SKANE,
SOUTHWEST
SWEDEN
DECEMBER,
AD
996
The burning twigs crackled and snapped in the center of a faint circle of light and heat. Cold mist drifted in over freezing ground and over the piles of leaves that had drifted against thick tree trunks. Above the treetops the vast black winter night stretched endlessly, dotted by white points, snowflakes that would never fall.
Audun sat on a rock, wrapped in an assortment of rags. “Did you do that thing? Home?” he said.
“Yes,” Ulfar said. Leaning up against a big trunk, he was almost invisible in the shadows.
“How did it go?”
“I’m alive,” Ulfar said.
“So not too bad,” Audun said after a moment’s pause.
“Not too bad,” Ulfar agreed.
Audun sat still for a while, looking into the fire. “What now, then?” he said.
“Valgard killed Geiri. He’s with King Olav’s army. We’re going up north to kill him.”
Another pause. “Oh.” Then, after a while, “Where, exactly? And how many men does he have? And how are we going to do it?”
Ulfar emerged from the shadows and came to sit down by the fire. “No idea,” he said.
Audun noticed the shift in the darkness; Ulfar smelled the blood. They both jumped when the dead deer landed with a thud at the edge of the light.
A familiar voice spoke from the darkness. “The bony bit on your arm’s your elbow. The one you were sitting on is your ass.” The glade was suddenly alive with quiet, soft movement. Silent, hardened, gray-haired men emerged from the trees all around them. Five, ten, twenty, thirty. They made no move, drew no weapons.
Two men walked through the group. One of them held a big ax.
The other one grinned at Ulfar through a thick white beard and stuck a curved dagger in his belt. “Sounds to me like you’re going to need some help, son.”
THE END
Dramatis Personae
V
ALGARD’S
STORY
Valgard
Deceptive herbalist
Finn
Loyal lieutenant
Hakon
Troublesome Trondheim tyrant
King Olav
His Kingliness
Jorn
Prince of the Dales, King Olav’s right-hand man
Runar
Jorn’s stuttering helper
Botolf
Tall, dark, and deadly Chieftain of the South
Skeggi
Brawny bundle of sadism
Sigurd
Chieftain of Stenvik, imprisoned
Sven
Adviser to Sigurd, imprisoned
Gunnar
Commander of Stenvik in Finn’s absence
Ormslev “Bug-eye”
Botolf’s stoic and lardy trek-master
Kverulf
Botolf’s man; not too sharp on judgment
Skapti
Botolf’s lieutenant
A
UDUN’S
STORY
Audun
Cursed blacksmith berserker
Fjölnir
Aging farmer with one bad eye
Breki
Caravan leader
Bjorn
Breki’s brother
Ivar
Man in charge at the Sands
Hrutur
Rugged sea captain
Skakki
Useless blacksmith
Johan Aagard
Bulky, bothersome beau
Helga of Ovregard
Handsome woman with a dark past
Streak
Helga’s horse
Ustain
Forkbeard’s recruiter
Jomar
Forkbeard’s man
Thormund
Aging horse thief, reluctant soldier
Mouthpiece
Nervous, verbose, all-too-keen, and would-be honorable soldier
Boy
Mute boy
Olgeir
Sea captain and commander of ten, suspiciously familiar accent
U
LFAR’S
STORY
Ulfar
Dashing hero, leading man, and potentially cursed warrior
Anneli
Just a small-town girl
Torulf
Young gallant
Jaki and Jarli
Torulf’s brothers, older and less gallant
Gestumblindi
Wandering mercenary recruiter with one bad eye
Gisli
Turnip farmer, not overly wise
Helgi
Gisli’s idiot cousin
Hedin
Greedy merchant and boat-owner
Goran
Grizzled caravan guard
Heidrek
Young, cheerful caravan guard
Regin
Surly caravan guard
Ingimar
Caravan owner and merchant
Arnar
Burly man of huge beard and few words
Prince Karle
White on the outside, black on the inside; owes Ulfar for a broken arm; Cousin to King Jolawer
Galti
Prince Karle’s henchman
Hrodgeir
Galti’s servant
Alfgeir Bjorne
King Jolawer’s right-hand man, Geiri’s father, Ulfar’s uncle
King Jolawer Scot
Son of Erik the Victorious, king before his time
Greta
Former flame of Ulfar’s; not happy to see him
Ivar
Greta’s brother; even less happy to see Ulfar
Lord Alfrith
A chieftain in the field
His Merry Men
Not merry at all
As usual, this has not been a solitary enterprise. If it weren’t for super-agent Geraldine Cooke, it wouldn’t even be an “enterprise.” This doubly counts for editor, publisher, and all-round wonder woman Jo Fletcher, who not only publishes my merry Vikings but also makes my writing look approximately 93 percent better (numbers = truth = science). My fledgling writer’s soul would be crushed but for the tender ministrations of Nicola Budd, Tim Kershaw, and Andrew Turner, key cogs in the lean, mean publishing machine that is Jo Fletcher Books.
I owe thanks to the good people of Southbank International School—first and foremost librarians extraordinaire Christine Joshi and Ian Herne, who have given me enough encouragement and research for a football team’s worth of writers—but also every single student who has stopped me in the corridors, asked “how the book is going,” read the thing, and complimented me on the horrifically inappropriate swearing. You know who you are. I sincerely hope that none of you are actually intending to read this one, because it’s a fair bit worse.
To my dearest friends who read and even liked the first one—I am still stunned, frankly, by the reception. Thank you for putting up with me before, during, and after. I would promise to make more sense and tell shorter stories in the future, but we all know that’s not happening.
To Dagbjört at Nexus Books in Reykjavík for giving me my first-ever book launch—thank you. To kings of Viking Metal Skálmöld for the credits and the music.
To Nick Bain, who taught me to write. Technically, all of this is your fault.
To my mother, father, and brother—you are still the most terrifying readers I’ve ever met. Without you, this wolf would be a poodle.
And finally, most and always—to my wife, Morag. You are probably the most patient woman in the world, and I love you dearly.
Snorri Kristjansson
Hitchin, Hertfordshire
March 2014