Winter's Fire: (The Rise of Sigurd 2) Page 12

  ‘We’ve come for meat,’ Sigurd said. His eyes stung from the smoke which was so thick in the room that he thought should the woman drop dead there and then her flesh would still be good to eat in twenty years or more. ‘Just meat,’ he assured her.

  The man edged closer to his enormous wife, still holding that hand axe, though what he thought he was going to do with that against five battle-hardened men who were armed like war gods, Sigurd could not imagine.

  ‘The only raiding we’ve had has been from the wind, the rain and this damned cold,’ the woman said, stepping out from behind the post and taking a key from the hook on her belt. ‘This will get you in the byre,’ she said. Sigurd nodded and took the key, giving it to Svein.

  ‘We’ll find the fattest one,’ Svein said through a grin, nodding at Aslak and Bjorn to go with him.

  ‘We’ve salt fish if you want?’ the woman said.

  ‘We’ve got more than enough of that,’ Sigurd said.

  ‘Cheese?’ she offered. Sigurd nodded. ‘Skyr?’ she said. ‘I made enough to last Fimbulvetr. My husband says it is the best batch I have made for years.’

  ‘I have not had good skyr for such a long time,’ Runa said, and so Sigurd gestured for the woman to fetch some.

  ‘Strange time of year to be out raiding,’ the woman’s husband said, scratching his bearded chin with the blunt edge of his axe.

  ‘And yet look how easy it is,’ Sigurd said. ‘I am surprised everyone is not doing it.’

  The man had no answer to that, as Sigurd went over to join Floki who was already warming his hands above the hearth, those three in their beds – two old women and an ancient man by the looks, though it was hard to know for sure – staring at him as if he had fallen from the sky. Runa followed her brother towards the fireplace and the golden promise of its flames, leaning her spear against a post so that she could flex and make fists of her pink hands to get the blood gushing into them. ‘Thank you for your hospitality,’ she said to the farmer’s wife who had returned with a large wooden bowl full of skyr.

  The woman nodded, giving the skyr to Runa who could not resist scooping three fingers’ worth of the thick, curdled milk out of the bowl and into her mouth.

  ‘This is as good as our mother used to make,’ Runa told her, which might have put a smile on those full lips had the woman’s thought box not been full of how to get her family through this raid alive and with minimal loss to their livelihood.

  ‘You are welcome to it, girl,’ the woman said, waving a hand at her husband that he should put that axe down before it caused someone offence. The man frowned and squatted, placing the axe on the floor behind the hearth stones as if he believed he might have got away without anyone seeing it.

  ‘You came by sea,’ the man said, more of a statement than a question, which was a fair assumption on his part since he had not recognized any of his visitors and must suppose they had come some considerable way. ‘Must be quiet as the grave out there.’

  ‘There are not many boats out,’ Sigurd said, wondering how Svein and the others were getting on with the slaughtering and butchering. It would not be easy carrying so much meat back to the ship but at least the frigid air would keep the meat fresh on their continued journey and there would be no flies to bother it. Yes, this winter raiding had its benefits, he thought.

  ‘Who is the jarl here?’ he asked the farmer.

  ‘Ebbi Eggilsson,’ he said, glancing at his wife who was stuffing two cheeses into a sack for Runa.

  ‘And which king does Jarl Ebbi swear fealty to?’ Sigurd asked. For though they had sailed far south to the arse end of Norway and were now following the coast eastward, they had yet to come into the Jutland Sea. Who knew if King Gorm’s power reached as far south as this?

  The farmer frowned. ‘King Svarin, I think,’ he said, seeming far from sure and looking to the skull-faced old man in the bed nearest. But he got no help from him.

  ‘Not King Gorm?’ Sigurd asked.

  ‘Maybe,’ the man said. ‘We have little to do with such things. We’ve no sons to send the jarl should he be dragged off to go fighting with the king.’

  Sigurd did not mention the boy peering down at him from the loft, who looked a good few years from fighting age anyway.

  ‘And where are you headed?’ the farmer asked.

  ‘Birka,’ Sigurd said. It was not as though this man would come after them, nor would his jarl. Not for the sake of one cow.

  ‘Been there twice,’ the farmer said, ‘and twice was one too many times. Folk crammed together like sheep in a pen. It’s not for me.’

  The door opened again, drawing the hearth smoke and letting cold air into the room like another unwanted guest, and Sigurd gestured at Aslak to come in quickly and shut it behind him. The farmer and his wife had been good hosts up to now and the old folk in their beds looked frail enough that a cold blast could finish them off.

  ‘We are ready,’ Aslak said. He had a handful of snow and was rubbing it against his other hand to get the blood off. He smiled at the farmer’s wife. ‘You keep your cattle well fed,’ he said, ‘and we thank you for it.’

  The woman did her best to smile back, as the old man in the bed muttered something about the indignity of being robbed by men barely into their beards and even a girl, and that he might as well die now that he had seen everything.

  ‘You only have to ask,’ Floki told him, pulling his long knife from its sheath and letting the hearth flames dance along its polished length.

  ‘What are your men doing now?’ the farmer asked. Sigurd frowned but a heartbeat later he heard what had got the man worried. It was the unmistakable sound of an axe hacking into timbers. ‘Won’t you leave us in peace now that you have what you want?’

  ‘Aslak?’ Sigurd said. Aslak frowned and shook his head.

  The door thumped open again and this time it was Bjorn standing there and he had that look.

  ‘Visitors,’ he said.

  ‘Jarl Ebbi?’ Runa suggested. Her shield was slung across her back. She had given her spear to Floki to carry so that she could bring the sack with the cheeses and the skyr in it.

  ‘Why would the jarl ruin this man’s gate?’ Sigurd said. ‘You have enemies?’ he asked the farmer. The man shook his head and Sigurd cursed under his breath. He had been thinking this winter raiding was easy and that it was strange more men did not do it. It seemed more men did do it. He stepped outside and there stood Svein facing the gate, his long axe in his hands, the butchered meat in a pile on the snow beside him.

  ‘Seen anyone yet?’ he called.

  ‘Not yet,’ Svein replied over his shoulder, ‘but they’re making a mess of that gate.’

  The head of the axe doing the work was coming through the planks now and catching so that the man wielding it had to work hard to free the blade before pulling it out for another swing.

  ‘We could go over the back wall,’ Aslak suggested, looking back past the longhouse between the grain store and the pig pen. ‘Whoever it is, they’ve not come for us.’

  Aslak was right. These men, whoever they were, most likely wanted provisions: meat and grain, cheese and ale to stave off the cold in lean times. It was just this farmstead’s bad luck that they were being raided twice in one day. This was not Sigurd’s fight. They could take their meat and get out over the back wall before these others broke down the gate, though why these others hadn’t simply climbed over to open it Sigurd could not say. Perhaps they were breaking the gate to keep warm or, more likely, just because they could.

  ‘Sigurd?’ Svein said, still facing the gate, waiting for Sigurd to give some command.

  So what if these new men slaughtered another beast or two? So what if they slaughtered the farmer and his wife and the three hoary old folk in their beds? Sigurd had his own responsibilities. Then he thought of the boy up in the loft, imagined those blue eyes of his wide with fear as some growler took a fistful of his yellow hair and cut his throat.

  Maybe these raiders would no
t find the boy. And then what? It was a dark, foul thing to see your kin die, to watch bloodlines end, severed by steel. Such a thing could poison you. Or it could set you on a road of blood and vengeance. Fire and sword.

  Let the boy be a boy.

  ‘Shieldwall!’ Sigurd called, tramping through the snow to stand with Svein. The others hurried to join them, and for a moment the axe man stopped his work and Sigurd saw men’s faces through the holes, those peering men no doubt wondering what kind of farmer they had come across who had enough war-trained sons that they could present a skjaldborg. Then the axe was cutting again and soon it was joined by booted feet as the attackers kicked away the last splintered resistance. Then they poured in through the wreckage, all eyes and beard and done up like the fur bales Sigurd’s men had stowed aboard Reinen.

  ‘Stay behind me, Runa,’ Sigurd growled over his shoulder, then saw the farmer trudging towards him, his axe back in his hand and an old shield in the other. ‘Get back inside and see to your family,’ Sigurd said, and the man nodded, not needing to be told twice. But Sigurd was not being kind. A skjaldborg was only as strong as its weakest man and Sigurd did not want a man more practised at feeding cows than crows beside him if it came to a fight. Which it probably would looking at the thirteen men who stood facing them in a loose line a good spear-throw away.

  ‘Who are you?’ one of them called, his breath pluming round his red-bearded face. The newcomers were armed mostly with axes and spears and all had shields. Who could say how many wore brynjur under all those furs, but the chances were that none of them did, seeing as none of them owned a helmet.

  ‘We are the men who got here before you,’ Sigurd called back. ‘Find another farm.’

  The man pointed his spear to the joints of meat lying in the snow beside Sigurd’s shieldwall. ‘It looks to me as if you have what you came for. More than enough to feed the six of you.’ He was a handsome man but not a rich one by the looks of him and what little war gear was visible. In this situation most warriors would proudly display whatever fine gear they had for that could sometimes be enough to win the fight before it started. ‘Why don’t you fuck off and we’ll just take our share?’

  Sigurd made a show of considering this offer. ‘I think that if we walk away this time what is to say you will not beat us to the prize next time? And if we keep going like this, eventually these people will have nothing left worth stealing.’ Sigurd shook his head. ‘Better to kill you now and keep this farm going a little longer.’ With that Svein lifted his massive axe and rolled his shoulders, loosening off in readiness. Really Svein was just showing these men the full extent of his size.

  The farmer’s dog was once more barking continuously, straining at the end of its tether as it ran back and forth. And this gave one amongst the other raiding party an opportunity to show off. Armed with a bow he walked a few paces ahead of his companions, pulling an arrow from the quiver at his waist and nocking it. The next time Sigurd saw that arrow it was in the dog’s eye and the dog was dead, which was no bad thing as far as he was concerned. But whilst it had shut the animal up, it also showed that the bowman was a very good shot.

  ‘Uncle’s going to say we can’t do one simple job without getting into a fight,’ Bjorn rumbled, pushing his helmet down tight. Some of them had taken to calling Olaf Uncle because he was older than they and more experienced in women, war and the whale road, having been Sigurd’s father’s best friend. Olaf did not seem to mind.

  ‘So we are going to fight over this?’ the leader of the other band asked.

  ‘Do not forget your sister is here,’ Svein growled out of the corner of his mouth.

  Sigurd had not forgotten, but he did not know what to do about that now. ‘You can turn round and walk back through the mess you made,’ he called, pointing at the splintered planks lying in the gateway.

  But the other man shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think we will,’ he shouted back, gesturing with his spear. ‘Not now we have come all this way.’

  Sigurd nodded, as if he understood perfectly well. Both men knew there was pride at stake now. Knew too that men can be such fools when it comes to pride.

  Perhaps it is another test, Sigurd thought. Perhaps the Æsir have a hand in this. For was it not ill luck that another raiding party had turned up at the same farmstead at more or less the same time? And even if these other men walked away now, they would more than likely come back after Sigurd had gone, and take out their frustration on the farmer’s family. They would make a slaughter of man and beast and then they would burn down the stead and warm themselves by the flames.

  Sigurd would not let that happen. And so there would have to be a fight.

  ‘Well then, let’s get on with it for I am getting cold standing here like a fucking tree,’ Svein said.

  ‘Come, then,’ Sigurd invited the men strung out across the snow facing him.

  At their leader’s command they drew together until their shields overlapped and they had made their own wall of wood and iron, their spears protruding over the tops of their shields.

  ‘Who has the horn?’ Sigurd asked his men.

  ‘Here,’ Aslak said.

  ‘Blow it, then,’ Sigurd said and Aslak put the big horn to his lips. The note was deep and long and Aslak sounded the horn twice more so that those down at the shore with Reinen would hear it.

  ‘Do not tell me we have to wait for the others,’ Svein said.

  But they could not wait even if they wanted to, for the other shieldwall was moving towards them now, those men perhaps fearing what that horn signal meant and wanting to kill the five men facing them before reinforcements arrived.

  ‘We’re going to piss on your corpses,’ a man yelled across the mostly smooth snow between them.

  ‘I can see that golden-haired bitch hiding behind you,’ another warrior shouted at Sigurd. ‘I’m going to split her open but not with my sword, hey!’

  ‘Come out, come out, my pretty!’ a man with a long, black beard rope bellowed, all gap-toothed grin above the rim of his shield.

  ‘Arrow!’ Bjorn called and two heartbeats later a shaft thunked into Svein’s shield.

  ‘I feel like stretching my legs, Sigurd,’ Floki said, and Sigurd nodded, knowing full well what the young man meant by that. Floki stepped out of the skjaldborg, not that you could really call it a shieldwall with only four men now standing in it.

  ‘Where in Frigg’s cunny does he think he’s going?’ Bjorn asked, barely flinching as an arrow struck his shield, the point lifting a sliver from the inside of a limewood plank but not piercing it fully.

  ‘That is what those goat turds will be wondering,’ Sigurd said, watching Floki, light-footed through the snow, as he walked round the opposing shieldwall’s right flank, causing some of them to turn with him. Which gave Sigurd an idea.

  ‘Are you sure you want to die today?’ their red-bearded leader asked, not needing to shout now because they were close enough to see the lice in each other’s beards and smell the mustiness of the furs under which they were all buried.

  ‘Break,’ Sigurd said to those standing with him. ‘Runa, stay with me.’ Bjorn and Aslak stalked out on his left and Svein tramped out on his right, leaving Sigurd in space with Runa at his back. Sigurd did not know if the thirteen men facing them were good fighters, but even if they were not, they would have wrapped their shieldwall round Sigurd’s and even an unskilled spearman can kill a man from behind who is busy fighting another in front. Besides which, when Svein began swinging that big axe of his it was a good idea to be somewhere else.

  ‘You are a lucky man,’ Sigurd said, smiling at the warrior who had halted his men, unsure what to do now that there was no longer a skjaldborg facing him.

  ‘And why is that?’ he asked, buying time as his mind whirred.

  ‘Because before I am eating this farmer’s meat on the shore beside my ship, you will be drinking mead with your ancestors.’ Sigurd rolled his right shoulder in its socket, wondering if his muscles and bo
nes would be too cold to obey him now. ‘If you see my father and my brothers, tell them I look forward to joining them at Óðin’s high table. But it will not be today.’ With that he pulled his arm back and hurled the spear, which streaked like an iron lightning bolt and perhaps the man’s shield was rotten, or perhaps it was weakened in some previous fight, but Sigurd’s spear punched through the wood and into his chest, pinning the shield to him. He fell, the men beside him stepping away, looking at him with incredulity, expecting him to stand and cast the ruined shield aside. But dead men did not stand.

  And it was into this cauldron of shock that Svein poured chaos. He bellowed, cursing his enemies as he strode towards them, looping his long-hafted axe whose crescent blade promised cold death on that cold day. Those men backed away from him, instinct telling them that they must escape that smiting weapon, yet honour forcing them to stand their ground.

  Roaring their deaths, Svein brought the axe down in an overhead cut and it cleaved the shield raised against it, cut through the arm beneath and on into the fur-snugged head, only stopping its dreadful descent when it snagged in the cradle of its victim’s hips. Svein ripped it free of the splintered bone, the two halves of the man falling apart in a flood of blood and glistening intestines, as that wicked-sharp blade flew up as fast as a grouse, looping back over the red-haired giant’s head before scything in from the side to take another man’s head off his shoulders before he could scramble out of range. That blade was a living thing in Svein’s hands, never still now but soaring through the air around him, tracing invisible ship’s knots, thirsting to drink more blood as the big man gave himself to the battle lust.

  Floki turned a spear jab aside with his own shaft, then slashed his spear blade across his opponent’s throat before dancing out of the path of an arcing sword and stepping forward to thrust the spear through fur and skins into a warrior’s belly. Aslak and Bjorn were moving fast, stabbing and slashing with their spears, whilst Sigurd faced the man with the long beard rope, taking a succession of heavy blows on his shield before sheathing Troll-Tickler in the man’s gullet and drawing it out in a crimson spray which spattered the snow.