Chapter Forty-One: Varg

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

VARG

Varg crawled up a slope of patchy, frost-hard grass and thin soil, the Bloodsworn all about him. Ahead Edel, Torvik and her scouts were all crouched behind a rock. Edel was whispering to Glornir as they peered over the slope’s rim. The sun hovered over the peaks of the Boneback Mountains, but its touch had not yet reached the valley they were crawling through, shadows clinging to the valley floor, thick as mist.

The slope’s rim was close and Varg shuffled for a space as the Bloodsworn spread along it, all looking down into the valley beyond. Crawling up a slope like a lizard was not so easy to do with a shield on your back, a weapons belt about your waist and a spear in your fist. Einar Half-Troll took up more space than a boulder on the slope’s rim, but he looked back and beckoned to Varg, glowering at another Bloodsworn who was about to fill the space at Einar’s right. Varg scrambled up the remaining distance and settled beside Einar, who smiled at Varg and put a big finger to his lips. Einar had seemed to take a liking to him, ever since the oar-dance and Varg’s apology. He had even offered to share his loaf of bread at their last meal. Varg had gratefully accepted: anything was better than leather-hard mutton.

A valley opened up, steep-sloped, running north to south, with what looked like a well-used track cutting away to the east. A waterfall filled the northern edge of the valley, cascading down from a cliff face that Varg had to twist his head to see. A permanent cloud of mist swirled and churned at the waterfall’s foot, a pool spreading wide and breaking off into a handful of channels.

Three days had passed since Edel had found the corpses hanging from the trees, and with every step Varg had felt a mounting tension. There had been a war going on in his thought-cage about whether to talk to Skalk again about the conduction of an akáll, or whether he should wait for Glornir’s approval. Seeing Skalk’s conjuring of fire in his fist had only added to his confusion. It was only a single flame, but to Varg it had chilled his blood. But as they had travelled deeper into the Boneback Mountains that conflict had faded in his mind, overwhelmed by a growing sensation: a trembling in his blood. It was almost as if he could smell or sense a growing danger, like drawing closer to a rotting corpse.

The valley’s floor was in twilight shadow, but as Varg lay there the sun rose higher and light slid down the slopes like liquid gold, and the darkness retreated before it. The streams in the valley burst into glittering, blinding light. Varg heard Edel speaking in hushed tones to Glornir and Vol. Edel’s two wolfhounds were crouched, ears pricked forwards. One was growling. Edel pointed.

Varg saw movement: a figure appearing deep in the valley close to the waterfall. Even from this height Varg could tell that it was big. Muscled and antlered, with thick tusks jutting from its lower jaw, it emerged from a stand of pine trees and walked to the pool.

“What is that?” Varg hissed.

“Troll,” Einar said in his rumbling whisper.

The troll stopped at the pool’s edge and looked around, scanning the valley’s sides. It seemed to sniff the air and Varg felt a moment of fear, that they would be seen or that somehow this creature would pick up their scent. Then it was looking back to the pine trees and gesturing. A line of people emerged from the treeline, smaller than the troll. They were humans, and Varg saw the glint of sunlight on iron, chains about their necks and ankles, binding them to each other. Maybe thirty or forty people filed out from the trees to the pool, all with buckets in their hands. More figures appeared, a few manlike in shape, with spears in their hands, the glint of sunlight on mail. Others were clearly not human: thick-muscled and elongated, crouched and stooped, walking upright but bent over, using knuckles on unnaturally long arms. Weapons hung from baldrics slung across their shoulders.

“Skraelings, before you ask,” Svik said from Varg’s other side.

The thralls kneeled at the poolside and filled their buckets, and then the troll was making a snorting, barking sound and they were standing and moving back towards the treeline. In a dozen heartbeats they were gone, the troll, warriors and skraelings all following after, and a moment later the valley was empty, as if they had never been there.

Echoed commands rippled along the line of Bloodsworn, Glornir summoning his captains, and Svik scrambled away, keeping his head below the ridgeline and across the slope to Glornir. Røkia went, as well, along with Sulich. Glornir spoke to them, gestured into the valley a dozen times, and then Svik was scrambling back. Torvik came with him.

“Half-Troll, No-Sense, Hammer-Hand, you’re with me,” Svik said, “and you, Halja Flat-Nose, and you, Vali Horse-Breath,” he said to a woman and man, sister and brother, both of them quiet and stern-faced. And then Svik was scuttling along the slope below the ridgeline, moving south towards a stand of pine that crested the slope. Varg looked at the others, Torvik grinning at him, and then they were all moving, following Svik. The rest of the Bloodsworn were breaking up into smaller groups, each one led by one of Glornir’s captains, and accompanied by one of Edel’s scouts. Varg glimpsed Skalk and his two guards staying close to Glornir, and then Svik was leading them into the stand of pine that crowned the edge and over the other side. The slope was steep and soon they had to break from the cover of the trees. Torvik took the lead, choosing a winding path down the slope, using boulders and bushes for cover. Soil and stone shifted beneath Varg’s feet, but he was sure-footed and kept up easily with Torvik. Einar slipped once, his huge bulk starting a small landslide of soil, but Svik steadied him and then the ground was levelling, and they were on the valley floor.

Torvik allowed them a moment to gather and then he was moving on, across the valley floor, splashing through a shallow stream and then up the far bank, into the cover of more pine woodland. They veered north, following the line of the valley, towards the waterfall. The din of its cascading waters grew, until Varg could see the shimmer of salmon-scales in the pool. They were close enough now to see a path through the trees that the troll and thralls had taken. Torvik turned eastward and led them higher up the valley slope, shadowing the path, always keeping it in view. They moved silently and as fast as wolves, the ground thick with pine needles that soaked up the sound of their footfall. Varg thought he saw the flitting shadows of movement on the far side of the path, shadows among the trees. He picked up his pace and drew level with Torvik, touched his shoulder and pointed.

“They’re Bloodsworn,” Torvik whispered after a frozen moment of silence, and then they were moving on.

Varg became aware of a change around him, almost like a vibration in the air, in the ground. He looked down; he half expected to see the carpet of pine needles they were crossing to be shaking, but all was still. It grew as they moved on, a pressure all around, like a gathering storm, a tingling in his blood.

Torvik stopped, held a fist up and they gathered around him.

The path they were following spilled into an open glade, the ground trampled to mud, a cliff face at its far end. There was an arched entrance in the cliff, tall and wide, the flicker of torchlight within it like pinpricks. People were walking in and out of the entrance, their bodies skeletal, clothes ragged, a constant stream of thralls in iron collars leading ponies harnessed to carts, and the carts were full of rubble. They filed north out of the tunnel entrance and led the ponies and carts to the far edge of the glade, where there was a newly made mountain of boulders and rubble. Here they unloaded their carts and then led them back into the tunnel entrance, swallowed by the darkness as if they were walking willingly into a sleeping serpent’s mouth.

Torvik pointed at different spots in the glade, and Varg saw other figures: warriors with spears, and a few of the skraelings. Varg did not like the look of them, clothed in thick tunics like a warrior, with weapons on their belts, though they looked crude and heavy, but their arms were long and knotted with striated muscle, their necks thick, and even from this distance something seemed… wrong, with their faces.

I have lived on a farm my whole life, he thought. The worst I have seen of vaesen is a mischievous fetch who cursed the milk one yuletide, and a knot of newly hatched serpents in the river, and they were not much bigger than eels.

The troll was nowhere to be seen, though the cave entrance was more than large enough for him to have entered the tunnel.

“Good job, lad,” Svik said to Torvik, patting his shoulder. “I’ll take things from here.” He stabbed his spear butt into the ground and ran his fingers through his red beard, pulling out knots, and twirled his moustaches and began braiding them.

“What are you doing?” Varg whispered.

“Getting ready,” Svik said.

“For what?” Varg said.

“The signal. There’s going to be a scrap, of course. Blood will be spilled, and I want to look my best for battle. It’s important.” He looked Varg up and down. “I suggest you make yourself ready.” Svik grinned. “Time for us to earn our silver and battle-fame.”

He finished tidying his beard, then unbuckled his helm from his belt and tugged it on to his head, shrugged his shield from his back, settled his hand into the grip and let it hang at his side, before pulling his spear out of the soft earth.

Around him the others were all doing the same, Halja and Vali setting their shields against a tree, buckling on helms, taking leather covers from spearheads, checking the draw of seax and sword from their scabbards. When they were satisfied, they gripped their shields and stood beside Svik. Jökul Hammer-Hand squatted, scooping up a handful of pine needles and soil, rubbed it between his palms and let it filter through his fingers. Then he stood, pulled his helm on tight and slipped a hammer from a hoop in his belt, the black-iron head pitted and stained, the haft longer than a normal hammer’s, more like an axe. He shrugged his shield from his back and stood, his brows heavy and dour, glowering down at the skraelings in the glade.

Einar’s shield was as big as a table. He pulled it from his back and hefted it, then drew an axe from his belt, the blade hooked and bearded.

Torvik loosened his seax in its scabbard and lifted his shield from his back. Stood with shield and spear ready.

Varg blinked and realised he should be doing the same. He unbuckled his helm from his belt and pulled it over the nålbinding cap he was wearing, tugged the buckle tight under his chin. Next he checked the draw of his seax, axe and cleaver, all of them hanging on his weapons belt, letting them slip back into place. Then he took the leather cover from his spear blade, threading it through his belt, and finally he shrugged his shield from his back and gripped the wooden handle, his fist and knuckles fitting into the space of the iron boss.

He looked up, feeling his heart beating hard in his chest, and saw Svik looking at him.

“Brothers, sisters, are we ready?” Svik said to them, all humour gone from him. “Remember, we are Bloodsworn, bound to one another. Stand or fall, we are sworn to each other. That is our strength.”

Nods, grunts.

Svik looked at Varg and Torvik. “Well, not you two, but if you survive this…” He shrugged and grinned.

That’s comforting, Varg thought. He felt the strong urge to empty his bladder.

“With me,” Svik said, and led them through the trees, down the slope and closer to the glade and cave entrance. He stopped before the trees thinned, still on the slope, maybe forty or fifty paces to level ground and the muddy glade. Svik rested his shield on the ground and kneeled behind it, all the others settling around him, except for Einar, who stayed standing. They all wore brynjas, except for Varg and Torvik. Jökul wore a pitted leather apron over his coat of mail.

Varg looked into the glade over his shield rim. The thrumming in his blood was stronger here, pulsing in his bones like the beat of a drum. And at the same time, fear slithered through his belly, turning his legs weak, making his mouth dry. He was looking at vaesen and warriors, all with sharp iron or steel on their belts or in their fists. And he was going to fight them.

He swallowed, no spit in his mouth, wanted to stand and move, a voice in his thought-cage whispering to him.

Just walk away. How can you fulfil your oath to Frøya if you are dead? Who are these people to you? You should wait until battle is joined, and then just slip away.

Instead he just stood there, waiting for death’s wings to settle over the glade.

There was a movement at the edge of the glade, and Glornir stepped out into the sunlight.

“Move,” Svik said, his voice a growl, rising and striding down the rest of the slope. They all followed, Einar and Jökul moving to the wings, Torvik, Halja and Vali immediately behind Svik. Varg stood, hovered a moment, hefted his shield and then he was following them.