Blood Will Follow (26 page)

Above their heads a bloated, pockmarked moon rose and dragged the shadows of the forest with it. It shone down on a fading fire and, soon, three sleeping forms.

Ulfar looked at the wall of rock-black trees. “I know you’re there,” he whispered. “I know it. And I know you’ve got something to do with this. And when I’m done . . . I’ll come find
you
.”

The animals of the night stayed well clear of the travelers’ camp.

FAR
NORTH
OF
TRONDHEIM,
NORTH
NORWAY

NOVEMBER,
AD
996

Spiked sealskin boots crashed through the frozen shell of the snowdrift and sank into the dry powder underneath. Botolf, at the head of the line, picked a careful sideways route down the hillside. Far below they could make out the outlines of Egill Jotun’s longhouse. The horses snorted in protest as they picked their way along the narrow boot-trodden path. A line of muttered curses drifted toward Valgard at the rear.

Cramps wrenched his legs, jabbed at his spine, and twisted his shoulders a half-inch farther into a solid knot with every step. They’d found little cover on the crest of the hill overnight. The soldiers had lit fires, but they hadn’t helped. The cold had been bitter, sharp, and personal, and Botolf’s men were even more surly than usual. The morning had been difficult.

“We should sledge down,” one of the men shouted.

“Or I could just break your neck right now,” Thora shouted back.

“Shut your hole, you fucking whore!” the man cried, “or I’ll open another one in your belly and f—” The snowball hit him square in the jaw and made him choke on his own spit as he lost his footing. His arms flailed as he fought for balance, then went rolling head over heels, kicking up delicate clouds of powder as he went. Thora stood still, watching the falling man with contempt. Valgard couldn’t help but smile. He looked funny, bouncing down the hill like that. Almost like a kid at play.

Ormslev shot him a dirty look. “He’s dead,” he said.

“Wha—?” He didn’t have time to finish the sentence.

In the blink of an eye, the man was airborne as he bounced off something hard hidden in the snow, and when he met the ground again, his head snapped to one side as the weight of his body landed on his neck. Moments later he was just lying there, a pile of rags halfway down the hill.

“Anyone else want to take the quick way?” Thora barked over the line. None of the men looked up. Even the horses stayed quiet.

They inched their way along after that, step by careful step. When they were nearly halfway down, one of Hakon’s men stepped on a sheet of ice hidden by a dusting of snow. Both his feet left the ground, and he twisted in the air. The dull sound of breaking bone as his skull met the jagged, ice-crusted rock cut through the heavy, cold silence.

Valgard watched the blood soak through the snow and thought of Botolf’s words.

The north would take them.

“Watch your feet, you thick-faced lamb-diddlers!” Thora growled. For a moment, Valgard thought she might consider the man’s death a personal affront and go and kill him some more.

The men stepped over the fallen warrior, careful not to meet the same fate.

“Try not to die of stupid!” Thora growled and turned to Botolf. “Where did you find these idiots?”

“The waiting line outside your mother’s house?” Botolf shot back. “Give them a break. They’re cold and wet, but whatever they are, they’re not idiots.”

“How do you figure?” Thora said.

“For one, they didn’t build their houses this far north,” Botolf muttered.

Despite the situation, Valgard spotted the odd smirk in the line.

The valley that had looked so inviting from above was nowhere near as easy to cross as Valgard had hoped. The snow was chest-deep and too loose to walk on. Treacherous rocks and roots hid underneath,
but the men didn’t appear to care. They might grouch and grumble, but under Bug-eye’s shouted commands they soon had a work-party going. Valgard stood to the side, hunched over. He was wet and cold and hurting like a bastard. He didn’t even consider offering to help. If he did have a shovel, he’d just be getting in their way.

While the men worked to clear the snow, Botolf conferred with Thora. The chieftain looked tense; like a caged animal. He was pointing to the far end of the valley and scowling, but the woman didn’t appear to care; she was all smiles, shaking her head and grinning. Botolf motioned for Bug-eye to come over, and the trek-master stood impassively at his side, like an ugly cow, and listened, nodding occasionally. When Botolf had finished giving orders, Ormslev turned smartly and strode toward the work party, pointing, shouting, and gesturing. Valgard followed the chieftain’s eyes. An odd-shaped shadow halfway up the hillside caught his eye. Was that . . . a cave? Something in the valley was worrying Botolf, and Valgard didn’t like to admit how uneasy that made him feel.

The men fell into a rhythm. Snow flew up above their heads, covering the midday sun. They dug themselves down into the sparkling white snow, and soon nothing was visible but the ridges of the enclosing hills and the blue sky above. Valgard shuffled along behind them, staying as close to the warm horses as he dared. The party trudged along, inch by inch, heading straight for the center of the valley.

“Our hosts look to have been away a while,” Botolf said as they approached the first covered house. The four men in front redoubled their efforts, and soon carved fenceposts rose from the snow. Farther still, and a big plank of wood emerged.

“Look!” The first of the shovel crew pointed. “’s a door!” He banged it with his shovel.

The cloud of white rose and fell, revealing four snowmen and a bare roof.

The soldiers laughed and cheered. Even Bug-eye stirred.

“Come on, you lazy bastards,” Botolf shouted at the fresh piles of snow. “Stop playing around!” The snow mound in the middle
trembled, and a hand burst out. Clawing at the air and flailing about, all it managed to do was to draw more laughter from the men.

“So much for a cautious approach,” Thora muttered.

“Whoever’s around has known we were coming for a long time,” Botolf said under his breath. “It’s been a good bit of walk. They need a laugh. You need to relax.”

Thora shot Botolf a look that said a lot of things and muttered something very quickly and quietly. Botolf didn’t reply, but a smirk spread across his weathered face. Valgard observed their exchange and marveled at the spiky-haired woman. He’d watched her glide into the fellowship of the men: one moment they were an impregnable circle of scowls; the next, she was one of them. She’d won them over like he knew he never could. When the prisoners in Stenvik had told him of Skargrim’s boatswoman, it had sounded like so much nonsense; he had not been able to connect that to the screaming, knife-wielding maniac who had come crashing through Stenvik’s gates. Now it took effort to remember that she probably wanted him dead and could kill him with nothing more than a flick of her wrist.

The unfortunate diggers emerged from the drift, shaking themselves and cursing their fellow travelers, who answered back in kind.

“This is just a cabin. Find the longhouse,” Botolf snapped and started wading through the snow. Silence and focus spread in waves among the men, and they fell in line behind him.

Up close, Egill Jotun’s snowbound longhouse was a thing of beauty. They shoveled the white powder off the steps, and Botolf moved to the fore with Thora by his side.

“You’ve been here before,” he said to Thora.

“Which makes you my guest. After your good self,” she answered immediately, bowing toward the door.

Botolf grinned. With one hand on his blade, he pulled open the great carved door.

Black forms exploded out of the darkness in a flurry of flapping wings. Botolf had sidestepped with terrifying quickness and
crouched, his eyes trained on the dark space within. The birds were out and gone in a flash.

“Ravens?” he asked.

Thora did not reply. The men traded glances. Behind Valgard, one of the soldiers muttered, “Two of them. Odin does not want us to—”

Someone else walloped the man and hissed, “Shut up, you idiot.”

Without a word, Botolf disappeared inside, and Thora followed him like a shadow.

The silence they left behind was suddenly impossibly vast, overwhelming, crashing through the valley like a snowslide. Valgard held his breath—and then the door flew open with a bang.

Botolf stood in the doorway, straight-backed and imposing, like a hunting dog denied its kill. “Nothing here,” he said, looking straight at Valgard. “Nothing—at—all.”

As night fell, the men settled in the longhouse, seating themselves comfortably around the edges. As it turned out, Botolf had been rather quick to dismiss the bounty of Egill Jotun’s house—they discovered a cellar full of dried meats and cheeses, barrels of mead, and a stack of well-dried firewood. The roaring flames drained some of the cold from their bones, and the soggy smell of drying clothes soon wafted out through the air vent.

Botolf had claimed Egill’s high seat on the dais. It was the biggest piece of furniture Valgard had ever seen, easily half again the size of a normal chair. The chieftain looked almost boyish sitting there. Thora had taken the seat to his right, leaving Valgard to scurry to the one on the left, but now that the men were settled, he had the sinking feeling he’d played himself into a bad position.

Where was it?

And
what
, exactly, was he searching for?

For the first time in many months, he allowed himself to wonder. He’d thought himself so clever; he’d reasoned that all he needed to do was find out where to go and then go there and he’d find whatever had created the monster in Stenvik. He hadn’t even stopped to
think about what he might be looking for. He’d searched the house himself and found nothing of consequence. There were bear pelts here and there, some signs of worship, and a crude drawing of a claw, but nothing that made any sense.

Botolf leaned over toward his chair. “So, Healer. Grass Man. Thinker, planner, friend of kings.”

Against his will, Valgard swallowed.

“Now what?”

“I . . . don’t know,” Valgard said. “I don’t know how . . . long it’s going to take to find it. But we will,” he added quickly. “And soon, too. I can feel it.”

“Can you?” Botolf asked. “That would be most . . .
impressive
. Because if you don’t . . . If you don’t, then you’ve dragged me all the way out here for nothing. And then you might have an accident on the way back. I’m sure King Olav wouldn’t mind an adviser with a little more . . . steel.”

Valgard swallowed and smiled weakly. “It’s here. I’m sure of it.”

“We’ll see in the morning,” Botolf said. “We’ll see about a lot of things.”

Movement caught Valgard’s eye. The trek-master was coming through the hall, looking less than pleased. Thora, sitting beside Botolf, was already half out of her chair.

“Botolf,” Bug-eye said.

“What?”

“You want to come see this,” he said, then turned around and walked away. Botolf looked to Thora, but she was on the trek-master’s heels.

After the fire inside, the night air was as cold as a blade to the throat. Bug-eye headed down the steps to the snow corridor they’d dug earlier in the day.

“What do you want me to see?” Botolf growled at Bug-eye’s back, but got no answer. Scowling, the chieftain stormed across the tramped-down snow, a shadow in the faint moonlight. Thora followed him, chasing the scent of danger, blood, and action.

A hundred yards farther on, Bug-eye stopped by a pile of black cloth.

Instinct kicked in, and Botolf scanned the horizon. “What happened?” he growled.

“Two lads, out to take a piss,” the trek-master said. “They’ve had their skulls bashed in.”

“Tracks?” Thora asked before Botolf could say it.

“Snow’s tramped down,” Bug-eye replied. “The edges are too high to climb. We can look in the morning.”

Botolf crouched by the bodies. “They’ve not just been bashed; they’ve been torn as well,” he said. “Big knife. Sword, maybe.”

“What the fuck?” Thora said. “Seems a lot of trouble.”

“You know how it is,” Botolf said. “Once we’ve put the armor on, we might as well get our kicks.”

“Think there’s someone out there?” Thora said.

“Only possible explanation,” Botolf said.

“But—” Bug-eye started.

“Ghost? Spirit? Monster? If that’s what you’re going to say, don’t even open your fucking mouth,” Botolf growled. “I’ve not seen any of those, and I’ve seen a lot. This is the work of three, maybe four men—and I’ll bet it has something to do with those little shits we stopped on the way.”

“Hardly,” Thora said. “They were just boys—and stupid boys, getting caught like that,” she added with pursed lips. “We’ll have a look for tracks in the morning.”

“Fine,” Botolf said and turned to Valgard. “You’re a lucky bastard,” he said.

A lifetime spent with Harald had taught Valgard when to shut up. He waited for the next sentence.

“You’re alive, Grass Man—for now,” Botolf continued.

“Thank you,” Valgard said.

“Don’t thank me. Thank whoever did this. There’s obviously something here—and someone doesn’t want us to find it. I look forward to pissing them off.”

The chieftain turned and walked back toward the longhouse. Valgard could have sworn there was a spring in his step.

Behind him, Ormslev had approached Thora. “Do we tell the men?” he mumbled.

“No,” Thora said. “They can do with a nice rest. I’ll sort what needs sorting. It’s been a long walk,” she added.