spoke.

‘Let me see if I understand this.’

‘Please. I know. I’m sorry. I said already.’

‘No. No, I want to understand.’

Ulfar paced back and forth restlessly in the cramped hut. ‘I don’t—’

Geiri cut in. ‘Two years. From the south of Svealand to Holmsgard, from Hedeby to bloody Aldeigjuborg and halfway to Smolensk and back. And we have only one town to see before we can go home, when your debt of honour will be repaid and we can inherit what our fathers have built. Only one town.’

‘Geiri, I—’

‘One town. With one provincial chieftain that we need to see and impress once, so he’ll continue trading with our fathers and then with us. One stinking town. And you go and get your head all wrong over a girl.’ Ulfar winced but Geiri didn’t notice. ‘Leaving your brain in your pants and your tongue on the pier. Leaving me to make some half-cooked introductions which I made a mess of—’ Geiri took a deep breath, scowled and tried to control his temper. ‘Your head wasn’t there, cousin. Your mind was down on that pier. Because of a girl. A girl. You know, I stopped counting a year ago, Ulfar. Every port. Every market. Twice, sometimes three times. Sisters at one point. You’d have had them on the ships if you could. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a school of seal-women trailing us coming here. And then you let me down like that over one stupid cow.’

One moment Ulfar was standing a few feet away, the next he’d thrown a jab directly at Geiri’s jaw.

He stormed out as his friend crumpled to the floor and stalked down the wooden walkway stringing together an impressive list of colourful curses. Fresh, cold autumn air and morning drizzle did little to improve his mood.

It had been inevitable, though. Geiri had not spoken to him all of yesterday after the disastrous meeting with the old man, and the tension had been building between them. He could understand that his friend would be a little annoyed, but he took it too far by a ship’s length. It was one town. One town! Who cared? Ulfar kicked at a stone and missed. Those greybeards would not have had any time for pleasantries or trade talk anyway. Besides, he doubted that even his best performance would have swayed that particular chieftain. From the looks of it the only thing that would have impressed him in the least would have been walking in holding the man-sized jaws of the Worm of Midgard, and even then he’d probably ask what you’d planned for the rest of the day.

That being said, Geiri was right. It had been an absolute disaster. They’d looked like foolish boys. Geiri had simply not been prepared to speak for them yesterday, and he himself had been in no mood.

That woman. Girl. Woman.

Thinking of her made him shiver.

He had moved in, brimming with confidence, opened his mouth to speak, looked in her eyes and simply lost himself.

She’d seen right through him. At least it had felt that way. He had tried to turn up the charm, but inside he’d felt increasingly naked and vulnerable. She’d undressed and disarmed him, without so much as a word.

Those eyes.

Even thinking about her felt strange. His scalp tingled, his eyes felt blurry and his heart beat faster. What was this? Witchcraft?

Ulfar ambled between huts, trying to walk the annoyance off. His feet took him through the south gateway and into the market square of the new town. The people of Stenvik were out and about, most of them seeming intent on getting in his way. He noticed the blond blacksmith they’d seen in the longhouse on the first night. This time he was wearing a leather apron and carrying firewood into a smithy. Ulfar found himself moving away from the vendors, north towards the centre and the longhouse where they’d had that disastrous meeting yesterday. Maybe he could walk across town and away from this strange feeling. Shake it loose. Go back down to the seaside, or out through one of the smaller side gates. Into the forest to the north. Maybe he could loiter at the market, see if the merchants had something to distract him.

There had been so much sadness in those eyes. Like she’d known every trick he would use before he’d thought of it and felt disappointed that he thought he would need to. Like she knew he was going to try to deceive her. Like somehow he’d already let her down, and he would never be able to make it better. Like seeing him could mean nothing good. She had stung him more than he cared to admit with just one look.

Ulfar walked on past the longhouse, head down. He would have to apologize to Geiri. He hadn’t meant to hit him, he shouldn’t have and he wouldn’t again. Could they make amends, maybe get to speak to the chieftain himself? Was there any way to salvage this, or should they just leave? The thought of leaving made him wince. He had to see her again. He had to.

*

‘… How many?’

The man in the high seat leaned forward. Thick, silver-grey hair in a plait held together with bronze wire snaked down over one shoulder. Weather-beaten skin stretched taut, thin lips and blue eyes composed the features of a slim man of average height. Still Sigurd Aegisson, chieftain of Stenvik, had stared down some big men in his time, and now he was looking down on the portly friar standing on the longhouse floor.

‘At least ten. There could have been more. I didn’t count.’ The friar shuddered but did not seem to notice. Wearing a simple brown robe with fresh rips, he looked likely to collapse on the spot. The left side of his face was covered with bruises and his shoes were badly torn. ‘They came at dusk. Howled like wolves, they did. Creatures out of the very pit of Hell, abominations on our Lord’s earth.’ He made the sign of the cross. ‘All with the claws of the evil one on their necks. Axes and swords and the green fire of the devil himself—’

‘Spare me your Christ-babble.’ Sigurd shook his hand dismissively. ‘You settled in Moster, we’ve left you alone, you’ve kept to yourselves. That’s the arrangement. And now you’re here and you’d like me to believe that there is an army coming from the north.’ The man nodded. ‘An invincible army of raiders.’ The man nodded again. ‘On ten ships.’ The man nodded again, hesitant. Sigurd continued. ‘Did they have Jotuns with them, maybe? Fire-breathing giants? Was the lead ship possibly made of nails, ripped from the fingers and toes of the dead?’

To Sigurd’s right, Harald snickered and shot a glance at Thorvald on the left. The tall, wiry scout frowned back and motioned for the captain to be quiet. The friar standing in front of Sigurd scowled. ‘Don’t mock me with heathen stories of your barbarian end of days, Sigurd son of Aegir. I saw what I saw.’

‘And what would you have me do then, Friar Johann?’ Sigurd snapped. ‘Unlike you, I don’t need to move around until I find an island small enough to hold only people that agree with me. What I do need to do is keep the people of Stenvik as alive and well as I possibly can. That is why I am here’ – Sigurd slapped the solid arm of the high seat for emphasis – ‘and you’re there.’ He gestured down to Friar Johann. ‘So consider my options. What happens if you’re correct? Stenvik has maybe twelve hundred men who could hold a sword, five hundred of whom are fighters. Damn good fighters, but just five hundred. Ten ships is not much but it still means two hundred raiders, possibly three hundred.’ Sigurd motioned at Harald, who shot the friar a filthy look. ‘Do you want me to ready our twenty ships and send them to the sea searching for ghosts? For creatures from Hell?’ Sigurd gestured to Thorvald then continued: ‘Or perhaps send a party of our finest hunters to search for tracks? Should I send half my men into a battle that is at best evenly matched or send all of them out on a wild chase after a phantom raiding party, which will either leave me looking like a fool with no defences or a wise man with a score of dead brothers and warriors, sent to their deaths for your beliefs and your insistence on having your own settlement? Would you like me to decide on one of those choices?’

The friar looked down. ‘I cannot ask you to do that.’

‘No,’ Sigurd said. ‘No you damn well can’t. So why are you here, Friar Johann? And how did you get here? I am an old man, but unless memory fails me you were a member of the council and a man of name and responsibility in your settlement. Why did you not die defending your people, Johann?’

‘We do not believe in fighting,’ the friar muttered.

‘Yet you are asking me to believe in your stories of a horde of mystical northerners, raiding and ravaging just up my coast. You’re asking me to believe that they’ve somehow raised a party that has advanced within four days’ journey of Stenvik without any word getting back to anyone, and that they have razed just your little pile of rock and nothing else. And that nobody has spotted so much as a sail of theirs. I’ll tell you what I am going to do with you. I’ll—’

There was movement in the shadows behind the dais. Sven emerged, moved towards Sigurd’s seat, leaned in and whispered a few words in the chieftain’s ear.

Sigurd looked thoughtfully at the dejected friar. ‘Tell me about this so-called Devil’s Fire. It sounds like fun.’

The friar shuddered. ‘I was sleeping soundly when the screams started. When I got to my feet there was a noise … like a …’ He looked at his audience. ‘… Like a giant drawing a breath. Only it wasn’t. I went outside, and our church was on fire. And it wasn’t regular fire. It was like someone had draped our church in northern lights.’

‘They burned your roof? You Christians should be used to that by now,’ Harald smirked.

The friar turned to the burly captain as if noticing him for the first time. ‘No. Not the roof. The church.’

‘The church on Moster was built of stone, was it not?’ Sven asked.

‘Yes.’

An uneasy silence filled the room.

‘So … they set fire to the stone?’ Sigurd asked.

The friar winced at the edge in his voice. ‘I’m telling you what I saw.’

Sigurd stared at him for a long time. Finally, the chieftain leaned back in his chair. ‘You’re a lucky man, Friar Johann. My charity is such that I would happily have had your head mounted on our wall so you could scout your army of mysterious demons for yourself, but wiser men than I look to your fate. Go now, get out of my sight and try to make yourself useful somehow. Go to Einar in the old longhouse and tell him I said he should feed you.’

The friar made to speak but thought better of it, turned and walked away from the high seat. Sigurd and his men watched him leave without a word.

Silence descended upon the chieftain’s longhouse as the large wooden door closed. Sigurd seemed lost in his own thoughts. Thorvald watched him intently. Harald leaned back in his chair and stifled a yawn. The mounted weapons, elaborate tapestries and gilded wooden carvings did little to relieve the oppressive silence.

Finally, Sigurd spoke.

‘So. What do you think?’

‘We cannot be certain of anything,’ Thorvald said. ‘Common robbers? Or do we think he’s telling the truth?’

‘A couple of stinking northerners decided to do away with the simpering cowards on their little island. Why do we care?’ Harald spat for emphasis. ‘Stupid place to put a church anyway, stone or no stone. I can’t say I blame whoever did it – I just hope they got loot to show for it. Less use than tits on a duck, those Christians.’

‘Still, we cannot ignore this,’ Sven said. ‘You heard the man.’ He walked off the dais and sat down by the long table that stretched almost all the way from the dais to the door.

‘I heard a lot of moaning, some nonsense about burning stone, and I saw a fat friar about to piss himself like a child. What do you mean, Sven?’ Sigurd snapped.

Sven’s voice was measured.

‘Scars of the evil one. On their necks.’

A grim silence descended.

Then Thorvald spoke.

‘He really did say that, didn’t he?’

‘Could be anyone or anything. It makes no sense,’ Harald interjected. ‘And why would he raid to the south? They’ll get nothing here. Much better to carve the belly of the pig and go west. Better loot, more women, less trouble.’

The old, bearded man shot the big sea captain a cold look. ‘And have you ever known him to be averse to a spot of trouble, Harald? We all knew that church would not sit well with the northerners.’

Sigurd sighed. ‘But why now?’

‘I don’t know, but I doubt he would move without reason,’ Sven replied.

Thorvald frowned. ‘I have heard and seen nothing of this, Sigurd. Nor has Sigmar or any of our men. You would think that word would have reached us if he was on the move, especially during market.’

Sigurd ignored the captain and the scout, looking directly at the old man. ‘What would you have done, Sven? It’s plain to see that King Olav can’t march in winter. If he waits until next summer the chieftains up north will be able to band together and give him a proper fight. He needs us as a wintering base. Would you have signed the treaty or would you have had the homestead of our fathers and our fathers’ fathers razed for being a centre for heathen worship in the west? Those were my choices.’

‘I know,’ Sven replied. ‘You did the only thing you could do. But think on this. We have already heard talk of the King sweeping across the south and east, much faster than we thought he would last year, and he is a good eight days away. We all know by now how he rules and what he does to those who go by the old ways. Who else would stand against him?’

‘Hm.’ Sigurd’s eye was drawn to a hunting dog lying under the table, gnawing on a large bone. A half-grown bitch approached, sniffing for the meat. The big dog growled, a low, steady sound. The smaller dog slunk away with its tail between its legs.

‘Thorvald, send out three of your men. Tell them to watch, listen and stay out of sight at all costs.’ Sigurd turned to Sven. ‘Your counsel is wise as always, but I feel I have to know for myself. Even though I think anyone – even him – raiding in my back yard would be unlikely.’

‘Very unlikely,’ Harald chimed in and spat on the floor.

NORTH OF STENVIK

The two men leapt over the side of the boat. The younger one waded onto the beach carrying small packs, while the older pushed the boat off. The oarsmen deftly reversed and disappeared out of sight almost without missing a beat.

Wading to shore, Ragnar looked to the skies as he’d done every single time at the start of a mission since Saxony, many years ago. He’d learned then that a man who looks for rain going in doesn’t get stuck in mud coming out. Clouds were gathering in the north, much as he had expected. They were still white, but given time they’d grow thick and grey. He shivered. In front of him Oraekja was already opening packs, taking out dry boots, trousers and animal skins.

‘The moon will be full soon,’ he muttered to himself.

‘She said—’ Oraekja piped up.

‘I know full well what she said,’ Ragnar snapped, cutting him off and turning away. He started his preparations in silence and allowed his mind to roam, ignoring the youngster. He had led advance parties for raids more times than he wanted to remember and sometimes he felt he should count each of his forty-two years twice. He felt old, and he certainly had the scars and the bald spots to prove it. He hadn’t told anyone, but recently he had aches and pains to match. He had always been a scout – slim, light, quick and slightly below average height – not the best for a wild charge but just right for slipping in under cover of darkness and doing the dirty work. And it had been all right, too, in the old days. Back then you knew what it was about. It was different now. Had been ever since she came along. Suddenly everyone jumped to her tune, even his very own brother. He could understand that the men were frightened of her – he’d seen what she could do with her fire and her spells – but he’d never seen his older brother afraid of anything. She just seemed to … own him. And on top of that she’d saddled him with the puppy – Oraekja. The boy was obviously smitten with her, but Ragnar could not help but feel that the little runt was a bit … different. He didn’t look like much, but he moved and listened well. There was something about his eyes, though. They were always glancing, looking, scanning, moving. One of them would slide to the side from time to time. Ragnar hated to admit it, but the boy made him uneasy. He could just about sneak and fight, sure enough – but Oraekja had none of the sense. The kind of sense that got you out of trouble before you got yourself into it. The kind of sense that was telling Ragnar in no uncertain terms how this particular mission was going to go. ‘Fenrir take their bones. All of them,’ he muttered to himself, spat on the ground and turned to the young man.

‘Right, puppy,’ he said in a voice laced with menace. ‘Ready?’

The fervour in the boy’s eyes worried him.

‘Yes.’

He motioned for quiet and pointed towards the treeline, towards the road he knew would be within walking distance from the beach. They set off, moving in tandem and looking exactly like two hunters heading to market.

Underneath the bundle of skins strapped to his side, Ragnar could feel the cold, hard fire-steel against his hip.

STENVIK

The sounds of children running, shouting and playing outside in the crisp morning air were anything but joyous to Valgard, hunched over his workbench. In his head they still pursued him, after all this time. The memory of their faces, feral and twisted in cruel anticipation, exploded in his head, their cries cutting him to the bone even now.

A tingling sensation spread from the back of his head. His heart started beating faster, harder. Tremors shook his shoulders and his breath caught in his throat. ‘No,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Not now. No. No. No.’ He could feel the muscles in his back locking. The cramps spread to his hips, down to his legs. His hands twisted and turned, resembling the claws of a tortured bird.

Gritting his teeth through the spreading pain, he thought of the pond. A quiet pond surrounded by tall trees and steeped in dark, green shadows in the middle of a forest. He envisioned the surface of the pond swelling slowly, a horrific beast rising from the depths. Around it, birds took off from nearby trees and cried out in warning. He imagined himself, powerful and muscle-bound, vibrant and strong, stepping out of the forest, striding towards the water’s edge and spreading his hands. Breathing slowly, he halted the rising of the water with the power of his mind. The beast snarled and strained against him, scales and teeth and a baleful, malicious eye visible under the translucent sheen of the water.

He regained control.

Slowly, the beast retreated back down into the dark waters, and Valgard came back from the lake in his mind to the workbench in his hut. He had to use the left hand to pry the right away from the edge, where white knuckles had grabbed hold and would not let go on their own.

‘Not now,’ he mumbled as cold sweat broke out on his forehead. ‘Not now. Maybe later, but not now.’

Shaking out the pain from his hands, he swallowed and composed himself, dried the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve and turned his attention to the workbench.

An array of jars, bowls and bags were arranged in a seemingly haphazard fashion about the surface, but there was a very particular system to it. His system. There had to be. You had to have access to the right things and in the right amounts, or the results would be … unfortunate. Spectacularly so in some cases, he mused. A healer that didn’t know his plants was no healer at all. At the time he had seized the idea of plant study just to get away from the other children and their relentless attacks, but he had to admit the old man had taught him well. He’d taught him all he knew about plants, in fact. This was why some of the plants on the table would have to be stored elsewhere, because if his mentor saw them there would be questions. Questions that Valgard had no interest in answering.

He clambered down from his stool and shuffled over to the doorway, stinging pains in his back reminding him of how close that had been. Wincing, he peered outside. A quick look satisfied him that he would have his privacy for a little while longer. Moving back over to the workbench, he quickly collected the bowls and bags that he needed. The wooden figurine stared at him impassively. ‘Shut up,’ he snapped, and turned the figure so that it faced away from the workbench.

He crawled under the bench, reached behind a bundle of wood and pulled out a small, intricately carved box. He made sure everything was in its place, felt for the plants, felt for the cool touch of metal, deposited the ingredients and returned the box to its hiding place. ‘Just in case,’ he muttered. ‘Just in case.’

Straightening up again, he sat down at the workbench. His hands started working seemingly of their own accord, tidying and ordering as he had been taught to do.

His brow furrowed in concentration as he gauged the situation. He knew full well what he wanted and how he was going to make it happen. He was going to make Harald the chieftain of Stenvik, whether the stinking brute liked it or not. Then he’d be Harald’s councillor and no one would ignore him. The foreigners were an interesting twist, though. Surely there must be some way of making that work in his favour. Speed things up a little.

He frowned and wondered if he’d made the right move.

There were many pieces on the board.

*

As his heart threatened to burst out of his chest, Ulfar’s brain scrambled to catch up.

‘Erm … thank you for the directions yesterday,’ he mumbled. Houses. He was in town somewhere, but he was not quite sure where. They were standing on a walkway between some sturdy wooden houses. Better than the ones outside the walls, anyway. He’d been staring at the ground, had rounded a corner and almost walked into her. Her curves led his eyes up a simple, light blue apron dress fastened with an elegant silver and black brooch, but now he could see nothing but eyes. Eyes that flickered between grey and blue, scrutinizing him, reading information out of every detail of his face.

He felt the heat spreading on his cheeks and realized to his horror that he was blushing. Embarrassment and fury sent his insides churning and he felt a little weak in the knees. He looked back at her.

She wore a crown of thick red hair, flowing in wild and unruly curls that seemed to leap and dance and have a life of their own, in stark contrast to her smooth and unblemished skin, the line of her jaw, her lips. Only her eyes seemed alive and seeking, the rest of her face could have been carved in marble. But the eyes looked at him and through him and he felt stripped of everything but the one thing he had to know.

‘What is your name?’ He blurted it out and wanted to kick himself. What is your name? What was he, twelve? What next? Run away and giggle? He was getting worse than Geiri, and he cursed himself inwardly for his own stupidity. Around them, Stenvik life eddied and swirled, taking little note of two young people talking.

Ulfar saw nothing but her.

He felt the ground slip away from him, so much so that he had to look down to make sure it was still there. Where were his words? Even her shoes were pretty, Bragi be damned. Her foot was pretty. The hem of her skirt was pretty. He felt as big as a field mouse, and made to turn away when a quiet voice broke the awkward silence.

‘Lilia.’

His heart stopped for a beat, then restarted with a flush of blood to his whole body. Stars burst inside him, and her name rang out in his head. Lilia. He turned and looked up at her.

An eternity passed.

‘Ulfar.’

He dared not blink, and noticed that she didn’t either. But neither of them looked away.

‘I …’ he started. Completely unbidden, the words marched to his mouth. ‘I did not know they had such precious gems in Stenvik.’

It happened in the blink of an eye. The first tear, the first tremble of the lip. Then she turned and ran.

He wanted to give chase but his legs wouldn’t obey. He noted through the haze that she rubbed her eyes with the sleeves of her shirt as she ran away.

He stood rooted to the spot for a long time afterwards, wondering what had just happened.

RAUKVIN, EAST NORWAY

Finn tasted blood as his head was knocked back. Two soldiers rushed to his aid and grabbed the arms of the farmer who had landed the lucky swing. Recovering, Finn threw a series of savage punches to the man’s face until he stopped struggling.

The soldiers dropped him to the ground.

Angered, Finn spat a glob of reddish spittle at the feet of the man and aimed a vicious kick at his ribs for good measure.

King Olav’s soldiers were fighting all over Raukvin. ‘Bloody pig-headed farmers and valley clods,’ he thought. ‘I hope the next batch does as they’re told.’ They were overwhelming the small village easily enough, just like they’d ploughed through the rest of the east, but Finn found himself wishing they could have bypassed it. There was nothing here. Woven huts, mangy cows, stinking mud-rollers. There was nothing to be had, and they’d picked up too many recruits from various places as it was. He’d heard rumours of dissension already. The young King would have his work cut out controlling the army if he continued like this.

A cheer went up to Finn’s left. In the middle of a dirt road four soldiers circled around a frightened girl. They shoved her back and forth between them, grabbing and tearing at her clothes. One of them had managed to get hold of her neckline and rip, exposing a breast. She tried to cover herself up but strong hands tore and pushed at her, grabbing and squeezing. Snarling, the soldiers circled. She looked about desperately for help, and her eyes met Finn’s.

She pleaded wordlessly with him to make them stop.

The tears made her eyes sparkle and shine like stars.

Her mouth started moving, but no sound escaped her lips.

Her full, young, beautiful lips.

He wanted to move. He wanted to help her. He wanted her.

But he couldn’t.

He was stuck to the spot. His legs wouldn’t move.

The hope in her eyes turned to despair, then resignation.

And just as quickly as it had been cast, the spell was broken. One of the soldiers, a big, burly man with a crooked nose and a split lip, decided that he would no longer be denied his spoils of war and yanked her to him by the hair. A coarse hand squeezed her breast roughly, then pushed up under her skirt.

She screamed then.

Screamed and squirmed and kicked out at her attackers, trying to dislodge their clawing hands.

Energized by her sudden reaction, the soldiers grinned at one another. One of them, a fat man with wobbling jowls, squeaked: ‘Hold her still, Birkir!’ He brushed a strand of greasy hair from his face and fumbled excitedly with his trousers, pushing at his belly to get to his belt, eyes alight with anticipation.

‘Stop.’

Suddenly King Olav was there, next to Finn.

The two men that saw him ceased immediately. The fat man and the brute kept pawing at the girl, who struggled with renewed vigour. The large man with the split lip grabbed her hair and pulled hard. She screamed again.

‘Let her go.’

One of the soldiers, a slender, dark-haired young man with an easy smile, stepped in front of the group. He was better dressed than the others and his eyes were alert. He held up his hand. The others stopped their groping, but the big man did not let go of his prize. The dark-haired soldier spoke.

‘My King, my name is Jorn, son of Ornulf Dale-Lord, and I am your humble servant. We joined your army two weeks ago when you swept through the valleys with this mighty host. The men are just taking their share of the glorious victory that you’ve wrought here with bravery and—’

‘No.’ King Olav did not take his eyes off the girl, who stared back at him, transfixed. ‘These are the old ways. We follow the word of the White Christ. You do unto others as you would have them do unto you.’

Jorn looked incredulously at the King. ‘Do unto others … ?’

King Olav turned to him. ‘You are not allowed to do anything you wouldn’t want them to do to you. No taking of women, no stealing, no unnecessary killing.’

Jorn frowned.

‘My lord, I do not understand. We signed up because the army is big. It’s the biggest in a long time. Nothing will get in our way. And now you’re telling us that we can’t take their things, and the occasional stray cat that wanders onto our path?’

‘No, you cannot. You shall adhere to my word, the word of the White Christ, and do unto others as you would have others do unto you.’

The man with the split lip grinned and rumbled, ‘So if I tell this bitch to fuck me, then I can fuck her? Sounds good to me!’

The fat man next to him giggled.

King Olav did not.

Instead he turned to the girl’s captor, who stood his ground and flashed an impudent grin.

Finn was petrified. He’d been in too many scraps with and against men like these, and he knew that they would kill before backing down.

King Olav did not seem to realize this.

Instead he fixed the brute with his gaze and said: ‘Let me repeat, my friend. The book of God tells us how it is.’ His voice became rhythmic, strong and soothing. ‘If a man hurts a woman, he shall be surely punished, according as the woman’s husband will lay upon him, and he shall pay as the judges determine.’

The soldiers watched him warily. While reciting, the King had walked slowly up to the large man. Balanced and strong, he carried himself like a fighter. At the moment Finn reckoned that was the only thing keeping him alive. The King continued talking.

‘And if any mischief follow, then thou shalt give life for life.’ He gently removed the mesmerized man’s hand from around the girl and extricated her from his grasp. She ran away, clutching the front of her shift to her breast. King Olav never lost eye contact with the big brawler. The silence was electric as they squared off. ‘Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, burning for burning, wound for wound.’

None of the soldiers moved.

King Olav continued: ‘Now go. Follow Finn. I need you to find me at least twenty men from this miserable place so we can keep moving.’

In the stunned silence, Finn found his voice. ‘Move!’ he barked. ‘We’re going to round up some bleating peasants. Now!’ He turned and walked towards the centre of the village.

Jorn turned. ‘Birkir, Havar, Runar. We’re moving.’ As one, the three men followed Jorn.

When Finn looked over his shoulder King Olav was gone.