Copyright © 2024 by James Simonds (pen name J. C. Duncan)

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review. For more information, address: jcduncanbooks@gmail.com.

First edition February 2025

Cover design by Damonza.com

Photography by Studio Zahora

Maps by Red Geographics

ISBN 978-1-915804-02-0 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-915804-03-7 (ebook)

www.jcduncan.co.uk

Glossary

Adolf, Count of Schauenburg and lord of Holstein and Stormarn: A Saxon lord of Duke Lothair’s patronage, a senior commander of the first and second northern crusades.

Aeske: Brunhild’s son

Asel: senior huskarl of Jarl Frode

Astrid: Svear woman in Gjaldir’s band. Trader and navigator.

Aurick: Father of Ingrid, discoverer of the sword Ljós a Norðan

Baron Hugues: brother of Folmar, Count of Metz

Bertrand Lang: the deputy assistant minister of culture for antiquities and ancient monuments.

Bjorn Lendirsson: Swedish Huskarl, one of Gjaldir’s four famed companions

Brunhild: A Norse ex-slave woman

Conrad: The Count of Blankenburg. Elder brother of bishop Reinhard, one of three initial leaders of the third crusade

Conrad, Duke of Franconia: Brother and supporter of Duke Frederick of Swabia

Dengir: The Norse master Smith at Uppsala

Felix Meyer: The ex-assistant and successor to Bertrand Lang.

Frederick II, Duke of Swabia: Nephew of the emperor and presumed successor

Gjaldir: Legendary Norse warrior

Gotfrit: Saxon ex-slave, then brother of the order

Gunnar: Huskarl of King Sigurd, one of Gjaldir’s four famed companions

Professor Hallsson: the head of the history and archaeology department at the university of Lundjen. an expert on the northern crusades and medieval Scandinavia.

Halfar Asleson: the curator of the Røros museum of Norse history and culture.

Halfdan: One of Gjaldir’s warriors, cousin of Rurik

Halfbjorn: Charcoal burner and warrior

Halla: Wife of Ragnvald

Hartung: Son of Count Adolf, brother of The Order

Henry 5: Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire during the crusades

Henry the black: Duke of Bavaria

Ingrid: 11 year old girl who likes history and hates fishing. Discoverer of the sword Ljós a Norðan

Inspector Schulz: Senior inspector with the Lundjen police.

Jarl Einar: Brother and successor to Jarl Harnsted

Jarl Erling: Swedish Jarl

Jarl Frode: Swedish Jarl, ally of Ragnvald

Jarl Gustav: Swedish Jarl, known as the Raven’s claw

Jarl Ragnvald Ivarsson: Important jarl of the Kingdom of Sweden

Jarl Skoglar: Swedish Jarl and a leader of the rebellion

Leif Leifson: Huscarl of Jarl Ragnvald, one of Gjaldir’s four famed companions

Lothair, Duke of Saxony: Contender to be the next Holy Roman Emperor, 1st Crusade leader

Ordulf: German smith from Minden in lower Saxony

Otto: Slave of Ragnvald

Otto, Count of Ballenstedt: one of three leaders of the Third Crusade.

Reinhard: Bishop of Halberstadt and Grandmaster of the Order of the Brother’s of Christ’s light.

Rekke Karlsson: Warrior of Jarl Einar

Roland, Sieur de Blanchant: Acclaimed French knight on the third crusade.

Rudolf: Margrave of Nordmark and Count of Stade.

Rurik: One of Gjaldir’s warband

Sigurd Magnusson: King of all the Norse (Norðrikonungr). Son of Magnus, the King of Norway

Simon I, Duke of Lorraine: feudal lord of Baron Hugues

Sir Sighard: leading knight of the Order

Sir Dietmar of Eresburg: A leading knight of Bavaria

Sir Hans Metel of Oldenburg: A leading Knight of the Saxon contingent. revered as a great swordsman.

Toke: Charcoal burner and warrior.

Tormund Five bones: Seer and advisor to King Sigurd and Gjaldir

Vidar Junge: Swedish warrior, one of Gjaldir’s four famed companions

Preface

In the previous book in this series, The Weeping Winter, the Norse survivors of Jarl Ragnvald’s people and army, along with his allies, searched for a new place to call home, and a way to fight back against the victorious forces of the Crusade.

However, their tenacious resistance caused the occupying forces to relentlessly hunt them down, led by the forces of the Order of the Brotherhood of Christ’s Light, carrying their new sacred relic at their head – Ljós a Norðan, the Light of the North. The sword is seen as important by both sides. To the Christians, driven by Grandmaster Reinhard of the Order, it is a symbol of victory over the pagans, and the dominance of Christianity over the old pagan gods. Its bright blade represents the light of Christ burning away the darkness of the pagan ways. To the Norse, it is a symbol of hope, prophesied by the seer Tormund Five-Bones to be the key to their future. The bright blade represents the light of hope in the darkness of war.

Their interpretations may differ, their motivations for promoting the legendary qualities of the sword may diverge, but to both sides one thing seems clear. He who owns the sword owns the key to final victory.

While the Norse struggle for survival and a place to call home, the lords of the Christians vie for power in the conquered lands, playing a game of politics and influence almost as vicious and deadly as the war that came before. The Holy Roman Emperor Henry V is weak, ailing and ineffective, and the vultures are circling, waiting for their opportunity to strike.

Duke Lothair of Saxony, whose forces comprised the bulk of the Crusade and whose vassals now own much of the conquered northlands, is battered and bruised but still ambitious for more power, trying to use might and martial reputation alone to position himself as the natural successor. Duke Henry of Bavaria, newly raised to his late brother’s seat, is playing a darker game, controlling the Order to both strengthen his claim and weaken Lothair by undermining the new victory in the North. Under his direction, Grandmaster Reinhard seeks to both stoke the rebellion and then gain the glory for defeating it.

So Gjaldir and his people can find no peace, and the North suffers under a punishing regime of abuse and near-starvation designed to push them to rise up against Lothair’s forces. Throughout the long months the locals called ‘the weeping winter’, the privations increased, and the Norse survivors tried to fight back where they could, organising for one final uprising under Jarl Gustav, not knowing that they had already been betrayed, that they were puppets dancing to Reinhard’s tune.

When that last rebel force under Jarl Gustav was ambushed and destroyed by the Order, Gjaldir and a small band barely escaped, hunted relentlessly by their foes until a final confrontation, a confrontation where the Norse were at last victorious, and where Gjaldir came face to face with his past, and the sword he had forged.

Taking Ljós a Norðan from the hand of a fallen Order knight, the hope of his people was reignited. With all their old leaders dead or gone, and chosen by his companions and perhaps by the gods themselves to lead those who remain, Gjaldir reluctantly takes his place at the head of their small band with a single prophesied mission: to ensure that his people have a future.

And so the stage is set for the finale, the last entry in this saga, where the fate of the North will be decided on the edge of A Burning Blade.

The major named locations of the Crusade era in A Burning Blade.

Prologue

Final chapter of the saga of Ljós a Norðan

By Sverre Knarlsson

Written circa AD 1170, Iceland

Gjaldir made his way down from the mountaintop and travelled the lands, finding those scattered remains of his people and helping them. As he travelled, and showed the people the sword that was promised would free them, the righteous fire that was in him and in the blade was put into them, and they took heart. The news of the return of Ljós a Norðan spread across the land, and from far and wide, all across the scattered and desperate men of the North, warriors and freemen were drawn to his cause.

Four great champions were among them.

Gunnar Spear-shaker, a mighty warrior, undefeated by man or beast, of reputation so great that men shook in fear when they faced him.

Leif Sword-singer, whose blade moved so fast that the air made a song of its passage.

Bjorn the Faithful, whose heart was more resolute than any mortal man, whose word was stronger than any steel.

Vidar the Cunning, whose mind was as sharp as his axe, and even more deadly.

The four great warriors knelt in front of Ljós a Norðan and its wielder in front of all the people that had gathered, and swore themselves to its service, to follow it until the lands were free once more, or until death released them. The people knelt with them, and gave themselves to the fate of the sword.

Gjaldir led his people truly and resolutely, and they started to cleanse the land of their enemies. No force could stand against them as Ljós a Norðan shone brightly in battle once more. The flames of its steel consumed the dark souls of the enemy it slew, and the smoke of their destruction trailed the blade like a fog. In every town they freed with fire and steel they found what was left of their people and many joined them. The host of the free people of the North swelled and grew and the lands once more came under the sway of the children of the Aesir.

But somewhere in the shadows Loki wove his devilish magic and worked against Odin’s champion. The enemy moved against the Northmen again and again, and everywhere Gjaldir went he was victorious. But the lands were vast, and he howled in frustration because he could not defend everything, nor save everyone. Even then, he did not break faith with the Allfather, and the light of Ljós a Norðan never flickered.

The enemy could not trap Gjaldir, could not destroy him, could not defeat him with force of arms – such was the bravery and weapon craft of him and his followers. But with base treachery they made their plans, and with foul lies and heathen beliefs they worked their claws into the minds of the weakest of the people.

Treason. Treason was the weapon they deployed to fight against the last hope of the Northmen. For only a Northman’s betrayal could defeat a hero so pure of heart and intent, who saw no threat in a kinsman’s steel, and no foul intent in the words of a shieldwall brethren.

Treason led to their defeat in the heat of battle, and the final victory of their hated foe. Gjaldir and his mighty companions became hunted, far and wide across the land, but yet the enemy could not bring them to ground, such was the power of their belief.

Into the mountains the companions of Gjaldir went, seeking to lose their cowardly pursuers in the peaks. Up and up they ranged, into the very lands of the gods until one day, as Gjaldir and his warband marched up a valley, they found a great force of the enemy arrayed on the path, beside a vast rock that jutted from the mountain like a speartip.

The enemy refused to attack, so Gjaldir drew his mighty companions around him and, fearless and resolute, he advanced to meet the enemy in their hiding place. As the party passed into the shadow of the great rock, more of the foe appeared and ambushed them. They toppled the great rock down onto the path, setting it to crush the warband. Gjaldir saw the danger, and, setting his sword into the ground and bending his back, he caught the mighty rock on his shoulders and the pommel of his sword. Gjaldir roared his pain and defiance into the air and the sword blazed with furious light as the weight of the rock bore down on them.

He strained to hold up the vast boulder as his people fought out from underneath it, driving their enemy back. Such was its size that even Gjaldir’s great strength began to fail, and the sword’s light began to dim. As the last of his people escaped from beneath the rock, an enemy thrust his spear into Gjaldir’s side. The warrior roared in pain and the boulder fell from his grasp at last. The sword Ljós a Norðan bent and buckled as the full weight of the rock bore down on it, and the light finally went out of its heart.

Gjaldir picked up the damaged blade and slew the man who had wounded him. Then, gathering those few who survived of his warband, he carved his way out of the trap through the ranks of his enemy and won free.

Heartbroken from the betrayal, grievously injured, and with Ljós a Norðan damaged and its once bright heart darkened, he declared to the people that remained that he and the sword would only return to fight for them when they were once again worthy of it.

Gjaldir then retreated into the mountains to prepare for the day of his return, of the salvation of the North that was promised and will one day come when the fire in his people’s hearts can once again fuel the power of his blade. He will return when he is needed, and when the people have earned it with their loyalty, for as long as the sword Ljós a Norðan is wielded by a Norseman strong and true, the people of the Aesir will have a future.

Part 1

Alone I sat when the Old One sought me, The terror of gods, and gazed in mine eyes:

“What hast thou to ask? Why comest thou hither? Odin, I know where thine eye is hidden.”

Völuspá, verse 28

Chapter 1

A New Beginning

Lundjen

Spring 2016

Halfar sat there in annoyance, staring at the wall as Hallsson nervously drummed the table with his fingers. They had been sitting there for nearly half an hour, waiting for the meeting the new deputy minister for cultural affairs had promised them. The new minister had taken to the job immediately, Halfar thought, joining with all senior politicians everywhere by being utterly inconsiderate and…

The door opened, derailing Halfar’s train of thought, and the odd figure of Felix Meyer came through with some sort of government minder who was clutching a substantial sheaf of files and folders. Felix Meyer was middle aged, balding, swelling considerably around the middle, and walked with a pronounced limp that Halfar was ignorant of the reason for.

He looked around the room and nodded apologetically to Halfar and Professor Hallsson, before turning and whispering to his minder, who looked unhappy, but then nodded and handed over the stack of papers and folders to the deputy minister before leaving the room, closing the door behind him.

Meyer walked over and offered his spare hand to the professor and Halfar in turn.

‘I am so sorry I was delayed,’ he said, with clear and painful embarrassment. ‘There is a lot involved with taking over a ministerial position, especially in these circumstances. I came as quickly as I was able.’

‘We could have done this tomorrow if you had more pressing matters,’ said Hallsson, as Meyer clumsily got himself into a chair opposite them, dumping the stack of papers on the table with a thwack.

Meyer shook his head sternly and looked at Hallsson. ‘No, I have nothing more important than to come and talk to you, and I wanted that to be clear.’

Hallsson was visibly flattered by that response, and he straightened up slightly in his chair and nodded gratefully. ‘Well, I am very happy to hear that, but… why?’

Meyer looked at the professor awkwardly for a moment, using a forefinger to adjust his glasses. ‘Uh, well, after the events of the last few days, it seemed the most pressing issue.’

Halfar, whose patience for government officials in general, and culture ministry bureaucrats in particular, had been low even before the attempted coverup of the discovery of King Sigurd’s grave, uncrossed his arms and put his elbows on the table. ‘Why did you claim to be the whistleblower?’ he said, his brows furrowed and eyes indignant.

‘Ah, well, yes… that.’

All of them in the room knew that it had been Hallsson and Halfar who had leaked the knowledge that the grave of King Sigurd, first and only unified king of the Norse, had been discovered. Since the official national history was that Sigurd was a folktale, a mythical figure Nordic nationalists used to stir up trouble, the government had clamped down on the discovery and tried to suppress it, to Professor Hallsson’s indignation and Halfar’s fury.

Revealing the truth, and the botched government coverup, had helped topple the already teetering government, prompting a wave of resignations and the announcement of new elections.

The subject of who the whistleblower was had become almost a national manhunt in the press until, to Halfar and Hallsson’s shock, Felix Meyer, the assistant to the previous and disgraced deputy minister of culture, Bertrand Lang, had proclaimed he had been the source.

Hallsson gave Halfar a sideways glance of annoyance at the interruption. ‘Now, just hold on, one thing at a time.’

‘No, there is nothing else of importance to discuss until we know that! We all know you were not the whistleblower, so why pretend that you were? Have we simply swapped one lying minister for another?’

‘Halfar!’ sputtered Hallsson. ‘This is not your meeting, please try and restrain yourself!’

Halfar glared at his old friend and was about to retort when Felix desperately motioned at both of them with his hands. ‘Gentlemen, please. He is right, let me explain.’

Both of the academics turned to the nervous deputy minister, and Meyer gestured helplessly to Hallsson. ‘I lied about being the whistleblower because I knew it was you, and I didn’t want you to be dismissed.’

Halfar’s eyes narrowed and Hallsson’s jaw hung open slightly. ‘You knew, I mean, you thought?’ He hummed to himself for a moment but saw no guile or hostility on Meyer’s face and gave up the pretence of innocence. ‘Well, how could you know?’

‘Professor, I worked on that project, I knew exactly who had access and who did not, and I knew it had to be you.’

‘I told you it would be obvious,’ Hallsson said, turning to look at Halfar, who shrugged.

‘Doesn’t explain why he took the blame for you.’

‘Well, I knew that, legally, the government might have grounds to come after you, that you might have to resign from the university. But with the scandal, they could not come after me. And it was only a partial lie; I did, in fact, provide the additional information to the media that you did not have,’ he said, with an apologetic shrug.

Hallsson nodded slowly. ‘Why was keeping me in position so important to you?’

‘I know you, I have worked with you, and I didn’t trust anyone else to do this job properly.’

‘Sorry, are we all just ignoring that you worked with the previous deputy minister, Bertrand Lang, who for nearly a year tried to bury and minimise this whole series of discoveries? The sword, the king’s tomb…’ Halfar gritted his teeth in annoyance with himself. ‘Grave, the king’s grave. Now you pretend you are on our side?’

Meyer nodded, and sweat was sheening on his brow. ‘Yes, I am sorry, I know it is difficult to trust me, but I found it hard to stand up to Bertrand at first, and then later, when I objected, he ignored me and I…’ He gestured with his hands helplessly. ‘I didn’t know…’ He tailed off, and Halfar felt almost sorry for him.

‘You didn’t have the courage to act.’

‘Halfar!’ sputtered Hallsson again.

‘No, he is right. Until you acted first, Professor Hallsson, I did not have the courage to really do anything about it, and I thought it would be futile if I tried. I was wrong, gentlemen, and I apologise.’

Halfar was mollified slightly by the sincerity in the man’s face, and he leaned back a bit, resuming his arms-crossed posture, silently judging the minister with his glare.

‘Well, I’m glad to clarify, er… what happened,’ said the extremely uncomfortable Hallsson.

‘I know that you have little reason to trust me, and many reasons not to, but I hope I have brought news that can help earn that back, at least a little.’ Meyer looked down and scrabbled uncertainly through the untidy pile of papers on the table, mumbling and apologising until he found what he was looking for. ‘Ah! Yes, here it is,’ he said, smiling and pushing it across the table to Hallsson.

Hallsson reached out and picked up the thin folder with curiosity, opening it and quickly scanning the first page. His eyebrows rose and he flipped through the pages. ‘This is our original proposal for the new museum wing to house the sword.’

‘Yes.’

‘The one that was rejected and gutted by deputy minister Lang,’ Hallsson added. He flicked through the pages and his eyebrows rose further and a tentative smile spread across his features. ‘You have signed it off? The ministry will fund this now?’

‘Yes,’ said Meyer, nodding profusely.

‘You can just do that?’

‘The government is in no position to refuse,’ Meyer said with a joyful grin. ‘In fact, I am going to add another percentage to the budget to accommodate updates I expect you to make, in order to house the new artefacts found with King Sigurd.’

Even Halfar grinned in delight at that. ‘Just like that?’

‘Just like that. Whatever we ask for, the ministry of culture will sign off on, they can’t afford the bad press of rejecting it, not after what just happened.’

‘And who will be in charge of this project? Who will curate the new museum, some ministry hack?’ said Halfar, doing his best to find a flaw in the news.

Meyer turned to Halfar with a shy grin. ‘Well, I had planned to discuss this with Professor Hallsson first since he is the head of the university’s museum programme, but, uh… well, I had thought it should be you.’

Halfar’s suspicious expression softened, and then his eyes widened in surprise. ‘Me?’

‘Yes! Why, would you not want to?’ said Meyer, suddenly concerned.

‘No, well… Of course. I just… I am very surprised.’

‘Fabulous! Fabulous, I agree completely, who could be better, eh?’ said Hallsson, grinning from ear to ear and reaching over to grab Halfar’s wrist and squeeze it.

Halfar finally grinned happily before trying to control himself. ‘Well, I will have to think it over,’ he lied. ‘And I have my own museum to think of.’

‘I thought you could bring that down here, bring all the contents and anything else from the ministry archive. Gather all of this history together in one place, to do it justice,’ replied Meyer enthusiastically.

Halfar whistled. ‘A whole museum of the Norse history of Nordlandia, with me curating?’

‘Yes. The ministry and the university will build the building, and we can ensure all the permits and funding to make that process quick, you can curate the contents, as you see fit, with no interference, I will personally oversee it. Bring it all together into one place, the entire history of the Norse people, and the world can see it here. I will personally ensure there are no more problems and troubles.’

Halfar wriggled with excitement in his chair but still tried not to let it show as the two other men stared at him in anticipation. Finally his face cracked into a grin. ‘Well, I was finding retirement very dull anyway, and how could I turn that opportunity down? I accept!’ he said, rising in his chair and slapping a hand gently on the table, all his doubts and anger forgotten.

Hallsson stood and the stoic professor surprised Halfar by drawing him into a hug.

‘Wonderful! Just wonderful. After everything that has happened. You deserve this, we deserve this,’ said Hallsson.

‘The whole country deserves this,’ said Halfar, nodding and extracting himself from the embrace.

‘Yes, wonderful,’ said Meyer, applauding and smiling as he watched the two men. ‘Just perfect,’ he added almost under his breath, as the two men ignored him and his smile strained and twisted slightly. ‘Just what is needed.’

Chapter 2

The Weight of Duty

In the hills north-west of Uppsala

Late March AD 1121

Gjaldir felt the tightness in his chest, the familiar shortness of breath and the rising tide of panic. He saw his hand clenching the sword Ljós a Norðan by the blade and his eyes widened as he saw blood seeping between his fingers as the bright steel bit into his flesh.

But he could not relax the death grip of his fingers, could not steady his hand as he looked up and saw the murky crowd of warriors gathered before him, staring at him in expectation and disapproval.

A familiar voice asked him the question, always the same question. And unbidden the words forced themselves from his throat: ‘Yes, Leif Leifson, I am ready.’

Gjaldir grumbled and twitched as he awoke, sweat beading on his brow despite the coolness of the spring morning, and for a moment he wondered where he was, but then sighed as the familiar dream receded and he blinked back into the familiarity of the little shelter he shared with a few of his closest warriors.

Not that waking to reality was much better than the turmoil and stress of his haunting dream. Because the event he had dreamt of almost every night for seven days was all too real; he had taken a solemn oath to lead these people, to take them down from the desperate shelter of the hills and into the coastal plains of their old, conquered homeland.

When he finally arose from his crude bed of furs and left the shelter, that was exactly what they would expect him to do, because this was the day – the day they had planned for their departure.

Unable to hide from the future any longer, Gjaldir got out of the furs and pulled his warmest tunic and least ragged trousers on, belting his cloak over the top and wrapping his feet before putting on his sturdy leather shoes. Lastly he buckled his swordbelt over the top, setting it so that Ljós a Norðan rested over his left hip, the battered, faded red scabbard hanging alongside his left thigh, angled backwards, hilt presented and ready for his right hand to draw the bright blade from the dragon-mouthed scabbard at any moment.

He composed himself, forcing down a few mouthfuls of the still-warm food someone had left by the door, as much as his churning stomach would allow.

As he ate, Leif, his closest companion and perhaps his only true friend, came through the flap of deerskin that served as a door and grinned. ‘You are alive at last,’ Leif said.

‘Barely,’ Gjaldir grumbled.

‘Well, the people are already packing, we should be ready to leave before the sun is above the trees.’ Then he cast an eye over the small space. ‘As long as you are ready to march too.’

‘I will pack quickly, don’t worry.’

Leif shook his head. ‘No, you won’t. You are needed outside, we still have to choose our destination. I will have someone pack your things.’

Gjaldir scowled at Leif. ‘I will not treat my people like servants, I am no jarl.’

‘No, I will do that for you, now get outside, and try to look happy. This will be a hard march and the people need to see you looking confident, not worry that you are hiding in your bed.’

‘It’s barely dawn,’ complained Gjaldir, peering past Leif into the half-light.

‘And most of us were up in the darkness. Come, we are waiting.’ And then the Svear warrior turned and left, leaving Gjaldir to mutter quiet complaints in peace.

Gjaldir finally made it to the biggest of the shelters that they had built against the low cliff, where all winter the food had been stored. It was now empty; all the food they had left had been packed in bags and was waiting on the handful of mules they had managed to steal, or lying on the ground ready to be carried by the hundreds of people gathering in the clearing.

Inside the crude building, the only one big enough for a dozen people to stand in comfortably, he found his makeshift war council of four warriors, his closest companions. Leif was there, taking in low tones to Gunnar, the old champion and huskarl of King Sigurd. Gunnar looked older than when Gjaldir had first met him, only four years before. Life had been hard on the king’s old huskarl since then.

At the time he had led the five-hundred-strong, fearsome, blue-cloaked hird of King Sigurd Magnusson, the larger-than-life king of all the Norse. They had been the finest and fiercest band of warriors in all the North, perhaps in all the world, but half a dozen terrible battles and a winter under siege had whittled their glorious ranks away, denuding them until the last few dozen had carried their dying king away from the battlefield outside Uppsala where the army of the North had been shattered. Where they had taken Sigurd, Gunnar had sworn never to tell, only that the king was dead, and most of the rest of his men had returned home to their families.

But Gunnar had remained, his spirit almost broken by the loss of his king, his men, and his family; slain in the brief invasion of Norway by the Christians. With nothing to return home to, he had dedicated his life to saving whatever he could of the king’s people and honour Sigurd’s legacy. The fire of that determination seemed to be the only thing keeping him alive, and he acted as the trainer of warriors and the leader of the battleline for their desperate band of refugees.

Vidar the Cunning looked up, his long black hair, sly smile, good looks and slight figure belying his ferocious battle skill. Vidar was one of the last of Gunnar’s blue-cloaks, and the only man Gjaldir had ever seen best Gunnar with weapons, winning by trickery and speed in a tournament the king had held while they were under siege in Jönköping. He had been given his name after that, and for his reputation for intelligence and trickery.

He stood there waiting with Bjorn the Faithful, his opposite in so many ways. Dour, serious, scarred and muscled, Bjorn was renowned for the unbreakable nature of his spirit and his word. It was said the only thing he feared was dishonour, and Gjaldir knew it to be true, having once seen the man choose certain death over failing in his duty to revenge his dead jarl and master. Gjaldir and Bjorn had been enemies that day, crossed swords even, as Bjorn and a small group of warriors had tried to take the life of Gjaldir’s master Jarl Ragnvald in revenge.

The attack had failed when Gjaldir had blundered into their trap, springing it before they were ready. But Bjorn, the last attacker alive, had chosen to throw his axe at Jarl Ragnvald and be disarmed and captured, rather than to kill Gjaldir and flee.

Only luck had seen the weapon fail to kill Ragnvald. Ragnvald’s own sense of honour and desire not to waste the life of a good man had led him to spare Bjorn, and the masterless warrior had sworn to his service in repayment of that debt. Bjorn had served Ragnvald’s wife Halla after that, and now, finally, he had given his oath to Gjaldir.

And so a man who had once tried to kill him and his master was now sworn to Gjaldir’s service, and would take that oath as seriously as the ones he had sworn to Jarl Ragnvald, and to the failed pretender to the Swedish throne, Jarl Harnsted, before him. It was something that Gjaldir still did not fully understand, the honour code of the Norse, but what he did understand was that Bjorn had committed to put his own body between an oncoming blade and Gjaldir, and he knew that Bjorn would rather die than fail to uphold that oath.

Behind those four, the warriors who until the week before had been his seniors and even his masters, was Brunhild. She might not have been accepted by the other four as one of their circle of advisors, but to Gjaldir she was the most important. She was the only reason he was there, the only reason he was alive.

He still didn’t know what to think when he saw her. He felt the pangs of love, the warmth of friendship, the pain of her coolness to him, and the despair of her loss. He had got past her having a child with another man, at the time their fellow slave Otto, and he had chosen to remain with her and the band of refugees when Otto fled back to the Christians after the fall of Uppsala. Without her he would have fled too, but he could not abandon the woman he loved, and her child Aeske. For a brief time, he thought they had regained their love and even become a family. Until a Christian blade had stolen both forever.

The murder of her son had not broken her, even when he thought it had, she was too strong for that. But she had withdrawn herself from the world, peering out at it, cold and detached, through the eyes of her old body. Her quick-witted humour was gone, as was her charm and tenderness. At first Gjaldir had not understood, and been hurt by it, had thought it meant she did not care about him. But he had come to see that she had abandoned everything that weakened her, or was not necessary to her and her aim; to drive the Christians from her homeland so there would never be another child to share the fate of Aeske.

He had her support, perhaps now more than ever. But instead of lying under the furs and sharing their love, they trained with sword and shield. Instead of laughter and chiding sarcasm, she guided him with sternness and urged him to lead without fear or remorse.

The band of four warriors advised him, but it was Brunhild who had taught him how to survive as a slave, how to love as a man, and now how to think as a leader. And he loved her for it, and accepted that she could never love him in return.

Returning the curt nod and feeling the lash of the look of annoyance at his lateness she gave him, Gjaldir stepped into the circle and all five of them fell quiet and looked at him.

Gjaldir was instantly intimidated, as he was every time these seasoned warriors and leaders looked to him. His hand fell to his sword hilt, nervously rubbing it, the very real source of his power and his insecurity. It was the only reason why he was the leader here, the sword that was prophesied to lead the Norse people to freedom, the sword that he himself had forged for Jarl Ragnvald and had been lost to the Christians when Jarl Ragnvald died at Uppsala.

But by some bad joke of fate, Gjaldir had reclaimed it in battle, taken it from a Crusader knight he killed in single combat, recovering the famous sword that the Christians saw as a holy relic and symbol of their right to rule, and the Norse saw as the last hope of their people.

And here Gjaldir was, in the middle, with the sword on his belt, and thus the belief of the people that he was going to lead them to freedom and secure their future. He could not let any of them know he did not believe it, any of it. He did not believe the prophecy of the mad seer Tormund Five-Bones, who skulked around in their camp even now. He did not believe the sword had any magical powers, because he had forged it himself from metal and bronze and wood.

Most of all, deep in his heart, he did not believe he was the leader they all expected him to be, and he was sure they could see it, sure their piercing stares would reveal him as the lie he surely was and that he would be humiliated, stripped of his position and his sword, and be abandoned by them all. Perhaps even by Brunhild, who so fiercely believed in it all. The weight of it was crushing.

‘So are we ready to go?’ he managed, almost choking.

‘We will be very shortly,’ said Gunnar in his low, gravelly voice.

‘But where to?’ asked Leif with a frustrated sigh.

‘We can’t know where is safe and where isn’t until we move down into the lowlands,’ Vidar replied.

‘Anywhere the Christians are isn’t safe,’ Leif retorted.

‘Anywhere the Christians aren’t is of no use to us, how can we reclaim our lands if we flee from them?’ Gunnar growled.

Gjaldir sighed and put a hand to his forehead as the four warriors broke into the argument they had had a half-dozen times already. Gunnar wanted nothing but to start driving the Crusaders from the land, starting in the sparsely guarded north of Uppland and driving south, giving little attention to what would become of the people who followed them.

Leif cared most to keep the people safe, saw it as their paramount duty to guard the last of Jarl Ragnvald’s and his wife Halla’s subjects, people both of them had died to protect. He wanted to find a home for them and defend them from the Christians who now ruled the vast majority of the country.

Vidar mostly took the side of Gunnar, whom he followed in almost all things. Bjorn was the least involved, as in most issues, merely waiting to see what was decided before committing wholeheartedly to that. But he seemed more aligned with Leif, and had an instinct to protect their unarmed followers.

So the council was divided, the council that was supposed to support and advise him could not even agree on this first and most important issue, and Gjaldir despaired.

As the men argued, Brunhild slipped around the group and came over to Gjaldir, her mouth pressed into a firm line. He couldn’t help it, he felt a little burst of warmth every time she came to him, despite knowing there would be nothing of the kind in return.

‘You have to make this decision, Gjaldir, and quickly,’ she said, the iciness of her words dousing the tiny kindled flame in his chest in an instant. ‘In fact, this is a decision you should have made days ago, as I warned you then,’ she added, folding her arms across her chest and glaring at him. ‘What will the people think, if you cannot even decide this? A leader must be decisive.’

‘And how must I decide?’ Gjaldir replied, exasperated. ‘I know nothing of the lands to the east or north of here, I have never been there. And how can I maintain the trust of these men if I must tell half of them they are wrong? They are supposed to advise me and then I give the commands, but they cannot agree.’

Brunhild scowled and her eyes blazed. ‘I keep thinking you have grown into a man, and you keep showing me that you have not.’

Gjaldir fought against his rising anger, but shame overrode it. It always did. Brunhild had a way of making him feel small that no one else possessed.

She pressed a finger into his chest. ‘If you are going to be a leader, you must learn to be decisive. Yes, some of them will disagree with you, it’s childish to hope they will all agree and make your path easy. The point of being a leader is to keep them beside you despite disagreements. You decide, and they follow.’ She jabbed him with her finger for emphasis. ‘Take control of your men.’

Gjaldir swatted away the prodding finger in annoyance. ‘How can I control these men, I cannot even control you.’

Brunhild’s eyes narrowed. ‘I am not a man.’

‘Are you my advisor then?’

‘Yes, always, for the gods know you need it.’

‘Well then, what do you think? Where should we go? Advise me!’ Gjaldir hissed, trying to keep the rest from hearing him.

‘You want my advice?’ Brunhild asked, stepping back and looking at him nonchalantly.

‘Yes!’

‘If you don’t know the answer, go with your instinct. If you have none, just make a decision and stick to it. It is better to make a wrong decision than to look indecisive.’ And then she turned away with a final glare.

Gjaldir unleashed a string of curses in his old German tongue at the perplexing woman and it was loud enough that some of the men looked up at him.

‘What?’ asked Bjorn.

Then they were all looking at him, and he grimaced and flicked his eyes to Brunhild, who urged him on with a wide-eyed nod.

Gjaldir felt a sudden moment of calm. ‘We go north, to the lands the Christians haven’t reached yet,’ he said with a nod.

‘What?’ asked Gunnar, outraged.

‘Good,’ said Leif with a nod.

‘You swore to continue the fight to clear the lands of them,’ sputtered Gunnar, stepping forward, ignoring Leif’s restraining hand on his arm.

‘I know, and we will.’

‘If we go north and find some comfortable home, we will never leave. You must take us down south, into our home, and we will fight for it!’ protested the old huskarl.

‘We cannot do that until the warriors know their families are safe.’ Gjaldir paused and looked around. ‘I believe this is what Ragnvald would have done, and Halla. We will find the people a safe home, and then we will march south to fight the Christians.’

‘And give the enemy time to grow stronger?’ Gunnar said, his face thunderous. ‘Send the people north alone while we march south, and waste no time.’

‘And leave them defenceless?’

‘They are strong, they have survived this long…’

‘Enough!’ Gjaldir snapped, holding his hand up, feeling the anger rising. ‘You told me that you would advise me, and I would lead. I have made my decision and I will lead all of us and abandon none. Do you not accept it, Gunnar?’

Gunnar bristled and controlled himself. ‘I will always tell you when I think that you are wrong, but if it is your final word – then yes, I accept it. Are you sure this is your plan?’

There was a strained silence as Gjaldir looked around the group, all looking at him expectantly. He was worried, he did not know if what he was doing was right. But he pressed a confidence he did not feel into his posture. ‘It is.’

Gunnar stared at him intensely for another few moments and then nodded curtly. ‘It’s about time you were sure of something, lad. I think you are wrong, but I will serve you until you realise it, and then I will help you fix it.’ Vidar laughed at that, and Gunnar gave him a stern glare before he cracked a small smile.

Gjaldir breathed a sigh of relief as the tension in the room lifted, and Leif nodded at him in thanks.

‘So, where exactly are we going?’ Bjorn asked, and Gjaldir spread his hands and shrugged to show he had nothing to say.

‘Perhaps to Jarl Harnstead’s old lands? Last we heard, the Christians had not reached there,’ Bjorn added. ‘I know Jarl Einar, if he still rules there, perhaps he will allow us to stay.’

‘No, it is too far, we truly would be stuck there forever, impossible to travel back and forth regularly without ships, and we will have no ships.’ Leif looked at the ground for a moment, then nodded to himself with a strange look on his face. ‘I think I know a place we can make a settlement, on the coast in Hälsingland, beyond the reach of the Christians but south of Einar’s lands. There is a remote area on the coast where I don’t believe the Christians will go, because it has nothing of value, no major towns or ports. It has always been a quiet land with few people.’

‘Will it accommodate so many of us? Is there food and good land?’

‘Yes, I know it will.’

‘If Leif is familiar with it and says it will be good, then I accept his words,’ boomed Gunnar with a nod of finality.

Gjaldir nodded in relief. ‘Then we are decided, we will go to this place that Leif knows of, and hopefully make a safe home for our people there.’ Then he moved his eyes to Gunnar.

‘And then we go to war,’ said Gunnar pointedly.

Gjaldir nodded, raising his chin. ‘And then we go to war.’

Chapter 3

Ghosts and Bones

Eastern coast of Hälsingland

Early April AD 1121

It had taken two weeks to complete the difficult journey down to the coast, avoiding the main trading routes and settlements, and surviving off the remaining food they had brought from the mountain store and what they could hunt or collect on the way.

Finally they crossed the main north-south trade route, creeping across at night to avoid being seen, and headed out onto the broad peninsula of land where Leif said the hidden valley was located.

The route into the area was difficult, avoiding a series of lakes and rugged, almost impassable wooded rocky hills, following the line of a small river that broadened into a narrow valley bordered on both sides with the densely wooded outcroppings.

Gjaldir looked out over the flat land near the river with concern. ‘There is a village there,’ he said, squinting in the low morning light.

Leif shook his head. ‘It is abandoned, has been for nearly ten years.’ Then he shrugged. ‘We might find some remnants there, people who have fled the Christians, but nothing that will trouble us.’

They made their way along the riverbank, passing through abandoned fields overgrowing with tall grasses, tangled weeds and spring flowers. Gjaldir could see Leif was right, no one had been tending these once carefully marked-out fields for some time.

Finally they came to the edge of the village. The main path was still clear, but plants were starting to reclaim the verges and the ruins of the half-torn-down buildings. It had not been clear from the head of the valley, but this village had not just been abandoned, but devastated. Several blackened piles of timbers showed where buildings had been burned.

Gunnar turned to the column of warriors and people following them. ‘See if any buildings can be salvaged or rebuilt, tear the others down for timber. We need to get some shelter up.’

The people set about the task without much guidance. There wasn’t a man or woman there who had not built and abandoned homes several times in the last year, and always in worse places than this.

Leif had been right, the valley was a good place to live, they had even spotted some goats in the trees on the far side of the river, watching them warily as they arrived.

The mere sight of them had made Gjaldir’s stomach rumble, and he clearly wasn’t the only one who had noticed. Vidar came over to the rest of the group as they stood in the half-overgrown space outside the ruins of what must have once been the village ruler’s hall.

‘I am going to cross the river and see if those goats are wild, or if we can rope and pen them.’

‘There must have been some left behind when the village was abandoned, they have been breeding,’ said Bjorn.

‘Why wouldn’t they take the goats?’ asked Gjaldir, looking around in confusion.

Bjorn gestured at the ruins. ‘They did not leave voluntarily, look at these buildings. No one does this to their own homes, they were driven out.’

‘By who? And why were they not replaced?’

‘Because the land is cursed, or so the locals say,’ said Leif, and they turned to look at him. He was standing in front of the ruins of the hall, staring at it.

‘You brought us to cursed land?’ said Gunnar in outrage.

‘So what, how much worse could things be for us? If it keeps others away, then it is good,’ said Leif with a contemptuous shrug. He was the least devout of the four of the warriors, and placed little stock in what the seers said or what people believed of dark magic and mysteries.

‘He is right,’ said Bjorn. ‘A curse is the least of our worries.’

‘Just saying that invites disaster,’ Gunnar grumbled, but instead of arguing further he merely shook his head and walked away. It would be pointless trying to move the people on over rumours of a curse. They were exhausted, and this was good land with the start of a settlement and fields, with water and wood and the possibility of fish, goats and other food sources. It was perhaps the best place they had seen for a year or more.

‘I’m going to go and look for the cursed goats,’ said Vidar with a smile. ‘Leif can organise the builders.’ And then he and Bjorn walked away.

Leif turned to Gjaldir with an odd smile. ‘I think we will do well here.’

‘What is the curse, Leif?’

The blond warrior shook his head with a wry laugh. ‘Nothing that will bother us.’

That annoyed Gjaldir, because although he didn’t believe in such things, not knowing the nature of it niggled at the back of his mind.

That night was clear and there seemed to be no threat of rain, so the people made piles of unsalvageable wood and scraps, burned big fires for the first time in a week or more and revelled in the warmth of their flames, setting themselves down to sleep around the embers.

When the morning came, ten men and women set out to gather up the goats and bring them to the village. Vidar had found nearly two dozen of them, a few of the older ones friendly and approachable, but with younger ones and kids that were wary and kept their distance in the trees. ‘Those older ones were raised by us, but their offspring might have never seen people before. It shouldn’t be a problem to gather them up, and we have repaired the fence around two of the pens to keep them in.’ Vidar grinned. ‘It’s a stroke of luck, they will be invaluable.’

‘We will eat them?’ asked Gjaldir.

‘Eat them? Gods, no… well, some of the older males, yes, but the rest we will keep for their milk and for the winter.’

‘But the people are hungry now, we have almost nothing left.’

Vidar patted Gjaldir on the back. ‘And when the goats are eaten they will still be hungry, but we will have no goats. No, they will fish and hunt and soon gather fruits and mushrooms and other things. Leave this to the people, Gjaldir. They know how to survive in this land.’

Gjaldir grunted his acknowledgement and Vidar led his party across the river on a makeshift raft of fallen roofbeams to go and gather the animals.

Gjaldir wandered through the village, trying to remember what Ragnvald or Halla would have done, stopping to awkwardly talk to people, or help them lift timbers or clear ruins. He felt utterly useless, he was sure he should be encouraging them, uplifting them somehow, or organising them. But he had no idea where to begin with that.

As he walked, after a brief and meaningless conversation with two middle-aged women who clearly just wanted him to leave so that they could get on with their work, he heard a ripple of laughter and turned to see Leif and Brunhild standing there beside a half-fallen wall. His face went red as they laughed at him, Brunhild turning to Leif to whisper something that only made Leif laugh harder.

Angry at the mocking, Gjaldir walked off down the street, not knowing where he was going, just wanting to get away from their disrespect.

‘Wait, Gjaldir, come on!’ Brunhild said through her laughter, jogging to catch up and falling in alongside Gjaldir as he strode away.

‘Don’t do that,’ he replied testily.

‘Why?’

‘People see you, I am supposed to lead them and be respected and you are laughing at me in front of them.’

‘Oh, don’t be so stiff, you are their leader, not their king.’

‘I don’t like it, what was so funny? I am just trying to…’ Gjaldir floundered, he really didn’t know what he had been trying to do.

‘You are trying to look like a jarl, but you are not. So stop pretending. It’s very funny to watch you strutting around the village attempting to look important, but it would be better, and the people would respect you more, if you simply found something useful to do, and then did it.’

Gjaldir sighed, he wanted to be angry with her, but seeing her laughing was so rare that he couldn’t be. ‘You are probably right. What then?’

‘Build a house, build a forge, go and cut some wood.’

‘As simple as that?’

‘Yes, why not?’

Gjaldir nodded and thought about it. ‘I could go and prepare some wood for building, that was my job at Vatnsborð.’

‘Good, so do that.’

‘I will need help, it is a two-man job.’

‘Can it be done with one man and one woman?’

Gjaldir turned to look at Brunhild and he tried to keep his excitement contained as he smiled. ‘If the woman is willing to work as hard as a man.’

He got a punch to the ribs for that.

He was delighted.

‘No, this one won’t do.’ Gjaldir looked at the ash tree in frustration. All the trees on the lower slopes were growing in rocky, difficult ground, and none of the ash trees he had seen were large enough or straight enough to make useful beams. He suspected they were mostly recent regrowth.

‘What about this one?’ asked Brunhild, pointing to a larger tree further up the slope.

‘No, that is an alder anyway. See, the leaves are broader, more like an oar than a spear.’

Brunhild gave him an annoyed look but then squinted at the tree for longer and nodded. She hated being wrong, especially when it was Gjaldir who was right. Luckily for her, it did not happen often. ‘I know what an ash leaf looks like, I just couldn’t see from here.’

Gjaldir smiled. They had not found many trees worth cutting, but he was just enjoying being out in the woods, doing this simple job with her.

‘Let’s go on down the valley rather than up the hill. The further we are away from the old village, the more likely we will find good trees.’

‘I didn’t realise you knew so much about trees,’ Brunhild said, huffing as she climbed the slope to catch up.

‘Eric Firebeard taught me well,’ replied Gjaldir with a heavy heart. Eric had been a friend, a brother in the battle line, and a fun and easygoing man to work with. He had taught Gjaldir how to build the frame of a house, which woods to use for what parts and how to choose them. He had learned to do the entire process from selecting trees to cutting, preparing and laying the timbers. He enjoyed the work, almost as much as he had enjoyed smithing. It felt good to build something that would help people live, rather than help people kill.

Then Eric had died in the chaos of the ambush on the river south of Vatnsborð, choking his life out from a spear wound after saving Gjaldir from being overrun. Gjaldir had fled with the rest of the survivors, leaving Eric and hundreds of other warriors dead or dying on the riverbank and in the shallows. The shame of it still burned in him.

Gjaldir felt Brunhild’s hand on his shoulder and realised he had gone silent and immobile for a while. ‘I’m sorry, Gjaldir. I liked Eric too.’

Gjaldir nodded gruffly. ‘Come, let’s go down the valley.’ It didn’t do to dwell on those they had lost. It was simply too many for both of them.

They made their way down out of the scraggly trees and into the overgrown meadows beyond the village. A mile or two later they came round a small copse of bushes and stunted birches of no value and saw another, larger stretch of woodland on the slope another mile further on.

‘That looks promising,’ Gjaldir said.

Brunhild looked behind them. ‘It’s a long way from the village. Dragging large timbers back through this will be a day’s work.’

‘We can float them along the river,’ Gjaldir said. ‘The current isn’t strong.’

Brunhild made a face and then nodded. ‘As you say.’

Gjaldir grinned and looked at her. ‘You hate this, don’t you?’

‘What?’

‘Doing something with me where I know more than you.’

That earned him another punch and then Brunhild stalked away, trying not to show any annoyance, and his smile only broadened.

They walked in silence for the next half a mile or so, and then Brunhild stopped dead and Gjaldir looked around in confusion.

‘What is it?’

Brunhild said nothing, but knelt down to inspect something in the grass, clearing away a tuft and gasping.

‘Look, it’s a body.’

There was a skeleton there, in the undergrowth, sun-whitened bones and the tattered remnants of clothes clinging to it.

Gjaldir looked at the rocks and broken sticks half visible in the field around them that he had barely paid attention to and his breath froze in his throat. ‘Brunhild,’ he said in a deathly whisper.

Then she stood up and followed his eyes with hers, and saw it too. ‘By the gods,’ she whispered.

They were standing in a field of death. The rocks and broken, scattered sticks he had seen from the corner of his eye were skulls and human bones, half hidden in the weeds. Some together in recognisable bodies, some scattered and broken. They could see at least twenty in the undergrowth and grass, and more must be hidden beyond sight.

‘Let’s get out of here, no wonder this place is cursed,’ whispered Brunhild with genuine fear. ‘It’s an open tomb.’

Gjaldir didn’t disagree, and they hurried over a gentle rise beyond the field and stopped at the sight before them, Gjaldir’s brows knotting together as he looked around.

‘Well, that’s where the people came from,’ he said in horror.

There was what must once have been another village lying in front of them. It was not merely ruined like the one they had settled. It was razed to its foundations, burned, the remains scattered and overgrown. Nothing was left higher than waist high, and from a distance it had been invisible in the grass and bushes around it.

‘What happened here?’ Gjaldir asked. This was not the work of the Crusades. It was old, decades old, perhaps.

‘Your people didn’t invent death and destruction,’ replied Brunhild bitterly. ‘My people were doing this to each other for centuries before you came. This is how I came to be a slave, a place like this. Warriors coming in the dawn with steel and fire, killing and stealing, all over some dispute about land or silver. Come, let’s go around and get to those woods. I don’t wish to linger in this place.’

Gjaldir grabbed her arm to stop her. ‘Wait, there is someone here.’

‘What?’ Brunhild instinctively pulled her wood axe from her belt, and drew her seax with her other hand. Gjaldir pulled his own seax from his belt and nodded to her, and the pair of them silently padded down towards the ruins, pushing past some saplings that were sprouting merrily from the ashes of a long burned building.

‘How many did you see?’ whispered Brunhild.

‘Only one, I think.’

‘Armed?’

‘I don’t know… it could just be one of our people, exploring.’

‘In this cursed place? We need to make sure.’

They pushed on deeper into the ruins, and Gjaldir could then see the back of a blond-haired man, sitting in the ruins on a fallen timber. He stopped, confused, and then called out, ‘Leif?’

The figure started, turning to look and then relaxing when he saw them, shoulders slumping guiltily.

Gjaldir put his axe back in his belt and walked over. ‘What are you doing here?’ As he got closer, he was shocked to see Leif was weeping. ‘Leif? What has happened?’

Leif looked up at them again, wiping the streaming tears from his face with his forearm and reluctantly standing, just shaking his head.

Gjaldir looked at him in confusion. Leif was the happiest man he had ever known, hardly ever seen without a smile on his face or a joke on his tongue.

‘Leif, what is wrong?’ Then Gjaldir remembered their conversation the previous year, where Leif had told of how he had lost his entire family, his home and his future as a jarl to a treacherous uncle.

‘Is this it? Is this the place you spoke of?’ he asked, feeling his heart sink.

Leif stared back at the ruined building for a moment, he looked completely desolate, his lips wavering and his eyes red. Then his shoulders slumped and he looked down at the ground, the words slipping from him in a whimper.

‘Yes, this was my home.’

Gjaldir and Brunhild sat there as the story poured out of him, the tale of betrayal and loss, of the devastation of his village and the death of his father… of his flight in terror as a boy from the flames and from everyone he knew, from the girl he loved, too young to even fight for his people. And when the last dregs of it had come forth, Brunhild shook her head in wonder. ‘And you never told Ragnvald of this, or any of his other warriors.’

‘No.’

‘Why?’

‘I was ashamed, because I never took revenge.’

‘Why not?’

Leif laughed bitterly. ‘Because by the time I was old and strong enough, my desire was gone and anyway, it was too late. The same men who did this to my village had taken on someone more powerful than they and been killed for it. And their bodies and the bodies of my people littered this valley and anyone left alive fled. It has been a place of death ever since.’

‘And your father was jarl here. You would have been jarl one day?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who did Ragnvald and the others think you were?’

Leif shrugged. ‘I never said, and they never cared to ask. It didn’t matter, as long as I served and fought well with them.’

Brunhild looked at Gjaldir. ‘And you knew this?’

Gjaldir nodded. ‘I knew some of it.’

Brunhild stared back at the ruin, deep in thought. She nodded, standing and looking at Leif with a trace of sympathy. ‘I am glad to know this about you, Leif, and I wish I had known it sooner. I have always seen you as one of my captors, one of those who kept me as a slave and had no other connection to me. But now I can see that you are like Gjaldir and me, someone who has lost everything and survived.’ She paused. ‘It means I can truly trust you.’

She proffered her hand to Gjaldir. ‘Come, we still have time to find some good trees before it gets dark. Give Leif his peace.’

Leif laughed bitterly. ‘If you are looking for good trees for timber, you need to go across the river east of the other village, not south of this one. Nothing but birch and scrub down here.’

Brunhild’s mouth twisted in annoyance. ‘A wasted day then.’ Her hand fell to her side. She looked at Gjaldir and Leif and nodded. ‘I will see you back at the village then, if you aren’t coming now,’ and she abruptly turned to leave.

As her figure receded through the overgrown ruins, Leif laughed softly again. ‘She is a strange one, your woman.’

‘She isn’t my woman,’ said Gjaldir sadly.

‘Yes, she is,’ said Leif with a bitter smile. ‘More than you know. We all have one, that one woman in our life. She might not even be the one we marry, we may not even know her touch but for one moment. But we always know who she is.’

Gjaldir felt the truth in those words, and it wounded him. ‘And yours? You said she was here?’

Leif nodded and smiled, a warm, genuine smile. ‘Thurid, yes. The last time I ever saw her was behind that building down there, at the edge of the village.’ And his face tightened again.

‘What happened to her?’

‘I asked her to run with me, but she had to stay, she had to be with her family. I understand, I don’t hate her for it.’

‘And…’ Gjaldir tried to ask the obvious question, fearing to know the answer.

‘I don’t know, I never found out. Perhaps her bones lie in that field at the edge of the village, where they took those who resisted and slaughtered them. Perhaps they took her as a slave, or perhaps she escaped, married, had children and still lives today, somewhere out there, maybe even just a few miles away.’ He paused and nodded. ‘I like to think that. I like to believe she is out there, and happy.’ But tears came to his face unbidden again. ‘But I know she probably never left this place, and that we’ll pass her bones as we return to the others, that she only lives as a memory to me.’

Leif grabbed suddenly at Gjaldir’s arm, fingers digging in, almost desperate. ‘Don’t ever do what I did, Gjaldir. Don’t ever walk away and be left unknowing. Even if she can’t share her life with you, share her fate.’

Gjaldir swallowed and nodded. ‘I know, I will.’

Leif shook his arm once more. ‘Good. Let’s be gone. I have had enough of this cursed place.’

They stood and Gjaldir pointed west, towards the forest. ‘We can go around, we can avoid…’

‘No,’ Leif said forcefully, shaking his head. ‘We will go through the field. I am not a coward, and I want to bid farewell to them.’

Chapter 4

A Cold Welcome

They spent a couple of weeks rebuilding part of the shattered village, collecting and penning every goat they could find, hunting, fishing, and clearing a couple of fields to sow what little they had managed to keep over the winter or buy from local villages.

In the second week, a pair of horsemen were seen scouting the village and observing them from the wooded ridgeline. At first this caused panic, but the men came closer and it was clear they were not Christians. Gjaldir led a few of the warriors out to speak to them, but the horsemen kept their distance and then left without attempting to communicate.

The silent watchers were disturbing, their intent and masters unknown. Fear that they were scouts for an armed force kept Gjaldir and the warriors frozen in place, too concerned to leave to march south with a potential threat to the village.

Even Gunnar agreed that they needed to understand if there was a threat before moving out, and he occupied his time ruthlessly training the warband, splitting them into halves and practising wall fighting, pairing them for single combat, and demonstrating all manner of techniques using other senior warriors as his unfortunate victims.

Over the first month in that valley the small group of warriors was forged into a fine warband once again after the long winter of suffering and neglect.

Gjaldir was resting against a fencepost, watching Gunnar practising with two of the men who had joined them as hopeless, half-starved refugees over the winter, and were now blooming into confident new warriors under Gunnar’s stern instruction. They were among the best of the newer members of the band, two cousins called Halfdan and Rurik.

Confident and fast learning they might have been, but neither of them could lay a blow on Gunnar, who took turns fighting them, keeping them at bay with his shield while his round-tipped spear dominated the space between them.

Gunnar feinted at Rurik’s chest, hiding his true strike behind his shield and lowering his body at the last moment so that Rurik’s quick counter went high and deflected off his shield while Gunnar’s spear went behind Rurik’s back leg and into the soil. Then Gunnar sprang forwards, shoving the younger, taller man with his shield. Rurik was unable to resist the power of the impact and tripped over the spear, falling flat on his back in a tangle of limbs, finding the untipped spear shaft at his throat before he could even begin to rise.

Rurik laughed and let his arms flop to the ground, shaking his head and breathing hard. ‘You have me, again.’

‘I don’t know what you think is funny. If this was a real fight you would be dead, once again. You forget your height can be a disadvantage too, stop stretching so tall all the time to attack downwards, spread your legs and lower your weight and you will be harder to topple.’

The prostrate warrior nodded as Gunnar took his spear away. ‘As you say, Gunnar, I will remember. But it will do me no good, I will lose next time, and the next.’

Gunnar scowled in derision. ‘Of course you will lose, if you expect to.’

‘Gunnar, no living man could defeat you,’ said Halfdan with a laugh from the side where he waited his turn. ‘I have never seen it happen here, not once. Has anyone ever bested you?’

Gunnar turned to him, his face set into an angry mask. ‘I am wasting my time trying to teach you if that is how you think. You must always seek victory, believe in it in every fight and every movement of your weapons, or you will die on the battlefield before your time. And yes, I have been defeated before.’ Gunnar pointed at the sizeable crowd watching the old huskarl train. ‘Vidar over there beat me in the king’s tournament at Jönköping.’

Vidar grinned from ear to ear and gave Gunnar an ironic salute.

Halfdan looked at Vidar in confusion and then back at Gunnar. ‘I have seen Vidar fight, and he is surely a great warrior, but better than you?’

‘I did not say he was better.’

‘Then how did he defeat you?’

‘By believing that he could, and using his strengths and my weaknesses very cleverly,’ and Gunnar gave Vidar a terse nod of acknowledgement, which only caused Vidar’s smile to broaden further.

‘I tricked him into fighting when he was tired and I was fresh, with my favoured weapons, and while he was distracted by how arrogant and annoying I was. It forced him into overconfidence and mistakes,’ called Vidar. Gunnar’s eyes practically smouldered at the frank description of his humiliation in front of King Sigurd, a defeat that still chafed at him two years later, but he nodded tersely.

‘As he says.’

Halfdan looked at Vidar in newfound respect, but then turned to Gunnar. ‘Very well, but that is trickery in a duel, surely in battle no one could kill you, so why should I believe I can?’

Gunnar looked at the ground sadly for a moment and his anger drained away. ‘I have seen half a hundred battles in my life, young pup, and let me tell you – anyone can die on a sharpened piece of steel, and any hand can wield it. All I can do, if you listen to me, is reduce the chance you will die before you have the chance to learn that.’ Then he threw his practice weapons to Halfdan and started to walk away.

‘I will train with you again when you believe you can beat me.’

Gunnar stormed past Gjaldir with nothing more than a slight dip of his chin in acknowledgement and disappeared into the houses, muttering to himself.

Gjaldir smiled and stretched, stepping forwards onto the practice field where the cousins were talking in hushed tones and warriors in the audience were starting to drift off, back to the tasks and training that never ended.

He gestured to Rurik to hand over his weapons and smiled wolfishly at Halfdan. ‘Do you think you can beat me, Halfdan? I am no king’s champion, I am just a slave and a blacksmith, barely a warrior.’

Halfdan eyed him suspiciously, looking at Gjaldir’s size and the confidence with which he took up his spear and shield. But he nodded cautiously. ‘Perhaps I can,’ he replied.

Gjaldir smiled and rolled his shoulders, staring up at the sky and sighing contentedly. ‘Perhaps is not going to be enough.’

He walked off the field a while later, leaving the bruised Halfdan sitting with his cousin. The young man had put up a decent fight, even scoring a hard strike to Gjaldir’s stomach with his wooden spear, but had come off distinctly worse over the whole bout.

‘That was well done, Christian, you have learned well from us, more than those two anyway,’ Bjorn said from where he leaned against the same post Gjaldir had occupied earlier.

Gjaldir laughed. ‘Don’t be so hard. They have only been fighting for a couple of months, I have been learning for several years now. They are the best of the new fighters. If we keep them alive, I think they will be as good as any of them.’

Bjorn grunted noncommittally. ‘I would trade all of them for ten seasoned warriors.’

‘But we don’t have ten seasoned warriors, Bjorn. What we have is fifty farm boys and old trappers, or young men barely into their first beards. We fight with the weapons we have, not the weapons we want.’

Bjorn curled an eyebrow reproachfully. ‘Don’t use Gunnar’s words back at me.’ But then he smiled. ‘I remember when you were as soft and useless as they are, the first time we fought.’

‘I remember it too. I might have been useless, but I wasn’t so soft,’ Gjaldir said with a laugh, shoving Bjorn backwards away from the post.

‘No, true. You could barely hold a sword, but you were brave, I’ll grant you that.’

Gjaldir chucked. ‘I was terrified, and you should have killed me.’

Bjorn’s amusement faded, and then he shook his head. ‘No, I did as fate bade me, and I don’t regret it.’ Then he smiled again. ‘Besides, killing you would have been dishonourable, like kicking a newborn pup to death. Gods, you were more likely to hurt yourself with that sword you clutched than me.’ And then he laughed and stretched, heading out onto the practice field himself, turning to gesture to Gjaldir. ‘Do you wish to try me again?’

Gjaldir shook his head. They had fought in training dozens of times, and Gjaldir rarely got the best of it. ‘Not now, I have other duties unfortunately.’ That was at least partly true, but mostly he was tired and did not enjoy the thought of being beaten in front of the new warriors.

Bjorn shrugged in disappointment and went to cajole a couple of men into pairing up. Gjaldir turned to walk back into the village. He halted in his tracks as a cry of alarm went up. One of the young boys who took turns watching the northern pass into the valley was running flat out down the path towards them, waving and shouting as he came.

‘What have you seen?’ shouted Gjaldir.

‘A warband! Crossing the ridge!’ shouted the boy, pointing behind him, and Gjaldir’s heart stopped in his chest. They had known this might happen, but he had never expected it to happen so soon. He turned to the two dozen or so men still standing around the training field in shock. ‘To arms!’ he roared, and then sprinted to his house in the village.

‘Keep the wall tight!’ roared Gunnar at the front rank from his place behind the line as they pushed out beyond the village.

They had armed and armoured as fast as they could and assembled the warband in the centre of the village, something they had thankfully practised at Gunnar’s insistence. The village itself was not defensible, had no wall, and could easily be surrounded. So, to give their people time to escape to the woods in the event they were overwhelmed, they pushed out into the fields to meet whoever was coming head on in the open.

They trampled through the overgrown fields outside the perimeter of the settlement in a line forty men wide and three deep and finally saw the oncoming force appearing from behind the last copse of trees. Gjaldir could see they outnumbered his own force badly. They were marching in a column along the path, spears in hand and shields on their shoulders. They showed no fear or uncertainty when they found the shieldwall facing them across a hundred paces of open ground, but also did not deploy into battle line.

Instead, the man at their head turned and called a halt, and then, turning to cut a branch off one of the trees beside the path, held it up in the air and started walking towards them with two of his fellows.

Gjaldir looked at Gunnar. ‘What does that mean?’

Gunnar relaxed his posture but did not take his eyes off the oncoming men. ‘It means they come to talk, not to fight.’

‘Why would they come with several hundred armed men if they just seek to talk?’

‘That is the correct question, Gjaldir. Keep the men ready while I speak to them.’ Gunnar called for the men in front of him to step aside so he could pass.

Gjaldir frowned in confusion. ‘While you speak to them? Surely it should be me?’

Gunnar shook his head carefully. ‘And let word spread that Gjaldir and his sword are here, in this valley? That will bring nothing but death. Stay here, let me speak until we know who they are and what they want.’

Gjaldir grumbled but relented, worried this act would undermine his standing and authority.

Gunnar nodded and then walked forwards, signalling to Bjorn and Leif to go with him. Gjaldir pressed forwards into the front rank so that he could see clearly what was happening.

They stopped within earshot and the man carrying the branch stopped ten paces in front of them, scanning the assembled warband carefully and then looking at Gunnar.

‘Who are you who comes armed into this valley?’ said Gunnar loudly.

‘I should ask you, for this is our land,’ came the reply.

Leif bristled and stepped forwards. ‘You claim this land is yours? By what right? It was empty before us, and I know who owned it before that and they are long dead.’

‘Jarl Einar claims this land,’ replied the warrior.

‘Einar? He is alive? He survived the battle at Uppsala?’ said Gunnar.

‘He is, and he did.’

‘These lands never belonged to Einar, nor to Jarl Harnsted before him,’ said Leif with a shake of his head. ‘He has no claim here,’ he spat angrily.

Gunnar put a hand on Leif’s shoulder to restrain the angry young warrior and pull him firmly back into line before addressing the stranger again.

‘Jarl Einar claims all of the lands the Christians have not taken, he is the rightful heir and brother of Jarl Harnsted, who was the rightful claimant to the throne of Sweden.’

Gjaldir could see Gunnar was taken aback by that, and there were gasps and muttering in the ranks around him.

‘Jarl Einar attempts to claim the crown of Sweden?’ Gunnar rumbled in outrage. ‘No such crown exists, King Sigurd ended it. Nor could anyone claim it without meeting at Uppsala at a Thing. What is this outrage?’

The man shook his head. ‘He does not claim the throne, as you say, it cannot be done now. But he does claim any and all lands the Christians have not taken, this valley included. He has plans to settle refugees from the South here.’

‘Well, refugees from the South are settled here, so his plan is complete,’ said Gunnar tersely.

The warrior nodded slowly. ‘So I see. And who are you, exactly? Do you seek Jarl Einar’s recognition and protection, or are you his enemies?’

Gunnar did not reply for a moment as he thought, and he turned to whisper to Leif and Bjorn before deciding his answer.

‘We claim this land by settlement. It was empty and now we live here. We do not have to answer your questions nor seek to be your friends or enemies. We have no quarrel with Jarl Einar as long as he has no quarrel with us.’

The stranger shook his head, and then lifted the branch for all to see, before casting it to the side. ‘That will not suffice, stranger. Declare who you are, and if you seek Jarl Einar’s protection, or to be his enemy.’ His whole tone and posture had changed, and everyone in the ranks around Gjaldir could feel it, could see that they were headed for violence.

‘Be ready,’ said Vidar from the middle rank near Gjaldir, and the air rustled as grips on shields and weapons were shifted and tightened and men shuffled to get firm footing. The young man next to Gjaldir was breathing heavily, steam blowing from his mouth in nervous gouts in the crisp spring air.

‘You are gripping your weapons too tightly,’ whispered Gjaldir, and the man turned to look at him nervously. Gjaldir saw that he was barely more than a boy, eyes wide and heart hammering.

Gjaldir nodded at the white knuckles on the boy’s shield grip. ‘You will exhaust your muscles and drain your energy. Relax, remember what you have been taught, be firm and flexible, count your breaths, you will be fine, I will fight alongside you and cover your flank.’

The boy nodded nervously but managed a smile and then looked at his hand, releasing his death grip on the shield as if he hadn’t realised he was doing it before mumbling his thanks.

Ahead of them Gunnar was conversing with Leif, and then he shook his head at the stranger. ‘You have come here armed and armoured, bearing the false branch of peace but seeking conflict, and if that is what you truly intend, go back to your men and prepare to die. You will force no concessions from us. We have fought the Christians so many times, lost our homes and our lands and this is where we stand. If our own kin are so base and low as to threaten us here and try to take this place from us, we will send you to your deaths with your souls cursed for eternity.’

There was a muted rumble of agreement from the ranks around Gjaldir, despite the odds, for they could see the enemy warband was larger. But Gjaldir felt the anger swell in his breast at Jarl Einar, who took advantage of the Crusader invasion to swell his own land and fortunes at the cost of those who had fought so much.

Gunnar turned to walk back to the ranks, and Bjorn and Leif followed, casting one last bitter look at the enemy.

‘Halt!’ sounded a voice from the enemy line, and a figure stepped out. Gunnar and the others ignored it.

‘You are Gunnar, huskarl of King Sigurd?’ boomed the voice from the enemy line.

Gunnar stopped in his tracks, still facing Gjaldir and only a few paces away, and his mouth contorted in despair as their eyes met. He was wearing his old, faded blue cloak, he was too attached to it to cast it aside, and with his back turned to the enemy it was plain for all to see. Every warrior in the North knew the blue cloaks of Sigurd’s huskarls and many would have seen Gunnar at the king’s side in the years before.

Their identity, which they had hoped to conceal, was now as good as known.

Gunnar breathed heavily and then turned to look at who had called out to him, and saw a shorter, squatter man striding along the path towards them to join the three men who had come to talk.

‘It is you! Gunnar, Ha! I thought you were all dead.’ The man shoved straight past the three warriors and strode carelessly over to Gunnar, who remained motionless.

‘Jarl Einar,’ Gunnar said finally as the man approached.

Einar did not stop at a safe distance, instead crossing the gap and walking over to give the surprised old warrior a thumping embrace. ‘By Odin, you are alive. What happened to Sigurd? We hear nothing but rumours.’

Gunnar coldly stepped out of the embrace, which did not seem to bother Einar in the slightest. ‘Good, rumours is all we want men to hear.’

Einar finally deflated a little. ‘So, he truly is dead then.’

Gunnar said nothing, but Einar understood anyway. ‘A shame, a great man. And now, what are you doing with these people? Why are you here?’

‘Seeking a home for them.’ Then Gunnar glared pointedly at the large force still waiting on Einar’s side of the field. ‘And defending them against all who come to threaten it.’

Einar looked back across the field as if confused to find his own men gathering for what had seemed to be an imminent battle mere moments before. ‘Ah, Gunnar, there will be no violence here. Come, now that I know who you are, let us go into your village and talk like the old friends we should be.’ He pointed at the three warriors behind him. ‘Ralf, get the men to set up camp over there, keep them out of trouble and out of the village. You two, come with me.’

And with that, and no invitation, Einar simply strode through the ranks towards the village, and Gjaldir looked at Gunnar with raised eyebrows as the jarl gestured at them to follow.

‘Is this a trick?’ Gjaldir asked quietly.

‘What trick?’ said Gunnar. ‘We have their jarl, I think we do as he says and no one dies here today.’

‘Good,’ said Gjaldir with a sigh of relief. Then he winked at the nervous young man next to him. ‘I didn’t want to fight them either.’

Chapter 5

Friend or Foe

Einar shuffled around on the makeshift bench in the best-repaired longhouse, which still was not all that well repaired, and smiled at the four of them. He had only brought his two men into the village, and left them outside guarding the door as Gunnar, Bjorn and Leif had accompanied him inside. It was a great gesture of trust, going inside with potential enemies alone, and it made Gjaldir relax somewhat, despite the army making camp two hundred paces outside the village perimeter.

‘So, we may talk more honestly now, Gunnar.’

‘I was always being honest, Jarl Einar,’ said Gunnar without expression.

Einar beamed. ‘Yes, I see you are still the man I remember meeting.’

‘And are you the man I remember? The man who marched south with four thousand men to join King Sigurd and fight the Christians?’ Leif asked, and his voice was edged with suspicion.

‘Ah, I see, you are asking the big question already: Am I a client of the Crusaders? Have I betrayed my people?’

There was silence as they all stared at him, for that was the foremost question in all their minds.

Einar didn’t look nervous, but he stared back at them and then shook his head. ‘No. I am not.’

‘Then how are you still alive, how did you escape the battle and then the attentions of the Crusade? Why do you still have such broad lands?’

‘That is a lot of questions, Gunnar, and not very respectfully asked, but I will answer you plainly. I survived the battle because once we were driven back from the centre the enemy was too exhausted to pursue, and I realised it was lost. Did you not survive some similar way?’ he asked, shaming their accusations of cowardice by tying their escapes together.

Gunnar bristled but nodded.

‘I see. Well, I returned north with my men when it became clear Sigurd had either died in the battle or gone home; either way, I knew the war was over and I had no reason to let my army die with it. I expected the Christians to follow and hunt me down, but they did not. Later, I learned that they were too busy dealing with resistance in the south and west.’ He smiled coyly. ‘Maybe you know more about that than I do?’

Gunnar nodded silently again.

‘Well, it seems that by the time they had secured their conquest they were too tired or too degraded to come after my lands, and anyway, they would have found it very difficult. My lands are not like yours, they are vast and sparsely populated, heavily forested and hilly. Our rivers run fast and narrow and our winters are bitter and icy. Perhaps they could conquer us, but it is not worth it for them to try.’

‘So they just left you alone? They did nothing?’

Einar laughed. ‘No, of course not. They sent a delegation and sought terms.’

The silence fell like a stone. ‘So you submitted to them.’

Einar finally glowered. ‘Do not insult me, Gunnar, I came here to this hall as a friend, but I have my limits, even with you.’ Gunnar’s gaze did not relent, but he made no further jab.

‘No, that is what they sought, but I refused.’

‘Then why did they do nothing?’

‘I agreed to stay in my lands, and conduct no raids or invasion against them, as long as they stayed out of my lands and made no war against me.’

Gunnar shook his head. ‘You fool, you believe that? You believe their word? Their word means nothing to them!’

Einar stood like a startled deer, fury on his features as he glared down at Gunnar. ‘Fool? I am no fool, huskarl. I am a ruler responsible for tens of thousands of people who would not survive if the Christians came. I am the last free ruler of the Norse and I paid the price for that with my pride and the blood of many of my warriors. What would you expect? For me to make a hopeless invasion and lose all my forces? What then, champion of the king? Who would defend my people when the Christians came for revenge with their fire and their crosses?’

Gunnar curled his lip in distaste. ‘It is better to die honourably than to live in fear.’

Einar glared around the four of them. ‘Really? And yet here you all are, alive, and fled to my lands.’ He snorted in derision and sat down. ‘You all made the same decision as me, you are just less honest about it.’

Gunnar pointed at Einar viciously. ‘This was not my choice, I intended to go south and fight for our lands and our people who are trapped in them, and still do.’ Then he looked away before he could say any more, holding his tongue.

Einar looked around them carefully, the sharp intelligence in his eyes clear after his cheerful and disarming greeting had been cleared away. ‘So, it is true, the rumour I hear.’ And his eyes fell on Gjaldir. ‘You do not truly lead these people, Gunnar. Another commands you, one the Christians very dearly wish to find.’ His gaze slipped to the hilt of Gjaldir’s serpent-sheathed sword, which he had mostly hidden under his spring cloak.

‘So you are Gjaldir,’ Einar said.

Gjaldir tensed and looked around, and found all eyes were on him. There was no point denying it any further. ‘I am.’

Einar nodded slowly. ‘I was not sure if I believed it, I am not sure now. I met Ragnvald before the battle, I saw the sword on his hip. Come, let me see it,’ and he held out his hand.

Gjaldir hesitated, left hand fiddling with the carved bronze hilt, while Einar’s outstretched hand hung in the air between them.

He felt an odd stab of protective jealously, that he did not wish anyone else to touch the sword, especially in this odd situation where he felt like Einar was dominating them, that he needed to show strength and refuse. But to refuse something so small would be petty and demeaning. So eventually he succumbed and pulled his cloak clear of the sword and unbuckled the scabbard, holding it out in both hands, letting Einar see the great bone-carved serpent that adorned the scabbard, jaws gaping and framing the open end so that it appeared the sword itself was sheathed in the serpent’s gullet. A steel tongue of fire and smoke.

Einar nodded and smiled. ‘Yes, that is it.’ Then his hand closed on the hilt, thumb running across the carved runes of the cross guard and eyes fixed on the figure of Odin standing in the open doorway carved on its hilt.

Einar drew the sword slowly, and everyone in the room tensed. But he made no threatening move, his eyes just taking in the carved runes in the blade, and eyeing the pattern of bright and dark steel. ‘Ragnvald’s sword,’ he whispered sadly. ‘It was promised to us that it would lead our people to victory.’

‘It still will,’ growled Gunnar.

Einar smiled sadly. ‘Perhaps.’ Then he rolled the sword over, gazing at it for a while longer, and then carefully returned it to the serpent’s gaping maw. ‘A masterful work, how did you find it?’

‘In battle.’

‘Ah, I heard an absurd story a few days ago about you being given it on a mountain by Odin himself, but I prefer the truth. Earning it in battle is the best way to gain a great weapon.’ Gjaldir flicked his eyes to Leif, who gave him a small grin and a shrug. He was surprised the story had spread so quickly, but some of their group had left them to go to other places or to return to their homes, so perhaps he should not have been.

Einar released the hilt with a nod of thanks and Gjaldir put the sword quickly back at his side. He had felt alone and vulnerable without it.

‘So, Jarl Einar. Now you know who we are and that we intend to stay in this land, you will leave us in peace?’ Gjaldir asked.

Einar smiled sadly. ‘I am afraid I cannot.’

There was an outraged silence in the room. ‘You still expect us to leave? To where?’ Gjaldir felt like standing and pummelling the stubborn greed out of the man. ‘You desire this one valley so much you would fight us for it?’

Einar held his hands up to calm Gjaldir, which only enraged him further. ‘No, I care nothing about this valley.’

‘Then why are you here?’

‘I am here because my scouts reported an armed warband living in it, and I couldn’t risk an unknown warband in my lands, it has happened several times. Sometimes they grow desperate and prey on my people, sometimes they join me; in this case it is different.’

‘What is different?’ asked Gjaldir, too angry to think it through.

‘Because the Christians are hunting us,’ said Leif softly.

‘Exactly,’ said Einar with a nod.

‘What, will you sell your knowledge of our presence to them?’ Gjaldir hissed. ‘Is that part of your arrangement?’

‘Be careful with your insults, boy, I still have an army outside this village and I have killed men for less.’

Gjaldir stood and stepped forwards to tower over Einar. ‘They are not in this hall. Call me boy once more and we will send them your corpse.’

All of his friends stood up and got behind him without a word being said. An insult had been given, a threat made. In the old ways there was little now that could happen except for violence.

Einar, to his credit, did not back down, did not waver, did not look for an escape. He just drew a careful breath and stared back at Gjaldir. ‘I would not tell them, but someone will. If I worked out who you are, someone else will, and then the Christians will hear of it and they will come for you, assume I sheltered you, and my people will burn for it.’

Then he glared around the group. ‘Do something or be seated. I have been insulted twice in this hall and will not be insulted again. If you kill me, every single one of your people will die, and I know you care so deeply about them, so… sit.’

Gjaldir held the shorter man’s gaze for a while and then turned and nodded to the others, who warily took their seats again, followed by Einar, and finally Gjaldir himself.

‘So what do you expect us to do, Jarl Einar?’

Einar calmed himself for a moment and looked around. ‘I will offer you this. Your people may stay here and claim this valley as their own to make their home, and I will protect them. But you and your warriors will leave. You cannot be in my lands, because death will follow you here and my people will suffer for it.’

Gjaldir gulped. ‘You wish for us to leave, for our people to fall under your control?’

‘Yes,’ said Einar firmly.

‘Under what guarantee that they will be left alone? We will not accept them being moved or displaced or abused.’

‘My word.’

Gjaldir breathed deeply. ‘That is a lot to trust to a word.’

‘My word is worth a lot of trust,’ Einar said, and his eyes glittered. ‘This is the deal. Your people get this land under my protection, and you and your warriors are exiled.’ Einar stretched casually and looked around at them. ‘I will be in my camp. Discuss it, and speak to me when you have made your decision.’

‘And if we decide not to accept?’

Einar nodded sadly. ‘I will be in my camp, regardless. Come alone, or come with your army. I will know your decision.’

Gjaldir grimaced as Einar left the room, and then turned to his companions. ‘Do we have a choice? Can we beat his forces?’

‘I doubt it, Vidar is out scouting them carefully, but I think they have more men than they showed us,’ replied Leif.

‘And if we fight them, even if we win, what then? We will have nothing but enemies,’ said Leif.

Gunnar stroked his beard, deep in thought. Then he smiled. ‘I think you are all failing to see the opportunity.’

‘What?’

‘This is what we want. I know being forced into it prickles at our pride, but we wanted to make our people safe, give them a home, and then go to fight the Christians for our lands. Einar is offering us that, forcing it on us, and we should grit our teeth and accept it. Come, my friends, let us be done with running and hiding. Let us march south again to battle, and have our fate decided in the old way, with our people safe regardless of the outcome.’ His expression lit up in a way Gjaldir could not remember seeing, and he found it was infectious.

He nodded. ‘If Einar holds true, but what if he doesn’t? The moment we leave he could clear our people out of this valley and replace them with his own, or drive them south or…’ He shrugged helplessly. ‘Anything he wants.’

Gunnar nodded. ‘I don’t like Einar, I don’t like how many men he managed to escape the battle with when so many others died. I don’t like how he covets the crown of Sweden or his slippery ways. But he has his word or he has nothing, even now. Why would he break it just for this valley? A valley he cared for so little it was empty when we arrived. I believe him, I believe it is the threat to his people that concerns him, and once we leave, that threat is gone. The question you have to ask yourself in making this decision, Gjaldir, is which choice is more likely to be good for our people and our honour.’ Then Gunnar came over and embraced him. ‘I will follow whatever you decide.’

‘This decision is mine alone?’ Gjaldir said, feeling panic. ‘Should we not discuss it?’

‘Everything that can be discussed already has been,’ said Leif, and he patted Gjaldir on the shoulder and followed Gunnar out of the door, leaving just Bjorn in the room.

‘And what of you, Bjorn? If I decide I cannot trust him and that we must fight?’

Bjorn smiled. ‘It would be honourable, and I am prepared to stand at your side.’ Then he followed the others out.

Gjaldir stared at the floor and instinctively looked around for Brunhild, but of course she was not there to help him. He was alone, and for a moment the decision seemed hopeless. If they marched south, surely they would all die, he did not share Gunnar’s belief that somehow their small warband would succeed where armies had failed. But if they fought Einar, even if they won the first battle, how could they prevail?

The hopelessness of the situation was crushing. As it had been for the last year, it seemed whatever they would do would end in disaster and misery. He stared at the floor for a while longer but it lay mute and barren, uncaring and unhelpful.

Finally he sighed and walked to the door, going out and stopping when he found not only his four companions waiting, but most of their warriors in a loose crowd beyond that. As he appeared, everyone fell to silence and looked at him and he almost quailed. A hundred or more sets of eyes, all nervously staring at him, waiting to hear their fate. He looked over their ranks, seeing those he knew well and those he did not, seeing them holding their weapons and shields and ready to form up and march into battle at his word.

He nodded, feeling a catch in his throat as he breathed in to speak to make sure his voice was heard across the whole crowd.

‘Put your weapons away. We came here to finally find peace, and we will keep it.’

There was a collective letting go of a hundred tense breaths and Gjaldir held a hand up to forestall them. ‘But go and prepare for a long march. Gather what food the village can spare, repair your equipment and sharpen your steel, because tomorrow, we will be marching south.’

Gjaldir nodded tersely and awkwardly at the watching crowd, and then stepped over to Leif to cover his lack of anything else to say to his warband.

‘I’m going to Einar.’

‘I’ll come.’

‘Bjorn too.’

Gunnar grabbed Gjaldir’s arm. ‘It is not impossible that he intends to take you and sell you to the Christians. You should take more men.’

Gjaldir shrugged. ‘If he wants to take me, what will more men do other than die? We would need our whole army to prevent it, and if we go there with our army we will fight him regardless.’

Gunnar grumbled but reluctantly nodded. ‘I will have men watching, we will all come at the first sign of trouble.’

Gjaldir nodded. ‘Thank you, Gunnar. Come, Leif. Let’s go and talk to our new overlord.’

The three of them walked alone down the now well-trodden path between the trampled, abandoned fields until they rounded the copse and saw Einar’s camp. He had half expected to find their army formed up and waiting in ranks, but was surprised to see barely an armed man among them. Most of the men had stripped their armour and were putting up simple tents, or starting fires to cook the food they had brought with them.

A group of four warriors waited for them and waved them along into the budding camp. Walking between the disorganised array of tents, they were led to a small clearing at the centre where Jarl Einar was sitting on stools with a few of his men, drinking ale. They looked completely at ease.

‘Ah, Gjaldir. Come, sit with me,’ said the jarl with a broad smile and no hint of tension or surprise.

Gjaldir looked around at the relaxed men and pouted. ‘You were so certain of my choice, do you think I am a coward?’

Einar shook his head. ‘No, I knew that you were not a fool. Gunnar would not follow a fool or a coward, and you did not appear to be either. You had only one choice and we both knew it. Come, sit with me as friends, I mean you no ill will.’

Gjaldir nodded, his prickled pride satisfied. He had worried Einar would force him through some humiliating display of submission, but he was politely offered a small camp stool opposite the jarl and a mug of golden ale.

He took a drink and sighed contentedly. It had been a long time since he had good ale. He laughed at Einar. ‘You came here ready to live like a king. All this.’ He waved at the stools and the tents and cooking equipment. ‘Just to meet with whoever was here? Not to march to a battle.’

Einar smiled. ‘This is the old way of campaigning in Sweden, before the Christians came. We would only march in spring or summer, we would know where our enemies were and when we would face them, and we would travel unhurried and in comfort. Why arrive at a battle tired, cold and hungry when you can arrive well rested and satiated? Which warrior fights better, one who has slept in a tent and has ale and meat in his belly, or one who has drunk nothing but river water and slept in the grass?’

Gjaldir nodded at the obvious truth in it. ‘So, this camp doesn’t mean you came here with no intent to fight?’

Einar shook his head. ‘On the contrary, this camp shows how seriously I took the threat from your warband.’

One of the jarl’s warriors brought over a steaming half carcass of some sort of bird, and the jarl tore off a leg and directed the warrior to offer the rest to Gjaldir, who gratefully took out his seax and cut off a hunk himself before gesturing to Leif and Bjorn.

‘Thank you, your friendliness surprises me, Jarl Einar,’ Gjaldir said, before taking a bite of the delicious bird.

‘It has always been my way, Gjaldir, to be a terror to my enemies, and friends to everyone else. Only the weak dog barks at those it does not have the intention to bite.’

Gjaldir looked up at him and considered it for a moment. ‘That makes sense.’

‘You are new to this, leadership,’ Einar said, and Gjaldir frowned. Einar waved a hand placatingly. ‘I do not mean it as an insult, we are all new to it at one point. You have good friends, and they will guide you well.’

‘They do.’

Einar nodded. ‘Good.’

Gjaldir stared at the jarl and furrowed his brows. ‘Why do you seem to care, Jarl Einar? What does it matter to you? Once we have left these lands you claim, we are no longer your problem.’

‘You think so little of me just because we almost quarrelled? Gjaldir, I needed you to leave my lands because you are a threat. But you are my kin, not my enemy, and I hope your campaign against the Christians is successful.’

Gjaldir chewed the last meat of his portion of the bird as he thought about it. ‘You wish to be king; if my campaign is successful, your position will be greatly weakened.’

Einar laughed. ‘Well, I do not think you can defeat the Christians, but if you do, I will be glad, because while they are here I can be king of nothing; if they are gone, I have the chance to make my case to the people.’

‘But your case will be that you did nothing to help, and stood aside while we fought for the freedom of the land.’

Einar’s expression hardened a little and he stared at Gjaldir reproachfully. ‘You need to learn of how we leaders talk to each other, especially in front of our men.’

Gjaldir felt no remorse, but nodded briefly.

‘Well, my case will be that I kept my people safe and free, my army strong, and will do the same for Sweden.’ Einar licked his fingers clean unhurriedly. ‘But it is not true that I will not be helping, in fact, I will be sending you a gift.’

Gjaldir looked up from his food in interest. ‘A gift? What gift?’

‘You will find out in a few days, when it arrives.’

‘In a few days? I thought you needed us to leave, I have told my men to prepare to leave tomorrow.’

‘Your men will be happy to hear they have a little extra time with their women and their new homes. I will give you until after my gift arrives.’ Then Einar stood. ‘I hope you truly have the favour of the gods, Gjaldir. I hear that you do so far.’

Gjaldir rose cautiously to his feet, reaching out to accept the proffered arm and clasping it. ‘Thank you, Jarl Einar. I hope so too.’

‘A gift?’ said Gunnar, dubiously. ‘I do not trust anything that man says.’

‘And we must wait a few days to receive it? Why did he not bring it with him?’ said Vidar.

Gjaldir frowned. ‘So what should we do?’

‘Leave now, we can go without whatever gift this is,’ said Bjorn.

‘And risk insulting him, the man now responsible for our people?’ said Leif.

Gjaldir nodded. ‘I agree, we should do nothing to upset him.’ He looked around at his council. ‘I think, from the feeling I got, that he is genuine. I think he means us no harm.’

Gunnar grunted. ‘He is a man used to deception and manipulation, and to looking after only his own aims.’

‘And you think I am young and easily misled,’ said Gjaldir with a raised eyebrow.

Gunnar didn’t so much as blink as he met Gjaldir’s gaze. Then he nodded. ‘Yes.’

Vidar laughed at Gjaldir. ‘He is right, Gjaldir. You are not prepared for dealing with men such as Einar. Often nothing they say is what they mean. He cares only for himself and his people, because they are the source of his power. If he wishes you well, it is only because your success would empower him. And if he gives you a gift, it is only because your receiving it helps him.’ Vidar shrugged. ‘I know it is true because that is exactly how I would act, in his situation.’

‘It is true,’ said Leif with a nod.

Gjaldir scowled. ‘So what then, what do we do, oh Vidar the untrustworthy?’

‘We do as you suggest, we wait and receive his gift to avoid insulting him or making him our enemy.’

‘What?’ said Gjaldir dumbly. ‘You just said everything I believed was wrong and I was misled, but you say we should do as Einar asks, as I suggested?’

‘Yes, the situation has not changed, we have no choice. You were right, but for the wrong reasons.’

‘I agree,’ said Leif.

Gjaldir looked at Bjorn and Gunnar. Gunnar shook his head. ‘We should not be so easily forced into doing what any other man wants.’

Bjorn shuffled uncomfortably. ‘We don’t need to make him our enemy, but rejecting a gift he refuses to name should not make him our enemy. We can leave without it.’

Gjaldir sighed and looked around the room. ‘So your vote is split.’

‘You are not a counter of votes, Gjaldir. You are the leader. We have given our council, now you decide.’

Gjaldir looked at them for a while and wrestled with it. His instinct was to stay, but he had almost always been going against Gunnar’s advice recently, and he was concerned the old warrior was going to grow tired of it, perhaps even leave. He needed the champion too badly. Then he realised how weak that was, trying to balance his decisions to please everyone. Gods, this was so difficult. He had never realised how hard it could be to lead men, Jarl Ragnvald had always made it look so easy, so decisive.

He shook his head clear of the intrusive thoughts. ‘We are staying,’ he said, before he was even sure he would say it. He looked at Gunnar apprehensively, but the old warrior showed no annoyance, he simply nodded.

‘I will tell the men we have a few days to prepare. It will give us more time to train,’ said the huskarl gruffly. Gunnar’s lip curled a little in displeasure and his eyes narrowed further, and then he left without another word.

Gjaldir looked at Leif and Vidar in frustration, Leif gave him a scolding shake of the head and Vidar merely laughed before patting him on the shoulder. ‘You will get used to it,’ he said, before they all turned and left.

Chapter 6

The Call of War

For four days they continued as they had been, preparing to leave, training, and gathering as much food as they could. They did not have time to properly dry the fish they were catching, so they cut deer meat into thin strips and briefly dried it in the sun before smoking it on racks. The resulting meat was tough and chewy, not very pleasant to eat, but it would last for quite some time on the march. Everything else they would have to get on the march south, buying it from towns and villages or stealing it from the Christians.

On the afternoon of the fourth day, one of their young boys spotted a force of armed men coming over the hills again, and they armed and prepared themselves once more, but the other force sent a runner to announce themselves as Einar’s men, and there were fewer of them than last time, no more than a hundred. They were marching with their shields on their backs and their armour in bags, carrying spears but otherwise clearly not prepared for war.

Gunnar urged caution and would not let the warband disarm, but they could see no trick or treachery. Gjaldir sent word inviting the visitors into the village.

The visitors filed into the half ruins, looking around in curiosity, and at their head was a tall blond warrior, the only one wearing armour and a helmet. He looked around at Gjaldir’s waiting men with an appraising eye and not a hint of fear, and then walked forwards, eyes resting on Gunnar and then Gjaldir.

‘You are the one they call Gjaldir?’ he called out, and his voice was surprisingly light and friendly. He was only a little shorter than Gjaldir, and had an air of extraordinary confidence and ease.

‘I am.’

The man stepped over and offered his arm. ‘I am Rekke Karlsson.’ The man’s grip was powerful and sharp, grasping Gjaldir’s forearm like a vice.

‘Welcome to our home, Rekke.’ Then he looked around the ranks of the men, and saw them carrying nothing but their equipment. ‘What gift has Jarl Einar sent you to bring us?’

Rekke’s already warm smile broadened and he laughed heartily, letting go of Gjaldir’s arm and gesturing to his own chest and then the ranks of his men behind him.

‘You see it!’ he boomed.

Gjaldir’s eyes widened as he understood. ‘Einar sends you to join us?’ he said, unable to control his excitement. Every man in Rekke’s band looked like a seasoned warrior.

‘Sent us?’ replied Rekke with a hint of amusement. ‘Allowed us, I would say.’

‘I don’t understand.’

Rekke nodded and went to stand alongside Gjaldir, looking back at his men. ‘We are the troublemakers, the ones who wish to fight the Christians. Our lord forbade it, and we obeyed him because we are faithful men. But then he found you, and you needed men, and he needed to be rid of us and…’ He smiled triumphantly. ‘Here we are.’

Gjaldir tried to work through the implications. ‘You would follow me, despite being sworn men of Jarl Einar?’

Rekke shook his head in mirth. ‘We were released from our oaths, free to choose our own path as long as it took us south, out of the jarl’s lands, to become a problem of the Christians instead.’

Gjaldir nodded, relieved, and he smiled at the warrior, whose good mood was infectious. ‘So you are all free to take oaths to me?’

Rekke paused and looked at Gjaldir. ‘My apologies, I did not mean to mislead you. Are you a jarl?’

Gjaldir shook his head. ‘No.’

Rekke shrugged. ‘Then no, I cannot convince my men to abandon their oaths to a great lord only to swear to one who is not even a jarl.’

Gjaldir’s good mood evaporated in an instant, and he backed away a step from Rekke, who gave a casual shrug as if it was not an important matter. Then Gjaldir turned to Gunnar and the others, giving them a questioning eyebrow. He was lost at this point, all of this was unfamiliar.

Gunnar stepped forwards with his customary scowl.

‘Gunnar, it is good to meet you again,’ said Rekke with a disarming smile, which made Gunnar pause whatever outburst had been coming. He peered at Rekke and then nodded.

‘Yes. I remember, it was… what, ten years ago? At the spring festival in Anslo?’

‘Ah, your memory is as sharp as your spear, champion. Yes, I was a young warrior in the hird of King Eric Silverfist. I saw you fight there in the competitions, I remember it well.’

Gunnar nodded. ‘I remember you too, but we did not face each other.’

Rekke shook his head ruefully. ‘Perhaps luckily for me, we did not. I lost to the man who you beat in the final fight.’

‘You were a good warrior,’ said Gunnar grudgingly, to Rekke’s obvious delight. ‘Which is why I am surprised that you expected a warm reception to this offer. You expect to come and fight with us, and not be oathsworn to us?’

Rekke looked taken aback. ‘I come as a friend and ally, with my men.’

Gunnar shook his head. ‘We fight as one, a single, disciplined warband. This is no army of equals, I saw the problems that caused in King Sigurd’s forces, so many factions, so many leaders. We have one leader here, and it is Gjaldir.’

Rekke looked confused. ‘You are sworn to him as your lord? You who were the champion of King Sigurd?’

‘Yes.’

Gjaldir scowled, feeling insulted, but Rekke nodded and looked impressed. ‘Any man who has earned Gunnar’s oath must be worthy.’ But then he shook his head. ‘Yet I do not know you, and I cannot do the same.’

‘Then you can leave,’ growled Gunnar contemptuously, but Gjaldir put his hand on Gunnar’s arm and the old warrior looked at him in surprise.

‘That is not your decision, Gunnar,’ Gjaldir whispered. And Gunnar tensed and then relaxed.

‘You are right, but if you ever take my advice, take this. Your leadership must be undisputed, take no men who do not accept it wholly.’

‘If I only take men who accept my leadership without hesitation, I will never gather anyone to our cause, for unlike you, no one knows me.’

Gunnar breathed in and out heavily, with everyone in the space watching them, trying to hear their words. His eyes flicked between Rekke and Gjaldir. Then he finally spoke again. ‘Let us discuss this in private first.’

Gjaldir nodded. ‘I agree,’ and he turned to Rekke. ‘I thank you for coming here to offer your help to us, Rekke.’

‘Ah, but you are not sure you will accept my offer of help?’

Gjaldir gestured noncommittally. ‘It has to be discussed first, of course.’

He expected Rekke to be offended, but the man only smiled. ‘A wise decision, I will await your decision.’ And then he walked away to where his men were gathered.

‘They are obviously sent by Einar to spy on us,’ said Vidar once they were alone. ‘He gives us nearly a hundred of his men, for nothing? Nonsense.’

‘Maybe it is true that they are troublemakers he wanted to be rid of,’ said Leif.

‘All warriors are troublemakers, but no lord would part with a hundred of them willingly, not ones who look as experienced as these,’ said Vidar, scoffing.

‘Can we really turn away a hundred good warriors, when we barely have that number ourselves?’ asked Gjaldir.

‘We do not have a hundred good warriors,’ grumbled Gunnar. ‘I would say half of our men might be called good. The rest range from acceptable, to a danger to themselves.’

‘Oh, Gunnar, they are not so bad. There are good men among the new ones, you are just used to the hird of the king. Not all of us can be so lucky,’ scolded Leif.

‘If they do not swear to you, you cannot trust them,’ said Bjorn bluntly. ‘It is as simple as that.’

No one had a good argument to that, not even Gjaldir. Although the thought of turning away so many good warriors was heartbreaking.

‘This is not a gift from Einar, this is his attempt to take credit for our actions,’ Vidar said.

‘I don’t know. I like Rekke,’ said Leif. ‘And I like his warriors more. I say we let him make his arguments.’

Gjaldir nodded, despite the harsh looks of the rest of them. ‘We cannot afford to turn them away so easily.’ He gestured for Rekke to come back, and the gregarious warrior came over, looking around with wry amusement at the situation. ‘This is not the situation I was expecting, friends, when I offered to join you.’

‘You did not offer to join us, that is the problem,’ said Gunnar.

‘I offered to join my warband to yours, not my men to your men. This is the tradition of our people, going back as long as our ancestors’ stories last. Allies go to war together, raid together, march together, and then go their separate ways. Why are you suddenly so hostile to it?’ he said, and there was an uncomfortable silence at the truth of his words.

‘Because the world has changed, I saw how such arrangements fail in the face of the war with the Christians. We need absolute trust, absolute obedience, or we risk defeat. And defeat now means the end of our people, not a loss of wealth or status,’ said Gunnar firmly.

Rekke nodded sympathetically. ‘I understand your concern, Gunnar. But do you understand mine? I am asked to swear to a man who until a week ago was barely a story, a myth we had heard from refugees. How can I give my oath to a man barely half my age at the first time I meet him?’ Rekke looked at Gjaldir. ‘I am sure you are a great warrior, Gjaldir, but it is too much to ask.’

‘I understand. These are strange times for all of us, but as you don’t know me, I don’t know your intentions.’

Rekke bit his lip and nodded in understanding, thinking for a moment. ‘I cannot swear to you as my lord, Gjaldir. I can only swear that I am the true enemy of the Christians. My sole purpose is to fight them and drive them from our lands. I am not here to oppose you, to spy on you, or to follow some aim of Einar.’

Rekke saw some of them stiffen and look at each other at that, and he nodded knowingly ‘I see, that is what you fear. Put it from your minds. I was sworn to Einar, but now that I am not, I can tell you I don’t agree with him, I don’t respect his reluctance to fight. He and I are finished, and regardless of what you decide, I will not return to him, I swear that.’ He looked around the group confidently and Gjaldir believed him.

‘If you will not join with us, we will march south and fight the Christians ourselves. But I know we would be better joined, and I know the power that sword holds in the minds of our people. It is the symbol we need to unite them, something they can believe in.’

Gjaldir stared at him. ‘Do you believe in it, Rekke?’

Rekke smiled softly. ‘I recognise the power it holds over people, as for the sword itself?’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know it any more than I know you.’

Gjaldir nodded and looked at the others, and he could see the indecision in their faces. He turned to Rekke again. ‘Gunnar leads us in battle. I will accept if you cannot swear to me as your lord, but if you are to come with us you can have a place in my council but will abide by my decisions or leave. More importantly, you will swear to follow Gunnar’s commands entirely when we fight. We fight as one, with no divide and no dissent. You will give your men over to him to do with as he sees fit, even if you retain the right to leave at any time between battles with no loss of honour or breaking of oaths. Is that acceptable, Rekke?’

Rekke looked at the floor for a moment, nodding deeply. Then he stood. ‘It is, Gjaldir. I will follow your lead, if such lead is well advised by this fine group you have assembled. And Gunnar is the most famous warrior in all the North, so I accept his command over me and my men in battle.’

Gjaldir looked at Gunnar to see what he thought, and the older man dipped his chin slightly and said nothing.

Gjaldir stood and slapped his hands together. ‘Then it is agreed. I would offer your ale to drink to our new friendship, but we have none.’

His enthusiasm not entirely matched by his friends and he could see the conflicted feelings on their faces, but he felt good about Rekke, and more importantly, about the warriors he brought.

Rekke smiled broadly, and Gjaldir found it infectious. ‘What kind of friend would I be if I hadn’t brought some ale?’

‘Gjaldir?’

Gjaldir heard the voice dimly, and he blinked his eyes open to find the source of the voice that called his name. He finally managed to form an image and found the amused face of Brunhild staring down at him. He grimaced. ‘Good morning.’

‘It has not been the morning for some time,’ she said.

Gjaldir frowned, and a wave of nausea hit him as his body awoke to the ravages of the night before. He moaned and rolled to his side, breathing heavily.

Brunhild laughed and poked his leg with a foot. ‘You should get up and be seen. And get ready, we are marching tomorrow, as long as you will be able?’ she asked in a mocking tone.

Gjaldir tried to swat her away and missed by a substantial margin.

‘Of course I will be able, besides, I bet our new friends aren’t any better.’

There had been a lot of ale the night before… a ridiculous quantity. Gunnar had tersely pointed out that they would be carrying nothing non-essential on their march south, and that none of the ale Rekke had brought could go with them.

Rekke, already showing himself to be a man of ideas and solutions, had pointed out that left with no choice but to drink it all that night. He and a couple of his men had joined Gjaldir and his companions and they had drunk two small barrels of the stuff. The men outside had shared all of the rest.

‘No better?’ said Brunhild, unable to contain her delight. ‘Rekke and his men were out as the sun came up, exercising and practising with their weapons.’

Gjaldir looked up. ‘What? At dawn?’

‘Yes.’

He suddenly felt ashamed and not a little angry. ‘Why did no one tell me?’

‘Leif came to wake you, and he tried. You don’t remember?’

‘He did?’

Now that he considered it, he did remember Leif cajoling him about something, but was that not the night before? Why had Leif been by his bed the night before?

He shook his head to clear it, which only made the feelings worse and he put his head in his hands and groaned. ‘Maybe he did.’

‘Well, now you are alive, come and help us get ready to leave.’ Gjaldir looked up at that, focusing his unwilling eyes on her.

‘I would have liked your advice yesterday when Rekke came, and when Einar presented his choice, but…’

‘But the others would not accept it, the voice of a former slave girl in your council.’

Gjaldir shook his head sadly. ‘No, they are not ready for that.’

‘Well, I know nothing of treating with jarls or leading armies anyway, what good would my advice have been?’ she said with a dismissive shrug, as if it did not matter to her.

Gjaldir smiled slightly, seeing the cues in her shrug and her show of indifference.

‘I know you better than that, you picked up far more from being around Jarl Ragnvald all those years than I did. You would have had something wise to say, you always do.’

Brunhild tried to keep her expression neutral but she caught him smiling knowingly at her and her resolve broke and she rolled her eyes and smiled back.

Then she picked up his tunic and threw it at him playfully, then jerked her head at the door. ‘Come, before they send someone else. You must appear strong in front of the newcomers.’

‘Yes, Brunhild,’ Gjaldir replied with a serious expression, and her eyes blazed at him as she left.

The day was bright and clear, which would have pleased him if not for the glare of the sun burning into the back of his eyes where the poison of the previous night’s ale still lurked. Yet he managed to put on his clothes and his sword and walk calmly out into the fields, where he found some of the new men sparring with some of his, and a large crowd whooping and cheering.

He spied Leif in the crowd and went over, hoping not to draw much attention.

‘Ah, the great man lives, perhaps we are still to be saved!’ said his friend with profane delight.

‘I have not had ale for months,’ grumbled Gjaldir.

‘Neither have I, but I am a man, not a boy, so all is well in my head and my stomach.’

‘I am fine, stop yapping at me.’

Leif grinned. ‘Wonderful. If you are fine, you should go and fight Rekke, he would appreciate the honour, I will summon him.’ Leif moved forwards, starting to raise his hand towards the big group of men on the field and Gjaldir grabbed it and yanked it down to his side, the exertion of even that making him feel ill.

‘Fine, yes, I admit I am dying inside.’

Leif laughed and shook his head. ‘I’m glad you admit I am the greater man.’

Gjaldir mumbled a weak protest as the crowd of warriors roared in excitement and anguish behind them at the result of another fight.

‘So what did you make of Rekke, last night?’ Gjaldir asked.

Leif thought about it for a moment and then shrugged. ‘I liked him. I wanted not to, I still feel uncomfortable about his presence. It makes me nervous having so many warriors with us that we don’t control.’

‘You think they will turn on us?’

Leif shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Then what is the problem?’

Leif stopped and his eyebrows furrowed. ‘It is not a specific problem, there is no single threat. It is simply that it makes me nervous that someone else that close to us has this much power. These men were our enemies just a couple of years ago.’

Gjaldir nodded slowly. ‘I think this is one of the great weaknesses of the Norse, that I have seen.’

Leif eyed him curiously. ‘Explain?’

‘You have such a history of rivalry, none of you can ever really trust each other.’

Leif looked confused. ‘Is it not the same with the Christian lords in your homeland?’

Gjaldir nodded slightly but then grimaced. ‘From what I saw of it, from my time with the Crusade, the rivalry only really exists between the great lords, the rest simply don’t have the opportunity for conflict. A lesser noble would never feel threatened by or be rivals with another lord from another part of the country.’

‘Why not, could he not fight him and take his land?’

‘No.’

Leif looked confused. ‘You cannot take land by force?’

‘No, well, not like that. Kings and princes, yes, but not two minor lords from different places.’ Leif just looked blank and Gjaldir just shrugged. ‘I only saw a little of it, but a lord’s land is given by a duke or a king, he can’t just take more without their command. Two warbands like these would never fear each other. They might not like each other, but they wouldn’t be rivals like this.’

Leif looked away and shrugged. ‘Well, that is how it is here. Everyone is a threat.’

‘Well, perhaps it should change.’

Leif gave Gjaldir a worried expression. ‘You are not going to turn us into Christians, Gjaldir, and I warn you not to try, it will not be accepted.’

‘I am not going to try, Leif, I just think some lessons could be learned if we intend to win. Maybe unifying our people more is one of them.’

Leif nodded slowly. ‘If only it were so simple.’

They watched the fights in companionable silence, until Gunnar called an end to it so the men could ready themselves to march.

There was, truthfully, little else to do to prepare the campaign. Every man was responsible for his own equipment and they had all been prepared for weeks. They simply distributed as much dried meat as they could, plus some bags of precious coarse ground flour for making the flat, unleavened bread the Norse were so fond of. Rekke’s men had brought a substantial amount of oats for porridge, and shared some with Gjaldir’s warband, which made them instantly popular.

They laid everything out ready to march at first light. There would be no drinking and celebrating that night, by order of a very forceful Gunnar, every man was to sleep well. No excuses would be tolerated the next day. Gunnar intended to enforce strict discipline from the very start, and Gjaldir was hugely grateful for it.

Leif and Vidar came and found him again as the evening came and the sun was almost set. ‘Leif, what do you need?’ Gjaldir said with a nod. ‘Are we all ready for the march tomorrow?’

Leif gave him an odd smile. ‘Yes, that is all in hand. We just have something for you.’ He brought his hands out from behind his back, and Gjaldir saw the shining band of gold he was grasping. He recognised it immediately. It was Leif’s magnificent gold armring, that he had been wearing as long as Gjaldir had known him.

‘What?’

Leif smiled and proffered it. ‘It is for you.’

Gjaldir just looked confused. ‘Why? I don’t need it. It is yours.’

‘It was given to me, and now I give it to you.’

Gjaldir just shook his head. ‘Why are you giving me your armring, Leif?’

‘Because you don’t have any, and a warrior should have armrings. I have several.’

‘And this is the finest.’

‘You are the leader, look, stop arguing and just take it!’ Leif grabbed Gjaldir’s hand and placed the golden ring into it. Gjaldir paused when he saw the thick gold band close up. He had seen that golden ring many times, but its surface had always been plain. Now, it was inscribed with a string of runic symbols. Then he turned it and saw the inside, too, was inscribed.

‘Why is it marked like this?’

Leif smiled. ‘Well, it turns out one of our little band is a silversmith, and we had him inscribe some words on the ring.’

Gjaldir nodded, staring at the markings that meant nothing to him. He could speak the language, but he could not read its runes any more than he could read Latin or his native German tongue. ‘What does it say?’

Leif pointed to the outside. ‘Here it says: Born under the cross, live under the hammer, and inside is our names, the four of us.’ He ran his fingers across the runes. ‘Bjorn, Vidar, Leif, Gunnar.’

Gjaldir looked at it. ‘I was born as a Christian, and now I live as a Norseman. That is what it means? The hammer is Mjölnir?’

Leif nodded.

‘I don’t understand, why this ring, why inscribe it?’

‘It’s an oath ring. It is a symbol of our commitment, and yours. You can wear it proudly, and all men who come close will know you and the commitment you have made because it will be written on your arm in shining gold.’

Gjaldir smiled wryly and waved the ring at his companions. ‘So it is really to remind me what I swore to.’

Vidar grinned. ‘If you ever need a reminder.’

‘Then why are your names on the inside, where they cannot be seen?’

‘So if you embarrass yourself, we will not be associated with you too closely,’ Vidar said. ‘We have reputations to think of.’

Leif elbowed the long-haired huskarl aside. ‘Don’t listen to him. Our names are on the inside because our oaths to you are private, for you to draw comfort and support inside yourself, not to be branded upon you like the mark of ownership. You are our leader, not our goat.’

Gjaldir blushed and looked down at the ring again with a new fondness. Finally he met Leif’s blue-eyed gaze again and swelled with pride. ‘Thank you, Leif, and you, Vidar. I know truly you have done this because you fear my resolve is flagging, and it is true, my first few months as a leader have been hard. But having your support and advice is all that keeps me going.’ Then he frowned. ‘Why is it only you two who bring this to me, and not Gunnar and Bjorn?’

Leif looked uncomfortable. ‘Well, Bjorn would think it is ridiculous, to put an oath into gold. His oaths are like iron to him, so this would mean nothing. And Gunnar?’ Leif paused and looked at Vidar. ‘Gunnar… Gunnar’s mind is focused on other things. He is too practical for such distractions.’

The warmth Gjaldir felt at the gesture cooled slightly at the display of disunity in its giving, but he nodded and placed the band over his arm, crimping the soft metal with his meaty hand until it nestled firmly on his upper arm. ‘Well, thank you, all of you. A reminder that I am not doing this alone is indeed a comfort.’

Vidar nodded and slapped Gjaldir on the back. ‘Good, make sure you don’t forget it, or I will make the next one of stone, half a pace across.’

‘Enough, don’t ruin it,’ chided Leif, and with a last friendly glance, he escorted the other warrior away.

In the morning, Gjaldir woke long before the dawn, his mind and stomach tossing and turning with nerves and thoughts. He was taking a warband on campaign. The thought itself was absurd to him. But he steadied himself and tried to brush any outward sign of nerves away before he went outside as the first sign of dawn was creeping over the horizon.

Men were already moving in the darkened village, going to the field outside where they were assembling. Leif and Bjorn came and went, asking about some minor issue or another, and Gjaldir stood outside the hall talking to those he knew and fiddling with his own equipment and waited until the sun finally rose and it was time to go out on the field and give the order to march.

Leif came to him with a smile, his own equipment on his back and in his hands. ‘Are you ready?’

‘I think so?’ said Gjaldir nervously.

‘Then now is the time to go,’ Leif said, jerking his head towards the outskirts of the village.

As they were walking towards the field, they came around a corner and found an odd sight, Tormund Five-Bones, carrying a shield awkwardly on his shoulder, with a spear in hand, holding it like he had never held a spear before. Now that he thought about it, Gjaldir couldn’t remember ever seeing the man hold a spear. He looked ridiculous. He kept almost tripping on it as he walked.

‘Tormund, what are you doing?’ Gjaldir asked, and the seer looked up in annoyance.

‘Gunnar told me only those who could carry weapons were coming south. So, I am carrying weapons.’

Leif did not look amused. ‘He meant fight with them, Tormund. Only those who can fight are coming south.’

Tormund looked blank. ‘That is not what he said.’

Leif sighed and looked at Gjaldir. ‘Can you try and talk sense into this one, you are the only one who might succeed.’

Gjaldir nodded. ‘Go and put those wherever you found them, Tormund, you look ridiculous.’

‘But then I won’t be allowed to come?’ he said, with rare annoyance.

‘Why do you want to come so much? We are going fighting, that is all.’

‘And I must go where you go, that is my path. And if my dreams return, they might be important to you. And what if Odin reveals himself to you again?’ Tormund practically hopped from foot to foot with distress. ‘How could I miss that? You are an Odinseer, Gjaldir, where else could I be but by your side?’

Gjaldir shifted uncomfortably. He disliked when the seer spoke of his dreams or the gods, none of it made sense to him. ‘Fine, I will make an exception for you.’ He regretted saying it the moment the words spilled from his mouth and Tormund’s face lit up in excitement. Leif scowled reproachfully but remained silent.

‘Thank you, Gjaldir Odinseer! I will be no trouble, I am well used to campaigning.’ Then he dropped the shield and spear to the ground with a sigh of relief and walked off towards the field, muttering contentedly to himself.

Gjaldir looked at the weapons on the ground and felt a hot wave of annoyance. ‘Where did you even get these?’ he said, looking up to cajole the seer to return them, but the man was already gone. Gjaldir looked around, perplexed. The seer did not care for anything beyond his own needs or urges. Not a single thing. The moment something was not important to him, it was as if it did not exist.

‘Gjaldir.’

He looked up and found Leif looking at him with a hint of annoyance. ‘Leave them, someone will pick them up later.’

‘But he might have stolen them, they might…’

‘Of course he stole them, Gjaldir. But leave it, it is not your concern. Come, stop delaying. It is time we leave, and you are our leader, not the tidier of lost shields.’

Gjaldir swallowed and nodded, trying to suppress his nerves, and realising that Leif was right. It was someone else’s problem.

Leaving his worries and his fears on the ground with the abandoned weapons, he set out for the field, and the army that was waiting for his order to march.

Chapter 7

A Leader Made

‘What did you see?’ Gjaldir asked as Vidar came and knelt in the leaf litter with him and the others.

‘Perhaps fifty men, they have good log walls and a strong door.’

‘Can we storm it?’

Vidar nodded. ‘Yes, but it could get very messy.’

He knew what messy meant. Messy meant lost men, and dead men they could not easily bear.

It was two weeks since they had left their people to march south. For the first half they had encountered no signs of Christians, then they had come upon abandoned villages where the residents had fled, or been burned out of their homes.

Finally they had spotted a small fort by a river crossing, the very outer edge of the Christian-held lands. Fifty men was not many, they had nearly five times that number, but this outpost on the edge of the Crusader domain was built to expect trouble, and too many precious warriors might be lost capturing it.

‘We should surround it, put it under siege. They have water from the river, but their food will have limits,’ said Leif.

‘That will take too long, and in any case, we want their food,’ said Bjorn, and several men grumbled their assent. They had been able to buy, forage and hunt a little more on the way south, but they would never have enough, travelling light as they were.

‘We could simply bypass it and move south,’ suggested Gjaldir.

‘And have them behind us?’ said Leif.

Everyone turned to Gunnar, who had not spoken yet and was deep in thought. Finally he looked up. ‘You are all thinking like an army, like Sigurd would have thought. But that is wrong. Consider again, what is our aim here?’

‘To retake our lands.’

‘Yes, and if we were an army, we would take this fort, garrison it, and control the land, yes?’

They all nodded.

‘But we are not an army, we will not garrison this fort. We need to keep moving, snip at their heels, weaken them as the wolf weakens the elk, bleed them and keep them running. This fort is not important to us.’

‘So what then, bypass it?’

Gunnar nodded his bearded chin.

Vidar interrupted. ‘No, we can use it as a lure. We let them know we are here, in some small numbers, maybe ambush men coming to and from it. They send word to their commanders that a small raiding party is here. Their commanders send a force to defeat that raiding party.’

Rekke grinned. ‘And then we kill them.’

‘Exactly.’

‘But then we still don’t have the fort.’

‘As Gunnar said, we don’t need the fort.’

‘So when their first patrol is defeated, they will send a bigger force, maybe a whole army.’

‘Good. If it is a force we can defeat, we do so. If it is an army, we simply avoid it, move away, do this somewhere else.’ Vidar pointed at Gunnar. ‘As he says, we don’t need this fort, this land, this area. If we force them to dispatch armies to no effect we will weaken them, exhaust them.’

‘And then, finally, we go for the kill,’ said Gunnar with an appreciative smile.

They all nodded at looked at Gjaldir expectantly.

Gjaldir raised his eyebrows, almost surprised to be consulted. He just nodded. ‘It makes sense to me.’ Then he frowned. ‘But if we never take the fort, how will be get the food?’

Vidar was taken aback. ‘I didn’t consider that. We will find it somewhere else.’

‘What if all their men are in forts like this? We will have to take one eventually.’

Gunnar waved the concern away. ‘We are fine for now, we will take any opportunity that arises. We can live off the land here for some time with just us warriors to feed.’

Gjaldir shrugged and nodded his assent. ‘So, the plan is agreed then. We send some men to lay an ambush on the road south from the fort.’

Rekke leaned over, his face lit up with excitement. ‘Let me do this, let me prove my men are capable.’

Gjaldir looked at the others, but no one else spoke. He stared at Rekke and then nodded slowly. ‘Agreed.’

‘Don’t show them too many men, let them think we are far fewer than we are. All of Rekke’s men is too many,’ said Gunnar.

‘Twenty then. Take twenty,’ said Gjaldir.

They waited for two tense days, hidden in the deep forest away from the coastal road. Finally, a scout ran in to whisper that Rekke’s men had been spotted returning, and not long afterwards, Gjaldir and the others met the returning band on the outskirts of their camp.

Gjaldir looked on nervously, waiting to hear what had happened, and his confusion mounted when he counted fifteen men, and saw that several had clearly been wounded.

‘Oh, gods, have they been defeated?’ he exclaimed.

He jogged out in mid-panic, seeing Rekke walking at the front and headed towards him. To his surprise, Rekke smiled wolfishly and stepped forwards, meeting Gjaldir with an embrace, muck and blood still dried onto his armour.

‘What happened?’ Gjaldir asked, horrified by the state of them.

‘We ambushed a force of them on the road, as you asked,’ Rekke said with a grin.

‘But the rest of your men?’

Rekke looked confused. ‘They died. It was a hard fight and the enemy were numerous. I lost six men, but we killed thirty or more of the enemy, and scattered the rest to flee! And they were transporting food to the garrison, enough to feed us for a week at least.’ He looked back at his column with pride.

‘Thirty?’ Gjaldir was horrified. ‘I meant… you could have waited for a smaller force to hit, I didn’t mean you to take such risks.’

Rekke gave him an odd look. ‘Why are you not happy, Gjaldir? You asked us to ambush the enemy, kill them, and return. Have I not done as you asked? We even found food.’

‘Yes, I just… you lost so many. I’m sorry.’

Rekke looked even more perplexed. ‘Gjaldir, my men died well in battle, in victory. It is a joyous end for them, and we will remember them fondly.’

Gjaldir felt Gunnar take his arm. ‘Come, let Rekke see to his men.’ The words did not allow dissent. Gunnar stepped between them and took Rekke’s arm. ‘A fine victory, Rekke, and worthy. I am proud of your men, their courage was never in doubt.’

Rekke smiled, then gave Gjaldir another odd look and walked off to follow his survivors into camp.

Gunnar turned to Gjaldir and his face was thunderous. Gjaldir just looked at him in shock and horror. ‘I should have sent more. With more men… fewer would have died? Six men, Gunnar? I got his men killed and he does not hate me?’

‘Stop it! Men die in battle. They were victorious against a number greater than their own and they achieved what we wanted. What did you think, that none of us would die here?’

‘No, but…’

Gunnar’s face softened a little. ‘It is hard to realise the first time you have sent men to their deaths. But you must get used to it.’

Gjaldir gulped and repeated. ‘I should have sent more.’

‘No, we need to hide our numbers. Take a moment, Gjaldir, and gather yourself. But be quick, men will start saying that you have lost your nerve, or are a coward,’ Gunnar said, sternly. ‘When the battle is won, do not consume yourself with fears of what could have been better. What is done is done, learn from it and keep moving forwards. That is the quality of a war leader. Can you do it?’

The old warrior’s eyes blazed as he held Gjaldir by both shoulders and stared into his face. ‘Can you?’

Gjaldir nodded, feeling foolish. ‘I can.’

‘Good. Then go and thank those men, congratulate them, honour them and their dead, and don’t you dare let them see your doubts or your fears.’

Gjaldir nodded dumbly, and Gunnar gave him one last grunt and turned to leave. Gjaldir looked up and saw Leif and Bjorn, and the mix of sympathy and distaste in their faces.

‘You have fought in battle before, Gjaldir, bravely. You have even led men in the fight and some have died. I didn’t expect this from you,’ said Bjorn.

‘It is different, give him time to understand it,’ said Leif, guiding Bjorn away.

Gjaldir pushed past them, trying to calm the roiling forces in his stomach.

Six men.

He grunted and huffed to try to force the strength back into his mind and body. But the voice in his head wouldn’t stop.

Six men. You sent them to die, and you didn’t even know their names.

He set off to follow Rekke’s men into the camp, determined to make a better attempt at congratulating them.

‘How many?’ Gjaldir whispered, looking at the ranks of the enemy column as best he could from the wooded hillside.

The enemy was over two miles away down the valley, marching in a loose column, mounted scouts a hundred paces ahead of them.

It had taken six days for the enemy around Uppsala to gather and send a force to hunt them down. Now that force was marching into the valley north of the fort, confident and brash under their bright cross banners. Gunnar had deliberately let the fort’s scouts identify where they were camping, not get close enough to see the camp itself, but to see the area. Now they waited, hidden in the trees near the road, halfway between the fort and the abandoned camp.

‘Perhaps a hundred and fifty?’ said Gunnar.

‘Few enough to attack then.’

‘Yes, we continue as planned.’

The first of the mounted scouts passed on the road below them, scanning the forest carefully, but they could not see the Norse, deep as they were in the trees and lying in the small bushes and leaf litter.

The scouts passed and then the small column drew level, just a hundred paces away. But still Gjaldir and his men lay still, because if they attacked now, the enemy might be able to turn and run for the safety of the fort.

They waited until the enemy was deep into the trap, and as the tail of the column passed the closest point in the road, there was a shout of alarm from the scouts at the front of the enemy column and it slammed to a halt at a shouted order.

‘Vidar has made his move,’ whispered Leif with a grin.

Vidar and a dozen men had been waiting further down the road, ready with bows to shoot whoever reached them first. Gjaldir couldn’t see what was happening, but he heard shouts, and then the pained scream of a horse.

On the road below them, the Christian commander urgently shouted orders at his men, and the column dissolved, the Christians hustling to form up in line, facing the direction of the threat.

‘Now!’ said Gunnar in a low voice, and he got to his feet with surprising spryness for his age, gesturing to the men hiding around them, who rose almost silently from the earth like a wave rising at a beach, and they all started running down the slight slope through the trees, angling to come out behind the enemy and cut them off from safety.

Gjaldir swore under his breath as he saw a pair of mounted scouts moving along the road in front of them, tailing the Crusader force. They could not help but see the great mass of Norse warriors running through the thinning woods and with a cry of alarm they urged their horses into a gallop and raced off towards their comrades.

‘Keep going!’ shouted Gunnar, all need for silence removed, and the Norse warband broke from the cover of the trees and charged down on the shocked Crusader column.

Neither side was formed into a line when they clashed, but Gjaldir and his men arrived at a run, howling and full of the scent of victory, and the Christians were terrified and confused, their ranks twisting and mingling as they tried to turn to face the new threat.

Shields smashed into bodies, axes swooped, and spears were plunged into maille and flesh. Gjaldir was at the forefront of the attack, Bjorn and Leif at his side, and he hammered his sword hilt into the helmet of a Christian brave enough to step forwards and face him, forcing the well-armoured man into a heap on the floor where Bjorn embedded a spear in his guts and ended his momentary resistance.

Gjaldir sidestepped the screaming man and cut at another foolish enough to try and hold his ground even as most of the enemy fell back into a disordered huddle. His bright blade half severed the Crusader’s weapon arm and he pressed forwards with his men beside him until finally their headlong charge was stopped by the mass of enemy who had bunched together for safety.

Gjaldir kicked ineffectually at a shield, used his own to block an overhand spear thrust, then he heard Gunnar screaming orders for his men to form their own shieldwall. With a snarl at the dense knot of enemy facing him, he stepped back into the forming Norse line and found himself next to Rekke. The big blond warrior grinned at him and nodded. ‘You fight better than you talk, Christian.’

‘I am not a Christian.’

‘So a Christian would say, in this company,’ the burly man said with an amused nod.

Gjaldir did not rise to the bait, and he looked as Rekke pointed at a man on horseback behind the Christian force, a man who was shouting orders and urging his men to spread out into a proper line even as the wings of the larger Norse warband enveloped his flanks.

‘As Odin is my witness, I will get to him before you. What do you say, Christian?’

‘I am not a Christian,’ muttered Gjaldir under his breath as Gunnar shouted the order to advance.

The horse bucked and threw the wounded enemy commander to the ground as Gjaldir hacked at the rider, his arms on the verge of exhaustion. Rekke looked up from the man he was finishing, one eye closed with blood that was trickling from under the rim of his helmet, the open eye fixed on the wounded enemy, and then flicking to meet Gjaldir’s. He could have made a lunge to claim the kill, but he gave Gjaldir a sardonic grin.

‘You earned his death, I’ll not steal it from you.’

Gjaldir huffed and stepped towards the enemy commander, his lungs burning and sweat pouring down his back under his maille.

All around him the battle was ending, the victorious Norse warband picking off the last enemy still able to resist, some already looting. Several enemy had escaped on horseback, but the commander had stayed with his men, either too brave or too foolish to run while he had the chance.

Gjaldir paused for a moment to catch his breath as the enemy leader struggled to back away on the ground with his one good leg and one unwounded arm, clawing at the ground to move himself along it as if there was some imaginary safety that he thought he could reach.

Gjaldir stumbled after him on legs that threatened to buckle, sword hanging almost limply in his grip.

The enemy commander finally gave up his desperate crawl and rolled over onto his back with a whimper of pain, propping himself up on one elbow and glaring balefully at his killer. He spat some unintelligible words at Gjaldir, who paused, recognising the accent and sounds from his time in the Crusade half a decade before, but not knowing their meaning.

He shrugged and raised his sword. ‘Sorry, my lord, I don’t speak French,’ he said in low German, and the commander’s eyes went wide with surprise.

‘You are German?’ the commander asked in a shocked gasp.

Gjaldir steadied his grip on the blood-soaked blade and shook his head, eyes expressionless and blank. ‘No, I am not.’

And then he brought Ljós a Norðan down with a sickening crunch, silencing whatever the Crusader commander had been about to say.

Gjaldir took in a deep breath born of sheer fatigue and looked down at the filth on his sword. He bent down to wipe it on the tunic of the still twitching Crusader without giving the man a second glance.

A pair of legs appeared in his peripheral vision and he looked up to see Gunnar staring down at him with a look of perplexion. ‘I saw you speaking to him, you understood his words?’

‘Some of them,’ he replied in a defensive tone.

‘Then why didn’t you keep him alive to let him speak more of them?’ chided the old huskarl.

Gjaldir felt foolish and looked away. ‘I didn’t think of it.’

Truthfully, it had occurred to him, but he didn’t want to listen to the man beg. He hated it when the enemy begged him or cried out in his own tongue, it made it so much harder to dismiss them as his foes.

Gunnar grunted in dissatisfaction. ‘Well, others are alive, maybe you can learn something useful from them.’

‘Is that a command, Gunnar?’ Gjaldir said, his tiredness and irritation getting the better of him.

Gunnar’s thick eyebrows knitted together, and he leaned in. ‘Don’t be so weak. It was a suggestion, not a command. When I give you a command, you will recognise it.’

Then the old warrior stomped away, leaving Gjaldir feeling even more foolish and annoyed, a situation not improved when the grinning Rekke walked over, looking enormously satisfied with himself for a man with one eye gummed shut with his own blood.

Gjaldir turned and pointed a finger at the man. ‘Don’t think to say it, Rekke.’

Rekke smiled even more broadly and thumped Gjaldir on the back. ‘What, call you a Christian? Don’t worry, my friend, no jests. Today you fought and killed like a Norseman, and I salute you for it.’

Then Rekke wandered off, wiping his eye, and Gjaldir started picking his way back through the slaughter to reach the rest of his men.

Later that day they took the fort. There was little resistance, most of the garrison had marched and died with the force sent out to hunt them down. Inside, the warband found several weeks’ supply of food, more than they could carry, as well as good spears, bows, arrows, shoes, clothes and all manner of useful things.

They took what they could, and piled and burned the rest before leaving.

‘What now?’ Gjaldir asked the circle of his most senior warriors and companions when they were safely back in the woods and had made camp for the night. ‘Do we stay and fight the next party that comes looking for us?’

Gunnar shook his head. ‘Whatever they send next will be in overwhelming force. No, we should move on to a new place quickly, before we are found, and repeat the attack elsewhere. This country is vast and although they are too powerful to fight directly, they are too few to find us in it if we keep moving.’

‘It is a good plan,’ said Rekke with a nod, and Bjorn broke his characteristic silence to agree.

‘We have fought well, and killed several hundred of them, but we will lose too many of our own if we remain and fight again.’

They all looked at Gjaldir, who scanned their faces nervously. Then he nodded to Gunnar. ‘We will do as Gunnar says. Everyone get some sleep,’ he said, and they all dragged themselves to their feet to head off to their blankets.

Gunnar came over, and took Gjaldir’s arm to lead him aside. Gjaldir saw Brunhild waiting at a polite distance behind him.

‘I said to take my advice, not appear subservient to me in front of the men, Gjaldir. You are their leader, a new, young and unconfident one. You cannot appear to simply do all that I tell you to.’

Gjaldir pressed his fingers into the bridge of his nose and screwed his eyes shut. ‘This is a matter of war, and you told me you would command in battle. So I just do as you suggest.’

‘In battle, yes, I am the commander. But you must appear to be the leader of the warband or you never truly will be.’

‘So what do I say when you give me advice about war?’

‘You listen to everyone, you consider it, and then you make your decision. If you disagree with me then do as you believe is right,’ said Gunnar calmly.

Gjaldir paused. ‘Truly? If I had said that we would stay and fight again, you would have simply agreed?’

‘I would have tried to persuade you against such a foolish action, but if you had commanded it, yes. I would have carried out your command to the best of my ability.’

Gjaldir was taken aback. ‘Even if it meant all our deaths?’

‘What do you think having men’s oaths means, Gjaldir? If you give commands, those sworn to you will carry them out, to the death. You do not yet understand this, Gjaldir, but you must learn quickly, for all our sakes.’ Gunnar gave him a last look and walked off into the darkness, leaving Gjaldir and Brunhild alone.

‘He is right. You need to appear more assertive, and quickly.’

He breathed deeply to try to control his anger and his frustration. ‘I’m sorry that I am not the leader you expected.’

‘Do not apologise, it is weak, simply be better.’

Gjaldir thew his hands up. ‘Gods, woman, will you stop haranguing me? Perhaps I should command you to speak with more respect.’

Brunhild waved a finger at him. ‘Those who have to insist on respect have none, and deserve none. If you want respect, show you are worthy of it. No one said this would be easy for you. Stop complaining, stop making excuses, and be the leader we need. Do you ever remember Jarl Ragnvald making excuses, complaining how hard his life was, or demanding respect from those who did not give it?’

Gjaldir swallowed hard, then shook his head. ‘No.’

Brunhild nodded slowly. ‘Then just think how he would have acted, it will help guide you.’

Gjaldir stared at her back as she strode off and melted into the darkness, feeling more out of his depth than ever before. So much had changed since he first arrived in the North as a slave of Jarl Ragnvald, but yet the way Brunhild made him feel had not. Here he was, the leader of a fearsome warband, but still a slave to her opinion of him as much as when they had been slaves together.

Too exhausted to even think about it any further, he sighed and looked around for his bundle of kit, cursing as he realised he didn’t know where it was in the darkness. Too humiliated and annoyed to fumble around the camp or go asking, he just made a rough bed on a soft patch of leaf litter and went to a troubled sleep wrapped in his cloak.

Chapter 8

The Quiet Rebel

Uppsala

July AD 1121

The master builder stood nervously, his hands clasping his woollen hat in front of him, fingers clenching and flexing in the rough fibres as Bishop Reinhard surveyed the work that he and his men had finally completed.

Reinhard enjoyed the man’s nervousness, relished it. In truth he had finished his examination of the church a while ago and he was prolonging it simply because he enjoyed making the little man squirm as he waited. He moved around in an efficient, unhurried manner, occasionally frowning and leaning in to inspect some detail or potential defect. He felt the builder tense whenever he did that. During these visits in the past he had found errors, imaginary or real, and demanded corrections or re-work. This time he had decided he would not do so, he needed the church to be ready for service.

Finally, having extracted as much fulfilment from the process as he was likely to gain, he serenely drifted back over towards the builder and gave him a searching look. ‘You wish to know if I am satisfied, but I ask instead: are you?’

The builder looked around nervously, as if he could check one last time that he had not overlooked anything. ‘I think everything is as it should be, your grace,’ he finally stammered.

Reinhard raised an eyebrow questioningly and tutted gently. ‘It was supposed to be complete before the winter, my dear man, so nothing is as it should be.’ He breathed in gently through his nose as he allowed one, final, excruciating moment of pause. ‘But given that, I think it is finally in an acceptable condition.’

The master builder visibly sagged with relief. ‘Oh, thank you, your grace. I am so sorry about the delay, but it is my great pleasure to have completed the work.’

‘Our work on this earth is never complete, my son. Building this monument to our divine father is but one step in our dedication to him. Now, I have much work to do to ready the church for service, you may return to…’ Reinhard suddenly realised he had no idea where the man returned to when he was not working on the church. He had pushed the builders so hard they barely ever left the site outside of winter. He coughed gently to cover his indecision before finishing with a vague wave. ‘The city.’

The builder bowed. ‘Of course, thank you, your grace.’

‘Bertrand, see the man is paid from the Order’s coffers,’ Reinhard called to his ever-present assistant, the quiet, dour priest. Bertrand simply nodded his head in silence to acknowledge the instruction.

It was one of the things Reinhard appreciated above all else; a man who knew when to speak and, more importantly, when not to. The answer should almost always be not to, and Bertrand understood that.

The builder, who had learned this lesson over the two years the church had taken to build, simply bowed in gratitude. Reinhard considered offering his ring to kiss, he saw the builder glance at it as he bowed, but he decided it was too great an honour to give such a low-born man, and he dismissed the builder with a curt half-smile and by turning away.

‘Bertrand, come with me.’

The man shuffled after him in his simple robe.

‘Sir Sighard is here to see you, when you have a moment,’ intoned the priest.

Reinhard had no idea when that message had been passed in, it must have been while he was deep in thought, trying to find something wrong with the building.

‘Call for him now, I wish to speak to him anyway.’

Bertrand hobbled off towards the main doors where Reinhard could now see the hulking, armoured figure of his favourite knight. It seemed odd, having a favourite knight. In the past, Reinhard had never really had much reason to interact with lesser nobility and men at arms, and assumed they were all thick-headed and interchangeable, but the years of unbridled dedication Sir Sighard had shown him as a senior knight of the Order, his unquestioning obedience to orders no matter what they were, and his white-hot faith in the Lord and the mission of the Order of the Brotherhood of Christ’s Light had made him quite fond of the man.

And above all else, Sighard was a man of few words, so when he requested to speak to Reinhard, he knew his subordinate had something worth hearing.

Sighard clomped over, his maille whispering and his heavy footsteps echoing in the empty stone space. Reinhard winced at the disturbance Well, Sighard wasn’t perfect.

‘Grandmaster,’ the knight said with a nod. He used Bishop Reinhard’s title within the Order, which was only correct, as they were speaking to each other as members of the Order and on Order business. Correct use of titles was another thing Reinhard required of those around him.

‘Brother Sighard, what can I help you with today?’

‘Grandmaster, there has been another raid in the North. A small outpost of Count Otto’s was destroyed.’

Reinhard cocked an eyebrow. ‘That is not all that unusual, nor does it directly concern us. Otto’s people will send a punitive force, surely.’

‘They did, that was destroyed also.’

That piqued Reinhard’s interest. Raiding and banditry was relatively common throughout the North. Not just common, but in fact desirable. Before the winter, Duke Henry, the commander of the previous Crusade, had given Reinhard secret orders to try to reduce the population of the locals, especially those who could resist Christian rule in the future.

They could not simply go about massacring the Norse without cause, the lords who had been given ownership of areas of the conquered lands needed those people to generate income and would protest. So Henry had instructed Reinhard to quietly stoke unrest by harsh measures against resistance, and by creating a food shortage so that famine would set in over the winter, a famine that could be blamed on the rebels and their raids.

Irritatingly, although the winter had indeed been very hard on the population, the food shortage had not had the desired effect. The population had proved extremely tenacious and resourceful, and although a significant number of people had died, it had mostly been the old and the sick. The famine had not been extensive enough to kill off the young and healthy, the real threats to Christian rule.

So with the end of winter the raids and banditry had resumed anew. But open warfare had not broken out. No rebel force large enough to fight a pitched battle had appeared.

‘How many men?’

‘About one hundred and eighty were lost.’

‘One hundred and eighty!’ Reinhard’s eyes widened. No force that large had been defeated since Sieur de Blanchant’s ill-fated expedition in the autumn of the previous year. The man had died in an ambush deep in the wild forest, and lost the blessed sword the people called the Light of the North. A loss that still rankled Reinhard, even if it had allowed him to rouse his own men in outrage.

‘Well, that is concerning.’ Reinhard pursed his lips and pressed a finger to them, thinking it through. ‘Is that all?’

‘No, Grandmaster. There is one more thing. One wounded man who survived the battle by pretending to be dead reported that the rebels’ leader spoke German. Now, I wouldn’t usually credit the words of a coward such as that, but he said something else too.’

Reinhard looked at the knight in interest, he was rarely this animated. ‘What?’

‘He claims, and I don’t know if I believe him, but he claims the German-speaking rebel executed the commander of the force with a sword that looked the Light of the North.’

That got Reinhard’s full attention. ‘How certain was he?’

‘He said he saw the golden markings in the blade, and said its scabbard was blood red, with a serpent beast on the outside in white bone.’

Reinhard felt a buzz of excitement in his stomach. That was the sword, no doubt. He had held it himself several times, stared at the magnificent and terrible white serpent on its red leather. So, the sword had finally re-emerged.

‘Shall I lead a force to hunt the enemy down and find out if it is true?’ Sighard asked with obvious eagerness.

Despite Reinhard’s trust in him, Sighard did not know the truth about the rising pattern of unrest and rebellion; that it was being deliberately stoked to give an excuse to purge the Norse threat and thin their numbers and that the myths around the sword were deliberately being spread and exaggerated by Order agents to stoke the resistance. He was too devout and the knowledge the Order was encouraging the heretics would strain his loyalty too much. Reinhard had to keep him restrained without demoralising him. It was a delicate balance.

‘I appreciate your zeal, Brother Sighard, but I shall have to talk to Count Otto first. Those are his lands, and he is terribly fussy about us interfering.’

Sighard looked disappointed, and a little angry, but he clenched his mouth and said nothing.

Reinhard smiled. ‘Come, Sighard, you may say what is on your mind.’

Sighard nodded curtly. ‘We are the Order, charged with the holy mandate to subdue these lands and make them safe for our people. The sword is a symbol of our control and divine right. We should not be constrained in our righteous actions by such petty men.’

Reinhard had to resist a smile. The truth was he rarely asked permission from anyone for anything, but it was always a convenient excuse to do nothing, to blame it on the great lords of the Crusade. Instead of smiling, he gave a knowing and regretful shrug.

‘I share your frustration, my son. Unfortunately not all men are so devout and so resolute as us. But I promise I will deal with this matter with the utmost urgency, and shall seek to let you resolve it as only you can.’

That seemed to mollify Sighard, who nodded curtly in understanding.

‘Go with my blessing, Brother Sighard. I assure you I will attend to this matter.’ The lie unfolded smoothly from his lips with the finesse of a practised art.

Sighard saluted and stomped out of the church once again. Reinhard motioned Bertrand to come over with a gesture of his finger.

‘Yes, your grace?’

Reinhard didn’t need to ask Bertrand if he had heard all of the exchange, the priest was a master of listening while appearing not to be.

‘I will need to speak to Grandsteward Hugues. Where is he?’

‘He is travelling to Tuna, I believe, to meet with Count Conrad.’

That name put a douse of cold water on Reinhard’s mood, as any mention of his older brother always did. Conrad was one of the few men Reinhard had almost no sway over, and probably never would, no matter how high he ascended. Reinhard didn’t care one jot that Conrad despised him, what other men thought of him did not affect him in the slightest. He cared that he had no way to control him.

Reinhard ground his teeth and nodded. ‘It can wait until he returns then,’ he snapped, his mood suddenly dark again. Bertrand looked completely unperturbed by the abrupt swing. He was well used to it.

Reinhard raised his eyes to the church again, keen to take out his annoyance on someone. ‘Bring the brothers in. I want this church ready for mass by tomorrow morning.’

It was an impossible task, and truly Reinhard wasn’t going to hold the inaugural service until the coming Sunday, but that didn’t matter. He had a reputation to maintain, and someone needed to suffer to alleviate his frustration.

Baron Hugues strode through the town of Tuna on his way to the castle being constructed on its southern edge. The town, as almost all Norse towns were, was situated on a navigable river. This one fed north into the great lake at the heart of the old Swedish kingdom.

The town had surrendered without a fight when the Crusade came, and the Order had not chosen it as a location for one of Reinhard’s ‘demonstrations’ of the choice between resistance and submission. So it had survived the Crusade intact and most of its people had returned. But alongside the original inhabitants, settlers and soldiers had arrived and construction was everywhere, with new German-style buildings being put up in a district to the west, just under the budding castle walls.

Count Conrad of Blankenburg had chosen Tuna as his feudal seat before the Crusade even ended, selecting it for its access by river to the lake and by road directly from the south. The modest castle being constructed at extravagant cost had a stone keep, two floors tall with another two yet to be constructed, and a broad bailey with a stout, tall log wall complete with walkway and thickly reinforced gateways.

When it was completed, it would be one of the most formidable fortifications in all of the North, but even then, with only its exterior wall intact, it was as defensible as any of the Norse ring-forts the Crusade had encountered during the conquest.

Hugues had initially pondered the purpose of such a construction on the relatively quiet south side of the great lake. But now he saw how the stone keep would loom over the bustling town, and dominate the approach along the river. Not only that, but the settlers were building the new district just outside its walls, and would be able to flee inside at any sign of trouble.

It would be a formidable symbol of Christian power in the region, and much more practical than Reinhard’s own power project, his nearly complete church built outside Uppsala atop the foundations of the old pagan temple.

Hugues grimaced a little in distaste, as he usually did when he thought about the depth and extent of Reinhard’s hatred of the pagans, and the lengths he would go to to crush and destroy not only their old religion, but their very existence. He had been aware for some time that Reinhard was actively avoiding solutions to the ongoing unrest and banditry of the locals, and that perhaps indeed he was actively encouraging it. He could only assume it was to generate an excuse for more repression, more massacres, more expulsions and punishment.

He was certain Reinhard would not rest until the Norse people were utterly crushed and scattered, perhaps even eliminated. Their defeat and submission was not sufficient for him.

That was what brought him to see Count Conrad as the spring bloomed around them. The winter had been terrible for the local population, and Reinhard had refused to do anything to ease the people’s suffering, refusing to release their excess stocks of food to avoid needless deaths among the conquered. Although nominally they were equal leaders of the Order, Grandsteward Hugues knew that Reinhard was ultimately the one who held more power. It had taken all his efforts over the years just to prevent Reinhard from taking over completely.

He remembered keenly what Duke Henry of Bavaria had told him several years earlier when the Crusade was still ongoing, and the Order was newly founded. ‘Bishop Reinhard’s interests are my interests.’

The words had been a warning, that if he opposed Reinhard too strongly, he would come into conflict with the bishop’s powerful patron, the man known as Henry the Black. The threat had been balanced with an offer, that if he ensured Duke Henry’s goals were achieved, Henry might support him and his brother, Folmar, the Count of Metz, in their goal to unite Upper and Lower Lorraine. Folmar was the ruler of Upper Lorraine in all but name as Duke Simon, their feudal lord, was pious, inactive, and easily led.

So it was a precarious situation Hugues found himself in, five years into his life as a Crusader and Grandsteward of the Order. He needed to stabilise the region to keep Lothair the Duke of Saxony happy, the lord who owned these lands which were ruled in his name by his followers Counts Conrad and Otto. But he could not oppose Reinhard’s lax enforcement of the peace too openly, for fear of making an enemy of Duke Henry the Black, Lothair’s rival.

It was a perilous and precarious balance.

That was what brought him to see Count Conrad, who was not only a staunch supporter of Lothair, but also was Reinhard’s estranged brother. There was no one else better suited to quietly help him oppose the bishop’s apparent plans for allowing the province to fall to ruin. He just had to make sure he himself was not associated too closely with that effort.

He sighed as he ran through it all in his head for perhaps the tenth time, coming to the same conclusion: it was an extremely dangerous game, but he could not just stand by and allow the province they had spilled so much blood to conquer and pacify fall into chaos and rebellion. He could not return home after five or more years with nothing but a failed attempt to keep the peace under his belt, and he doubted just doing nothing to either improve or worsen the situation during the slow descent into chaos would earn him the favour of either Henry or Lothair.

No, he was certain that action was required.

He passed through the newly finished gateway of the castle and the guard captain directed him to a long, low building that was built along the inside of the wall. He thanked the man and walked over, his small party of attendants and white-surcoated Order guards behind him.

He was shown in without fuss to Conrad’s rooms, but the count met him on the way back. ‘Good day, Hugues, are you tired? No? Good. Walk with me. It’s too fine a day to sit inside in the dark and talk.’

Hugues stifled an objection that he was, in fact, tired from his journey and wanted nothing more than to sit down and have a drink, but he wasn’t going to argue with the more senior lord. He needed his favour, after all.

So he simply fell into step behind the ageing but energetic count as they headed back past the half-built keep towards the gate. The count’s pace and stride reminded Hugues that the man was a fighting man, not a castle lord, used to campaign and still an active battlefield commander. It reminded him more painfully that he was not, and never had been. He was more familiar with the life of court than camp.

‘They say it will be finished next year. The ground has to be allowed to settle before it can be built higher,’ grumbled the count as they passed a large and dormant work area devoted to cutting and shaping stones for the keep. ‘The ground here is soft, you see. No good for crops, no good for building. Terrible place really, nothing like the South. I wish I had been given Lund instead.’

There was no venom in the count’s complaints, it was more observation, petty conversation.

‘Yes, it does seem so. Nothing here but pine forests and lakes, although there is some good land around Uppsala. We have productive farms there.’

‘Good for my friend Count Otto, then, that he has some good land,’ Conrad said drily. The two counts were what Hugues thought of as friendly rivals. They did not dislike each other, they perhaps were even quite fond of each other, but their ambitions and self-interests collided both in the conquered provinces and in their lands in south-western Saxony. Blankenburg was so close to Otto’s family seat in Ballensted that the two castles could almost be seen from one another, nestled into two separate nooks on the northern slopes of the Harz mountains.

The two counts had grown up as neighbours, gone to war for Duke Lothair together, crusaded together, and now, finally, ruled adjacent parts of the newly conquered province of Nordland.

Regardless of all that, Hugues was too long in the game of politics and power not to know that either count would walk over the other’s prostrate body for an increase in their station, and eyed the other’s advantages or successes with envy and worry.

‘Why are you here, Hugues? It is not for the pleasure of inspecting my half-finished walls. If you couldn’t write it in your letter, I can only assume you are having problems with my infernal brother and need my help.’

Hugues smiled uncomfortably. Conrad was not a man who wasted time and words on skirting the point, although Hugues himself preferred to be far more careful how he phrased things.

‘Your brother, Bishop Reinhard, is a devout and studious leader of our Order,’ said Hugues with a little more emphasis than was needed.

‘My brother is an odious, self-obsessed madman. A stain on the family name and my father’s greatest mistake.’

Hugues just squirmed uncomfortably. He didn’t live in a world of denouncement and absolute truths.

The count turned and looked at Hugues with a glint in his eye. ‘But I thank you for your reluctance to say so, even though you know it is true. God knows how you have put up with leading the Order alongside him for this long, I would have drowned him in his bath by now.’

Hugues just focused on walking, hoping Conrad would feel satisfied by his venting and move on.

Conrad abruptly stopped and Hugues was forced to stagger to a halt too to avoid colliding with the count, who gave him a hard expression. ‘Tell me, Hugues. Do you avoid conflict and discomfort because you are a coward, or because you are a clever politician?’

Hugues’s mouth opened a little in surprise at the hostility but he had no time to respond before Conrad continued.

‘I hear you don’t fight, you don’t often lead your men in battle. Are you too afraid? Do you know what men say about leaders who will not chance their arm on the field?’

Hugues took a deep breath and steadied himself. He rarely felt angry, but it was rising in him now and he needed to control it. Conrad stood there, waiting, challenging him with his glare.

Finally Hugues answered. ‘Not all men are suited to leading in battle, and I have the sense to know I am not. I have found that the cowards are those who go to it anyway, out of fear of what lesser men will say behind their backs. That is the true cowardice, Conrad. I do not seek glory on the battlefield, but neither do I flee from the possibility of a fight.’

Conrad’s nostrils flared a little and he leaned in closer to Hugues, the count’s dark brown eyes boring into his. Hugues just glared back at him.

Conrad’s harsh expression suddenly and easily broke into a grin, and he nodded abruptly. ‘Good. No true coward would meet such an accusation like that. My apologies, but I had to know.’

Hugues felt the tension abate from his body and he breathed freely again. ‘Why, did you hear accusations?’

‘I hear that your leadership of the fighting men of the Order, and the men of Lorraine in the Crusade, rarely extended into battle, and I needed to know why.’

‘It is because there are better battlefield leaders, both in the ranks of the Order and in the contingent of Upper Lorraine. I know that, and I let them do their duty without my interference.’

‘That is wise, Hugues. Rare wisdom, in fact. Most lords are born believing they are great commanders, and those who are wrong cling to that belief like a babe to a mother’s tit.’

‘And are you a great commander, Count Conrad?’

‘One of the best,’ Conrad said without hesitation.

‘And how can you be so sure that you are not also clinging to your delusion?’

Conrad laughed. ‘I cannot, but I’ve fought in five great battles and a fistful of lesser combats, I’ve always emerged on the winning side and no one has killed me yet. So it might just be true.’

Hugues nodded. ‘That is a persuasive argument.’

They passed through the gate of the castle and down towards the newly built docks on the river under the walls.

‘So, what precisely are you here for, Hugues? I won’t kill my brother, if that is what you wish.’

‘It is not. Of course I wouldn’t wish it!’

‘Why, do you like the scoundrel?’

‘No, but I need him.’

‘Good answer. So, if you can’t kill him, and God knows none of us can control him, what do you think I can do to help you?’

‘Well, since you are being so blunt, I will try to be too. You are the only man in all the North who might be willing to oppose him.’

Conrad stopped. ‘You wish me to make an enemy of my brother.’

‘Is he not already your enemy?’

‘No, he is merely a disgrace. Becoming my enemy would be a further descent into infamy.’

Hugues nodded thoughtfully, wondering if he had overstepped.

‘Fortunately, I am willing to do so if it is in my interests. But you know as well as I do that he has a powerful backer.’

‘Duke Henry.’

‘Indeed. And being enemies with Duke Henry is another matter altogether.’

Hugues frowned. ‘You serve Duke Lothair, does that not make you Duke Henry’s enemy regardless?’

‘It does, which is why we are having this conversation. So, Baron Hugues, what is it that you need me to do? And what do you offer in return?’

Hugues looked at the river uncomfortably. ‘I need you to arrange to kill some of my men.’

Conrad’s eyes widened. ‘You need me to what?’ The count seemed genuinely surprised.

‘Reinhard refuses to let the men of the Order do anything to stop these raids and attacks. Otto’s forces are completely overstretched and he is too proud to ask you to help him, nor can you just march into his lands and help without his permission.’

‘Certainly not, Otto would rather burn at the stake than ask me for help.’

‘Precisely, so the only force that can stop this trouble before it explodes into a full rebellion is the brotherhood. We are chartered to keep the peace and protect Christian settlers, and can go where we like by the Pope’s command.’

‘And how does killing your men help?’

Hugues sighed. ‘Just some of them, enough to drive the rest of the Order into a fury and a lust for vengeance that even Reinhard cannot deny. He needs to be forced to act.’

Conrad stared at Hugues and then laughed. ‘By the saviour, Hugues, I underestimated you. If you had said this first, I would never have wondered if you were a coward. This is a dangerous and desperate plot you are suggesting. If you are discovered, you will not just make enemies of Henry and Reinhard, but of the whole Christian world. A jeopardy you put me in too, I might add.’

‘Yes, it can’t be you directly. You can’t use your men.’

‘Then what do you suggest?’

‘What if we could help the rebels, just enough. Give them information where a body of the Order’s soldiers will be at a certain time, vulnerable. Give them some help, secretly. Weapons even, if they need them.’

Conrad considered it for a while. ‘Why do you need my help in this? Why can’t you arrange it yourself?’

Hugues shook his head. ‘There is no one in the Order I could trust with this. No one who would not be so outraged they would report it, or who isn’t secretly loyal to Reinhard anyway. I could never plan and organise it myself. Even coming here to see you will raise questions and suspicions, but I am watched everywhere I go and there is nothing I can do about it.’

‘God, my brother really has grown into his power, hasn’t he?’

‘He has.’

‘Well, what if arming and strengthening these rebels creates the rebellion you wish to avoid?’

Hugues nodded and looked at Conrad with a concerned expression. ‘I have considered the possibility, and it is true that it might. But if we continue to do nothing, I feel a rebellion is inevitable anyway. If you can create a connection to one of the bandit groups, gain their trust, perhaps you can put yourself in position to destroy them when the time comes.’

Conrad huffed and scratched the thin, day-old stubble under his chin. ‘This is not what I expected. I thought you would be coming to me with a request for men, or to go and argue with my brother, or send a request to Lothair. This… I was not prepared for at all. You don’t see another way?’

Hugues shrugged. ‘I do not. I have been considering it for some time. My only weapon is the zealotry and pride of the Order’s men at arms. It must be unleashed, and to be unleashed it must first be bloodied and bruised, which is impossible safely cooped up in our strongholds. An atrocity must be committed against us, and the fire and anger of the Order unleashed. It is the only way. I need your help, Count Conrad. I am hoping you can work out how.’

Conrad stopped scratching his chin and nodded. ‘I think I might know a way. There are a group of people here, survivors from the Order’s raid at Birka. They hate your men more than anyone. If I can find a way to feed them the right information, they might take care of the rest.’

Hugues nodded nervously. ‘That might work.’

‘It won’t be quick. I have to proceed cautiously. How will we arrange it when I am ready?’

‘In the autumn we stop shipping supplies by sea and river, and take them overland. I will give you the schedule for one of our convoys to Arbugæ in advance. I will make sure it is a rich target.’

‘Good. I have to return home for the imperial council meeting in September, but I should be back by October. I trust several of my subordinates enough to continue while I am absent.’

Hugues felt decidedly nervous about that. ‘Please tell as few as possible about this.’

Conrad gave him a scathing look of irritation at the request and Hugues nodded apologetically.

‘I apologise, I know you are not a fool.’

Conrad grunted. ‘You would be the greater fool for coming to me if you did think that. Now, come, we should conduct whatever meeting you pretended was your purpose here. Make sure plenty of others witness it, especially your men.’

‘There is no pretence needed. We have other important matters to discuss.’

‘No more treason, I hope?’ Conrad asked jovially.

Hugues blanched. ‘Nothing of the sort.’

Chapter 9

Proving his Place

In the woods west of Uppsala

August AD 1121

For several weeks, Gjaldir’s warband worked their slow way west through the forests, painstakingly avoiding being discovered, staying far away from the main settlements and the roads between them. Eventually they approached the area around Västerås, the town clinging to the shores of the lake Lǫgrinn. They had been there two years before, when they were fleeing west from the terrible defeat at the battle outside Uppsala. Then they had been refugees and the town had sheltered them, but the residents had paid for their defiance in blood. Now the old Norse town was home to a Christian outpost, and significantly strengthened.

Gjaldir and his companions crept through the scattered forest on the edges of the fields that surrounded the town to get a good view of it.

A large number of makeshift shelters and tents were arranged in several clusters outside of the newly reinforced walls. The people there looked destitute, and several times Gjaldir saw Christian soldiers patrolling the camps berate or abuse the ragged inhabitants.

‘Those are our people, forced out of their homes to make way for Christians. They are being used as slaves,’ said Bjorn in a furious tone.

‘They must have been out there all winter, those shelters are not new.’

‘Winter in those makeshift homes? It must have been as hard for them as it was for us.’

‘Worse. They have families, children, old folk,’ said Gunnar with a scowl. ‘These people are just the ones who were too weak or afraid to flee.’

‘We must stop this,’ Gjaldir said, horrified by the conditions they were seeing.

‘If that is your wish, we will,’ replied Gunnar.

Gjaldir nodded. ‘We will not leave the people living like this.’

‘Then what? You want to take the town?’ asked Leif. ‘We can’t hold it.’

Gjaldir paused, uncertain. ‘Are you saying we do nothing?’

Leif shrugged. ‘If we storm the town and free our people, then what? If we leave them here the Christians will just come back and impose their rule again, and we can’t take them with us.’

‘Worse, the Christians might retaliate against them,’ said Bjorn. ‘Perhaps it would be better for them if we left the town alone.’

Gjaldir grunted in frustration, then shook his head. ‘We cannot live in fear of what the enemy will do, we must do what is right and we will free these people.’ He looked around, expecting resistance, and was surprised to see Bjorn and Leif were smiling at him.

Leif nodded. ‘Good, it is the right decision.’

‘But you argued against it?’

‘Yes, because it is a foolish idea, but doing what is right regardless is honourable.’

‘Enough of this,’ said Gunnar with a sharp look. ‘If you wish to free these people, we must still have a plan what to do with them afterwards.’

Gjaldir looked at the town again. ‘Leif is right, we cannot take them with us.’ Then he considered it for a while. ‘Free people make their own choices. We will warn them what will happen if they stay, but not force them to leave.’

‘And if they want to leave, where can they go?’

Gjaldir smiled. ‘There is plenty of room in the valley where we left our people, is there not?’

Leif looked uncertain. ‘That is a long way away, through lands the enemy hold.’

Gjaldir shrugged. ‘I do not say it will be easy, but we give them the choice, and a few men to guide them through the forest.’

The group all considered it, weighing the options. No one proposed a better idea and Gjaldir nodded confidently. ‘Then this is what we will do. We will kill the Christians, and give our people the choice to do as they choose with their freedom. That is all we can offer.’

He turned to Gunnar. ‘How would you take the town?’

Gunnar cast his lined eyes on the town and thought about it. ‘The wall has been strengthened. It is still too low to be a significant barrier, but it would still be best to lure the garrison out, as many of them as possible.’

‘How would we do that?’

He pointed at a large fenced-in area near the wall where half a hundred horses stood around, cropping the grass and being attended to by a dozen or so boys in a makeshift stableblock.

‘The Christians value their horses above all things. If we steal them, they will come after us to get them back.’

‘A horse-thieving raid?’ said Rekke with an enthusiastic grin. ‘Now, Gunnar, now I am really starting to like you.’

‘We could do it tonight,’ said Leif.

Gunnar gave a wry smile, his old flinty eyes gleaming. ‘No, let us do it in the daylight. Let them see us and where we go. They will have no choice but to follow.’ Gunnar turned to the group. ‘We should go back to the men and gather everyone who knows how to ride a horse, the rest will form the ambush.’ He looked at Gjaldir. ‘Do you know how to ride?’

Gjaldir shook his head. ‘No. Blacksmiths do not ride horses.’

‘Fine, you lead the ambush group with me then. Let Rekke and the young warriors do the raiding. We need to talk anyway.’ Gunnar patted Gjaldir firmly on the shoulder and rose to his feet, signalling with a jerk of his head that it was time to leave.

The group carefully filtered back to the makeshift camp deep in the woods, separated into two groups, and Gunnar laid out his plan.

‘Here they come!’ came the soft call from in front, although it was not needed because they could all hear the sound of hooves. A dozen or more Norsemen rode into the clearing, whooping and laughing to each other. Rekke brought up the rear, and he waved joyously at Gjaldir and Gunnar as he passed.

‘I was worried at first, but he and his men have been a fine addition to our band, have they not?’ said Gjaldir to Gunnar.

Gunnar grunted. ‘He enjoys war far too much.’

Gjaldir looked at the old warrior. ‘Why is that a problem?’

‘Men who enjoy war that much will fight for the sake of fighting, not when it is wise or beneficial. No one like him lives to be an old man. They either die, or the need for battle eats their soul until there is nothing left of the man inside them.’

Gjaldir swallowed hard at the depth of feeling in Gunnar’s normally emotionless tone. ‘What makes you say that?’

Gunnar fixed Gjaldir with his flint-hard stare. ‘Because that is what it did to me.’ Then he turned away and Gjaldir did not know what to say in reply. Gunnar seemed to forget the comment in a moment.

‘Here they come, it is time.’

Ahead of them, a gaggle of armed Christian men on horseback, thirty or more, was coming through the gap in the trees into the clearing, easily following the hoof marks in the soft ground, ignoring much else that was around them, not noticing the hidden Norse warriors until it was too late.

‘Give the order, let them see it is you,’ whispered Gunnar, and Gjaldir hesitated for a second, but Gunnar elbowed him in the ribs and Gjaldir shot to his feet with all his youthful energy.

‘Get them!’ he shouted, and immediately broke into a run.

Warriors sprouted from the undergrowth on both sides of the loose enemy band and charged in towards them. There was the sound of hooves and Rekke and his dozen men came galloping back through the open ground, arrowing in towards their erstwhile pursuers.

The Christians slewed to a halt, shock and panic overcoming them, and they did not have time to make any decisions, or turn to flee, before they were hit by a wave of armoured warriors.

Gjaldir reached them first, Bjorn and Gunnar at his side, and he put his spear into the back of a man who was scrabbling to turn his horse.

The spearhead stuck firm, and Gjaldir swore and let go of the shaft as another Christian came at him, spear raised. He felt a sudden panic and tried to draw his own sword, too slow to bring his shield up, defenceless as the Christian thrust his own spear.

As the wicked spearpoint lanced down towards him and he tried to lean back out of the way, a sword knocked the enemy weapon aside as Bjorn stepped into the strike from Gjaldir’s side, reversing his blade and cutting the enemy soldier down from his saddle with the return strike.

Bjorn spared Gjaldir a disapproving glance. ‘Get your shield up first, always,’ he said, before whipping his head back again to scan for the next threat.

Gjaldir swore at himself under his breath and finally fumbled his sword out of the scabbard, bringing his shield up and getting into position beside Bjorn.

‘Thank you,’ he grunted.

Bjorn just nodded, and then they stepped forwards into the fray as more of their men poured into the melee. A gang of dozens of Christians on foot had now arrived, breathless and shocked to find the fighting, and they poured into the confused melee.

Gjaldir just followed Bjorn, chastised about the foolish danger he had put himself in, and then he saw Rekke wheeling his horse off to their right, trampling down an unhorsed enemy, before launching his mount after another who turned and ran.

Bjorn blocked a blow from his left and stepped in to engage the attacker, leaving Gjaldir with five paces of open space to his front, watching Rekke lean forwards to put his spear in the fleeing man’s back.

The horse’s front leg suddenly caught, and then folded with a gut-wrenching snap as it caught in a hole or on a root. Rekke, a wide-eyed look of surprise on his face, was catapulted over the head of the screaming animal as it went down hard. Gjaldir watched as Rekke let go of his weapon and put his arms out, hitting the ground hard and rolling into a heap just a few paces to Gjaldir’s front, and practically on top of the man he had been pursuing.

There was a heartbeat of hesitation as everyone tried to work out what had happened, and then the man who Rekke had been chasing slid to a stop, turning and finding his attacker disarmed and dazed on the ground, shield and spear gone. Rekke, recognising the danger despite having his senses half knocked from him, fumbled for his seax as he tried to rise, but it wasn’t going to be enough.

Gjaldir could feel that Bjorn was still occupied to his left. He knew he should not leave him and have both of them vulnerable, but he swore loudly and pushed off with his back leg, moving straight into a sprint towards the downed Rekke.

He roared a challenge, the volume and rudeness of it enough to grab the soldier’s attention for just a moment, causing him to jerk his head around to look. The man glared at him, calculating, no hint of panic, bringing his sword up to face the new threat. Gjaldir could see from his fine helmet and maille aventaille, and the gilded belt shining at his waist, that his foe was a knight, and he felt a prickle of fear.

But Rekke managed to get his seax out and plunged it weakly into the Christian’s unarmoured calf. The knight shouted in pain and anger and hacked down at Rekke, landing a blow on his helmet with a sound like a blacksmith’s anvil being struck. Rekke slumped to the ground but Gjaldir hit the enemy at a run before he had time to finish the defenceless warrior off.

The knight’s wounded leg gave way immediately, and they both went to the ground in a jumble of iron and limbs. Gjaldir got a faceful of dirt and grass as he thumped into the soil. He tried to lever himself up with his shield-arm, but a meaty fist, still holding a sword hilt, lashed out and punched him in the face. It was a weak blow, but it stunned Gjaldir, rolling him over onto his back, and then the Christian knight was on top of him, snarling and bringing his sword arm back for the kill.

Gjaldir wildly swiped his own sword across in panic and knocked the killing blow aside, both weapons flying from their hands at the sheer violence of the impact. But that brought only a moment’s reprieve. The knight jammed one hand into his throat and brought the other down like a hammer at his face.

Gjaldir turned his head aside, scrabbling with his legs for purchase under the enemy’s body, trying to fight the rising panic, unable to breathe with the vice-like grip across his windpipe. He knew he had only moments before he blacked out, his body had been in this position before. Back in his youth in Saxony, fighting on the patch behind the inn in Minden with the town’s other restless youth.

Wrestling in the dirt had been his speciality, he had been trapped like this before, and he knew a way out, a way so brutal no one on the patch would use it, but one he had learned nonetheless.

He seized hold of the wrist that was holding his throat with his right hand, gripping it with all his remaining strength. It meant he could no longer ward off the blows to his face, and the knight’s off-hand hammered down onto his cheek. But it didn’t matter. He could take a few blows like that.

Blood burst into his mouth, but his helmet meant the knight could not get in a good enough blow to knock him out. It didn’t matter, he pushed the pain aside as his vision narrowed.

He stretched his left arm out on the ground and waited a half moment, getting the timing right. He would only have one opportunity.

As the knight raised up his left fist again, straightening his right arm against Gjaldir’s throat to hold him in position for another strike, Gjaldir swiped his left arm in and across his body with all the strength he could muster, his forearm hitting the knight’s flexed elbow, and inverting it with a crunch that Gjaldir could feel in his neck.

The knight howled in pain as his arm bent the wrong way, all the insides of his elbow joint parting and tearing, and the iron grip on Gjaldir’s throat relaxed in an instant, letting him draw in a single, rasping breath.

He bucked his hips as the knight recoiled, rolling his opponent to the side, but keeping hold of the hand attached to the ruined arm, twisting it and using it as a lever to help throw the howling man to the ground as Gjaldir went with the roll and ended up on top in a single movement, the knight face down in the dirt.

Able to breathe again, he held the wriggling knight down and finally was able to draw his seax, leaning forwards and fishing under the maille curtain that hung from the Christian’s helmet, finding the soft resistance of the knight’s throat and wiggling the blade in deeper and deeper as his opponent thrashed around helplessly with his one good arm on the wrong side of his body.

The screams turned to gurgles, and then the thrashing stopped, and Gjaldir sighed and relaxed, finally looking around to find that the fight had moved away a dozen or so paces as his warband finished off the survivors.

Bjorn strode over, fury etched into his face. ‘Where the fuck did you go!’ he hissed.

‘To save Rekke,’ said Gjaldir with a croak, his throat burning from where the now dead knight had tried to crush it.

‘Never leave your brother’s side undefended!’ Bjorn snapped. ‘I thought you were there and I could have been killed. Where is Rekke anyway?’

Gjaldir looked around and spotted the blond-haired man lying flat on his back. ‘There,’ he said, peering uncertainly at the body to see if it showed any sign of life.

The body rewarded him by moaning weakly and moving one of its hands in a placating motion. ‘Please, Bjorn, be quieter. My head is splitting.’

‘And so you deserve, fooling around on a horse like that. What were you doing?’

The body of Rekke did not try and contest that attack, the hand just went up to gingerly examine its head.

Bjorn shook his head furiously and reached down to help Gjaldir up. ‘You nearly got both of us killed.’

‘Yet, once again, we lived,’ said Gjaldir with irritation. ‘And so did Rekke.’

‘Luck will only get you so far, fool,’ spat Bjorn.

‘I do not like being talked to like that, Bjorn. I am not a slave.’

Bjorn huffed and gave Gjaldir a filthy look. ‘I swore my life to protect you, no slave would earn that. But in return try not to let me die for nothing, it is the least respect you can give me.’ And then the dark-haired warrior stormed off, leaving Gjaldir alone with Rekke, who had levered himself up onto an elbow.

‘He is right, but I thank you anyway. Nasty fight that man gave us, not like most of these Christian cowards.’

‘He was a knight.’

‘What does that mean, he was a lord?’

‘No, it is more like a huskarl. He served a great Christian lord, and spent his entire life training to kill.’

Rekke nodded thoughtfully. ‘Then it was a worthy victory for you. I congratulate you.’

Rekke reached up with one arm and Gjaldir hauled him to his feet as he looked across the clearing. The fight was over, and Rekke’s men on horseback were chasing down a few fleeing survivors.

‘You should apologise to Bjorn,’ said Rekke with a sympathetic look.

‘What?’

‘You questioned his intentions, made it sound like he was being selfish. He was not. He is an honourable man and he lives now only to keep you alive. He was angry with you not because he might have died, but because if either of you had, you would have made him break his oath.’

Gjaldir looked at Rekke and then back over to Bjorn, who was talking to Gunnar. He sighed in frustration.

‘You have a lot to learn of our ways, Gjaldir.’

Gjaldir laughed. ‘You know, I think that is the first time you’ve used my name.’

Rekke grinned through the pain. ‘And now I will never fail to use it again.’

Gjaldir nodded, thinking over what the blond warrior had said about Bjorn, and then they went to rejoin the others, leaving the dead knight cooling in the dirt.

Chapter 10

A Leader Born

There was no resistance as the warband walked back to the outskirts of Västerås. The remaining members of the garrison and the Christian settlers retreated inside their wall. Gunnar led them to the cluster of makeshift buildings and shelters that housed the evicted Norse population, who gathered together and watched them warily.

Gjaldir went forwards with only his four companions and Rekke to show they meant no harm, and two older men came cautiously out to greet them.

‘You are Svear?’ one of them called out.

‘We are every type of Northman, but we are not Christians, if that is what you are asking,’ replied Gunnar.

The old man nodded, but did not look any more relaxed.

‘And what do you want with us, with nothing to give you, no food to spare, no young men or women for your band.’

‘We are not here to take anything from you, we are here to free you.’

‘Free us?’ The man looked at the warband. ‘You are not bandits? You look like bandits.’

Gunnar bristled but Gjaldir stepped forwards. ‘Ignore how we look, we have had a hard year. But no, we are men of the North, and our fight is with the Christians.’

The old man flicked his eyes to Gjaldir. ‘You do not sound like one of us, youngster. You speak our tongue like a wolf pretending to be a lamb.’

Gjaldir smiled. ‘I was not always one of you.’

The old eyes narrowed and looked him up and down, widening as they settled on the sword at his waist. ‘You are Gjaldir?’

Gjaldir was slightly taken aback. ‘Yes, how do you know?’

‘A foreign-sounding man carrying a dragon-scabbarded sword? How many of you can there be?’

Gjaldir smiled. He did not understand the way people spoke of him and the sword, or the devotion it inspired, but it certainly helped his cause when people recognised him.

The old man shook his head and scowled. ‘Begone, Gjaldir. We do not want your trouble here.’ Then he simply turned and walked away with his companion, muttering.

Gjaldir was left speechless. Almost every group that had come to see them had treated him and his sword as some sort of divine symbol. They would often ask to touch the hilt, to receive some of its luck.

Gjaldir looked at Gunnar in confusion, and the old warrior shrugged. ‘Those who believe in a free future would already have left or died. These that remain are those who have given up, and submitted to be slaves forever.’

‘They want to be left here to be abused by the Christians?’

‘This is what people look like when they have given up on honour and hope. We should leave. There is nothing for us here.’

Gjaldir looked again at the huddled group and saw them differently. There were old folk, scared children, rake-thin mothers and a few weak-looking men. Almost none of them would ever be worthy to fight, nor to make the long journey north to safety. It filled him with despair.

‘This is all that is left of the people? What are we even fighting for?’

‘No, it is just this town, plenty of our people will be hiding in the villages and forests, waiting for someone to lead them. The Christians slaughtered anyone in Västerås that dared to resist them, or looked capable of doing so.’

‘When I said we should free them you told me it would be foolish, I didn’t believe you.’

‘No, you needed to see that for yourself.’

Gjaldir looked at the ground, distraught. ‘We should move on then, try and find those still willing to try and be free.’

‘No,’ rattled a dry voice. ‘We should free this town. What will men say of us if we turn away? That we ourselves are weak, that we ourselves have given up.’

Gjaldir turned around to find Tormund Five-Bones standing there, and he had no idea when the man had joined them. He had not been invited, but Tormund did not care for such distinctions.

‘And if we do capture the town, what will the Christians do to these when they retake it?’

Tormund looked confused. ‘Why does that matter?’

‘Because they might be blamed, tortured or killed for it.’

Tormund looked perplexed. ‘What does that matter?’

‘They are our people!’

Tormund shook his head like he was speaking to a child. ‘No, they are not. They just refused us in favour of the Christians. And they are already dead in the eyes of the gods, having turned their backs on them. Their bodies don’t know it yet, but their souls are gone, the husk remains. What, don’t look so shocked, did you think everyone would welcome us? We are here to find the strong and the loyal, not bow to the wishes of the weak and the cowards.’

Gjaldir swallowed hard, and looked around his companions, finding there was some sympathy for Tormund’s opinion in most of their faces.

‘So we sacrifice the weak among our people to help save the rest?’

‘Don’t act so surprised, child. That is the way of the world, and all here know it.’

‘No, I do not,’ growled Gunnar. ‘It is true we cannot save everyone, nor do we need to condemn them to death to make ourselves appear strong.’

‘What if every town turns us away, every village, will we just give up? Is that the limit of our convictions?’ said Tormund in disbelief. ‘We are doing the work of the gods, we are not constrained by the opinion of the weakest of men.’ He looked around the group in outrage.

Gjaldir was not swayed by the invocation of the will of the Norse gods, he never was. And he looked at Tormund dubiously.

‘Gjaldir?’ another voice, small and shrill, called out.

Gjaldir looked back and saw a thin old woman in a hastily repaired tunic standing there holding her hands together nervously.

‘I heard my husband telling you to leave, but I ask you not to.’

‘Why?’

‘Come back here, Frida!’ called the old man, waving to the woman frantically, hobbling over to get her. But the woman ignored him.

‘This is not all of us, my husband didn’t tell you. Some of our people are in the town. My daughter is among them. They took some of the girls to ensure we behaved, and…’ The woman shuddered to a halt and her shoulders clenched.

Gjaldir scowled and Bjorn swore softly. They all knew what a garrison of soldiers would have taken the young girls for.

‘I have heard stories of you, Gjaldir. They say the gods have sent you to save us. Please, save our daughters.’

The old man reached Frida and grabbed her by the shoulder, trying to lead her away. But the thin woman was not so easy to budge.

‘I’m sorry, ignore her. We want you to leave. Our daughters are safe in the town, but if you stay here they will not be.’ Then he yanked on the old woman’s shoulder even as her imploring eyes never left Gjaldir’s.

Leif steeped forwards and gently levelled his spear at the old man’s chest, stilling him. ‘Back away from her, greybeard,’ he said softly, but his eyes were blazing.

‘Not all of these people are lost to cowardice and despair,’ said Rekke. ‘I say we help those who still wish it.’

Gjaldir looked around. Leif made his feelings clear with the spear that he was still pointing vaguely at the old man. Tormund was nodding vigorously, Bjorn’s face was studiously neutral, and Gunnar looked deeply uncertain. He looked for Brunhild but she was not there, she was standing with the rest of the warband out of earshot a hundred paces away. But that thought alone was enough. He knew what she would say, he knew she would never forgive him if he walked away from the women held prisoner in the town, being used the way Brunhild had once been used by her first master.

‘We take the town,’ Gjaldir said with a nod. ‘We will not leave those girls here to suffer and we will not let it be said that we march away from those in need. The people need to know what we are here to do, regardless of the situation, and so do our enemy.’

Tormund smiled, and Leif put his spear down as the old man slumped in despair next to his wife, who clasped her hands to her chest and gave Gjaldir a look for pure relief.

Gjaldir went over to her. ‘Your husband might be right. Taking the town might lead to your daughter’s death, to all of their deaths. Do you understand that?’

The woman’s smile did not fade. ‘Death would be better than this false life and her debasement.’

Gjaldir nodded and turned to Gunnar. ‘So how do we take the town?’

Gunnar looked at the wall. ‘The wall is barely taller than a man and there are few men left to defend it. We could build ladders and storm it tomorrow.’

‘I don’t think we need to,’ said Vidar, pointing at the horse-pen outside the walls. ‘They have built those stables terribly close to the wall. If we climbed on top we could reach the walls with some planks.’ He smiled. ‘We can use planks from the stable walls.’

The rest of the group looked and Gunnar nodded. ‘That could work, they won’t be expecting an immediate attack, and they just lost many of their fighting men.’

‘So we attack now?’ asked Gjaldir, surprised.

‘That is what I advise, the sooner the better. Overnight they might arm every man left in the town and prepare them to defend it.’

He pointed at Vidar. ‘Get everyone with a bow together, we will need them to clear the wall opposite the stables while we work. Then take six men and get those planks across. Leif will follow with another twenty, the rest of us will wait by the gate for you to open it. Rekke, be ready to help Leif and Vidar if they need more men.’

‘Aye, Gunnar,’ said Vidar with a smile, and they all ran off to carry out their orders.

Gunnar looked at Gjaldir. ‘You lead the main attack on the gate with me. It will help distract the defenders while Vidar does his work.’

Gjaldir nodded as they seamlessly transferred into their battle roles where Gunnar was in charge and Gjaldir merely followed. They were getting well practised.

‘Wait, earlier you said we needed to talk, what about?’

Gunnar thought for a second and then nodded. ‘Ah, yes. Come, walk with me.’

They headed off towards the warband, who were arming themselves and splitting into groups at Vidar and Leif’s direction.

‘I wanted to talk about what we do after this. These raids on the enemy are all well and good, but each one costs us men, and so far we have not recruited many more. There is a limit to how long it can continue. Ah, give me a moment.’

They reached the first group of warriors coming their way. ‘Form up facing the gate, a hundred paces out, keep your shields ready. We need to look like we are about to attack!’

‘Yes, Gunnar,’ said one of the men in the lead, and the rest followed him at a jog towards the gate.

Gjaldir waited until the men had passed before he replied. ‘That is what I have been worried about, that we are losing men and we cannot afford to. If we are to drive the Christians out, this will not achieve it, only annoy and weaken them. How do we finally defeat their army?’

Gunnar smiled. ‘You are asking the right questions. It is true, we are only weakening them, but also weakening ourselves. And they can afford the losses more than us at the moment.’ Gunnar swore and shouted at a group of warriors who were headed the wrong way, waving them over to him. Everything was happening very quickly, and Gjaldir tried to keep his pre-battle nerves under control.

‘So how do we fight their full army?’

‘Oh, we cannot and we never will be able to.’ Gunnar looked away and waved. ‘Halfdan! Get those men spread out to the flank! Keep them out of arrow range until I give the order!’ Then he beckoned to Gjaldir. ‘Come, let’s go to the gate.’

‘So how do we defeat their army if we can’t fight them?’

‘Well, not directly. We have to give them no choice but to leave.’

They were jogging over to the main group now. And Bjorn came out to meet them, falling in alongside Gjaldir.

‘Don’t leave my side this time, for any reason,’ growled Bjorn.

‘I’ll be on your right too,’ said Gunnar. ‘No heroics, if Rekke or some other man makes a fool of himself again leave him to fight for himself.’

‘I understand,’ replied Gjaldir contritely. ‘Bjorn, I’m sorry for what I said earlier. I was angry.’

Bjorn nodded curtly. ‘Thank you. Now focus. Let the men see you lead from the front, calm and confident.’

Gjaldir looked to the right and saw Vidar’s archers approaching into range of the wall to their right, near the stables.

‘Ready, men!’ said Gunnar. And the ranks of warriors around them readied their shields and weapons.

Then they stood there, waiting, while Vidar’s group finished getting into position.

‘So how do we force them to leave?’ Gjaldir asked Gunnar.

The old warrior turned to him and smiled. ‘They can’t live here if the whole population is against them. That is what we do, turn the land and the people against them.’

‘How do we do that?’

Gunnar laughed. ‘We will talk after the battle. You are thinking the right way, Gjaldir. And that is all that matters for now. Focus on the fight, Vidar is nearly ready.’

Gjaldir nodded.

They watched until Vidar gave them a wave, and Gunnar drew himself up and shouted. ‘Forwards! Make a show of it, give them something to worry about!’

The ranks cheered and started advancing, shields up and ready. Gjaldir heard rather than saw the defenders shouting in panic and alarm, and heard the first few scattered arrows landing around them, thunking into the earth and rattling off shields. Somewhere nearby them a man cursed in pain as one found a gap.

Then Vidar’s archers ran forwards and started shooting back, and Gjaldir, taller than most of the men around him, saw a number of figures run a wagon up against the stables, hop onto the roof, and then others passed up planks.

One of the men on the roof froze and then pitched over as some unseen missile hit him, but two more took his place and the Norse archers redoubled their efforts to clear the way. Vidar, his long black hair flowing behind him, ran across the roof with one of the planks and dumped it over the two-pace gap between the stables and the wall.

Another plank was dropped down next to it, and another, and then a dozen or more men were clambering up the wagon and running across the slanted roof. Vidar led them cross the planks with shield and sword, and dropped down onto the wall, disappearing up to his waist and fighting some unseen foe below him.

‘Ah, he did it!’ said Bjorn joyfully.

Rekke’s men quickly followed on, and soon several dozen Norse warriors were inside the walls.

There were shouts of panic from the wall in front of them and the desultory arrow fire slackened even further.

‘Let’s go!’ shouted Gunnar. And the whole mass surged forwards, running towards the gate which still stood closed.

They reached the gate with the doors still firmly shut against them, and milled around at the base with their shields over their heads, listening to the sound of fighting inside. A man two paces away from Gjaldir put his shield aside to try to see what was going on and someone leaned over the wall above them and dropped a stone on him, felling him like a tree.

‘Shields up, you bastards!’ Gunnar roared as the dead man crumpled to the floor, head lolling.

Then the gate opened, revealing Vidar’s grinning, blood-spattered face. Behind him his men were driving the last few defenders away, leaving them to run down the street into the centre of town where they could see a small mass of armed men gathering in the gap between the buildings.

‘Stay together!’ shouted Gunnar as they pushed through the gate. Gjaldir ended up in the centre of the formation, with Bjorn on his left and Gunnar on his right. Rekke came over and joined them, muscling his way into the line next to Gunnar.

‘It is like killing lambs, no real soldiers among them,’ he joked.

‘Lambs or not, you stay in the group until I say otherwise, Rekke, or I kill you myself,’ Gunnar scolded him.

Rekke nodded sheepishly.

‘Leif, take your men left, Vidar, take yours right, then work your way towards the centre of the town. Let’s go,’ Gunnar called, and the warband split into three.

The enemy were forming up in an open area in front of them, a chaos of spears and bodies. Gjaldir could see few of them were wearing armour or helmets. Some of them didn’t even have shields. It was a defence of pure desperation.

‘The new Christian townsfolk,’ said Rekke with a smile.

‘Let’s welcome them properly,’ growled Gunnar, and they stamped down the broad road towards the wavering enemy mass.

The enemy met them where the road entered the open area, some sort of market space, and the armoured Norse line crunched into the terrified townspeople, and the fight was never in question. Gjaldir put down one overawed man with an overhand thrust, and then parried a spear strike while Bjorn killed the wielder.

They stamped forwards two more paces, trampling over the enemy fallen, and then hit the survivors again.

Rekke laughed joyously as he killed with his long spear, a deadly, flowing skill, and the joy of it infected Gjaldir a little. This was the easiest fight he had ever been in. They pressed the enemy back into the square and he could feel them wavering, but the ones at the back were trying to hold, and the ones at the front had nowhere to retreat to escape the voracious blades of the Norse.

A boy, barely a man, armed with nothing but a spear, tried shuffling back in front of Gjaldir, eyes pinned wide like a terrified horse. He and those next to him ran out of space and the boy turned his weapon on Gjaldir and tried thrusting at him in panic.

The strike was clumsy and Gjaldir blocked it with his shield, but lacked the range with his sword to strike back without breaking from the line, which he did not do. On his right, Gunnar cut down another man with an emotionless grunt.

The boy tried stabbing with his spear again, more desperately than before, leaning too far forwards and almost falling into Gjaldir. The wild, diagonal spear strike hit Gjaldir’s shield low and on the right, skittering and bouncing across the face of it and jabbing limply into Gunnar’s thigh.

Gunnar shouted in outrage and cut the boy’s head from his shoulders even as Gjaldir hacked his arm off near the elbow. The boy’s body fell to the floor as Gunnar swore fluently and colourfully. He looked down at his leg and swore again, shoving Rekke into the line to take his place next to Gjaldir as the old huskarl limped over to lean against a building. ‘Keep going!’ he called, followed by another reel of curses aimed at the dead boy.

Rekke laughed at the torrent of profanity and Gjaldir giggled too at the absurdity of it. That was probably the first time that terrified Christian boy had ever held a spear, and he had pricked the greatest champion of the northlands!

The remains of the enemy formation finally fell into panic and fled, and Gjaldir and his men followed them into the town centre where the remaining enemy made a half-hearted attempt to defend the newly built barracks, barricading themselves in. But the barricades quickly succumbed to the axes of the Norsemen.

Leif and his men drove the Christians from the left side of the town and joined them in the centre. He smiled at Gjaldir. ‘They refuse to surrender?’

Gjaldir shrugged. ‘We haven’t given them the option.’

Leif looked at the barracks, where the sounds of fighting and screaming were emanating. ‘Gunnar in there?’ Leif asked.

Gjaldir shook his head and pointed towards the gate. ‘He is back that way. He took a speartip in the leg, can you go and help him walk back here?’

Leif nodded and headed off with a few men.

As the fight ended, Vidar appeared from the streets to the right, and his men were escorting a dozen or so terrified-looking women and girls.

‘Gjaldir, we found the women. The Christians abandoned them as they fled.’

Gjaldir smiled in relief. ‘Good.’

‘Where is Gunnar?’ Vidar asked, looking around.

Gjaldir gestured behind them again. ‘Back there, some farm boy pricked him in the leg. I sent Leif to fetch him but the fight is finished here, let’s go and join them and save Gunnar the walk.’

‘What are we going to do now?’ Vidar asked as they set off.

‘Give these girls back to their people and leave, I should think,’ Bjorn said.

Gjaldir nodded happily, flush with their easy victory. ‘I assume so. Let’s go find the old man and ask his opinion.’

The three of them walked back along the street towards the square and found three of Leif’s men standing there, looking over to the left. Gjaldir followed their gaze and saw Leif squatting in front of Gunnar, who was sitting with his back to a building.

‘Ah, Leif. Good, you found him,’ called out Gjaldir, heading over to join the pair.

Leif’s form was blocking the view of Gunnar, and the blond warrior turned around to face Gjaldir as if in a daze. Gjaldir looked at him in confusion, and then back at Gunnar, who was motionless, his eyes closed and his chin on his chest, his hand clasping his sword across his lap.

‘I’m sorry, Gjaldir,’ Leif said. ‘He was already dead when I got here.’

Gjaldir recoiled like he had been struck. He looked at Leif’s agonised face and then back at Gunnar, who just seemed like he was resting against the wooden wall.

‘What?’ He staggered forwards and saw the pool of dark, rich blood that was still seeping into the ground beside Gunnar. ‘But how? It was nothing, just a poke with a spear!’ Gjaldir looked at Bjorn and Rekke for support, sure they would convince Leif how insignificant the wound had been, that somehow that would change the outcome.

Bjorn carefully knelt down next to the old champion, and gently inspected the inside of his leg, and his head drooped. He stood again and shook his head at Gjaldir.

‘Bjorn, tell him!’ Gjaldir pleaded. ‘That wound can’t kill a man like that, not Gunnar.’

Bjorn shook his head, aghast. ‘I’ve seen this too many times. The inside of the thigh, even the smallest wound there can kill if it is deep enough.’ He shrugged helplessly. ‘He’s gone, Gjaldir.’

Gjaldir stepped back, feeling sick to his stomach, reaching out to grab hold of something and finding Vidar’s shoulder. A hand grabbed his arm to support him.

‘That spear was meant for me!’ sobbed Gjaldir. ‘I knocked it into him! Oh, gods, we laughed at him and left him here alone to die.’

‘Gjaldir, don’t do this,’ said Vidar firmly. ‘We didn’t know, this isn’t your fault.’

‘He told us to carry on, he knew what was happening to him,’ said Bjorn.

‘A fucking boy with a spear he didn’t know how to hold!’ screamed Gjaldir, ignoring them both, the frustration and injustice of it flowing out of him. He looked at Gunnar again, tears hazing his vision. ‘How do we go on without him?’

Gjaldir looked around at them desperately, but none of them answered his plea.

‘You must control yourself, Gjaldir. The men are watching,’ Vidar said.

‘What do we do without him?’ Gjaldir moaned again, but more quietly.

Leif reached out for Gunnar’s shield, noticing something. He picked it up and looked at it for a moment, and then showed it to the rest of them. ‘We do as he ordered,’ he said dully, displaying the boards on the inside of the shield.

Gjaldir wiped his eyes clear and saw that a few runic symbols were scrawled on the inside of the shield, feeling his gorge rise as he realised they had been daubed by Gunnar in his own lifeblood.

‘What does it say, Leif? What does it say?’ Gjaldir whispered.

Leif looked at him, jaw clenched, rocking back on his heels.

‘It says “Persist”.’

Chapter 11

The Lesson of Loss

Gjaldir sat on the low bank at the base of the town’s walls, sword hilt in his hands, point stuck in the earth between his feet, and stared at Gunnar’s body in silence.

Gunnar was laid out on his shield, one hand still grasping the sword that was resting on his chest. Alongside him were likewise laid out the seven other men that had died in the fight in the clearing, and in storming the town.

Gunnar’s lined face looked peaceful now, sallow and discoloured, but not unhappy. Gjaldir tried to comfort himself with that, but it did little to assuage the dread that overcame him as to what the future held.

‘What were you going to tell me, Gunnar? What was your plan for victory?’ he whispered softly, for maybe the third time. But the silent corpse did not answer yet again.

‘Gjaldir?’

He looked up, slightly surprised, and saw Leif standing there.

‘It’s time to leave,’ Leif said with a sad expression.

‘Really? Everything has been done?’ Gjaldir had taken no part in the organisation after the battle ended, just staying with the body of his champion and mentor in a dull trance as his body was carried away and laid outside the walls.

‘Yes. Those who wish to leave with us have gathered their things, the rest will stay. We have taken what food we can from the Christian stores and distributed the rest to the people who are staying, to do with it what they wish.’

‘And what will they do?’

Leif sighed and shook his head. ‘They are going to put it back, and try and plead for mercy when the Christians come to reclaim this town.’

‘They won’t get mercy.’

‘No, likely not.’

‘We have killed them, as we killed Gunnar.’

‘The Christians killed Gunnar, but he chose his life, and his death. He was not a victim but a warrior. Give him that respect.’

Gjaldir did not reply, just staring sombrely at the body. ‘We are taking them with us?’

‘Yes. We will take them all into the woods and bury them.’

‘Good. We can’t leave them for the Christians.’

‘No. Come, Gjaldir. The men are waiting and they need to see you lead now, more than ever.’

‘I wasn’t the leader, Gunnar was. And they all know it.’

Leif walked over and bent down, grabbing Gjaldir roughly by the shoulder. ‘Cease that pathetic shit, now. When we swore an oath to you, you also did to us. You don’t get to mock us by abandoning it just because you are grieving.’

‘You don’t understand.’

‘I fucking understand, Gjaldir. I knew Gunnar for longer than you, fought and bled alongside him for longer than you, loved him more than you. I understand.’

‘But you do not have to lead in his absence.’

‘And you do, that is your place and your fate. So do it!’

Gjaldir stood abruptly and turned on Leif with a sneer. ‘And why? Because you were too much of a coward to take the mantle yourself.’ He jabbed a finger at Leif and the blond warrior fell silent in shock and outrage. ‘You and Gunnar made me the leader because neither of you had the heart to do it yourselves. And now he is dead, and you lecture me about abandoning my duty.’ Gjaldir huffed to a halt, anger and resentment coursing through his veins.

Leif almost choked, stepping forwards to point a finger at Gjaldir, and then changing his mind about whatever he had been about to blurt out. Finally he just grunted angrily and stormed away, leaving Gjaldir to see that Brunhild and Bjorn had been standing behind him, listening. Bjorn gave Gjaldir a look of disapproval, and then went to follow Leif. Brunhild just glared at him and then walked over, unafraid of his seething anger.

‘Don’t come here to admonish me, not now,’ Gjaldir hissed.

‘You are right about Leif, you are our leader because he refused to be.’

That mollified Gjaldir slightly, and he nodded, grateful for the support.

‘But that doesn’t matter. It’s done. The words have been spoken and cannot be unsaid. You can no more reject the consequences of your choices than Gunnar can reject his death as a consequence of his. The only question is, what will you do? Will you give up and fall to dishonour, alone for the rest of your pitiful life, or will you become the man I still believe you can be?’

Gjaldir just stared at her, unable to answer.

‘Only you can decide, Gjaldir. You rely so much on the help of others you forget the answers must often lie within yourself. The time for learning has ended. It died with Gunnar. Are you ready to do what needs to be done?’

Gjaldir looked around, feeling desperately lost. ‘How could I know?’

‘Work it out.’

Vidar and Rekke came over, Vidar looked confused and cautious about the situation he had walked into. ‘Are we leaving?’

Gjaldir nodded. ‘Yes. Get men to carry the bodies.’

‘They are ready.’

Gjaldir looked for Leif and Bjorn, but couldn’t see them. He wondered if he should send someone to check, but at that moment he didn’t care. The pair would follow, or they would not.

One decision at a time.

‘Then we go.’

They walked several miles into the forest, until it was getting dark, and then made camp when they felt they had covered a safe distance. Vidar organised a grave to be dug for the eight men who had died. It was too dangerous to burn them, they could never know where a Christian patrol or large armed force might be this close to the main route along the lake’s northern shore.

Bjorn returned to his side, but Leif did not. Gjaldir saw the blond warrior in and around the camp and the gravesite, but he did not come close enough for them to speak, and he was not going to demand Leif come to him and risk being refused. So he let his ill will simmer, festering under his skin, taunting him with the suggestion that he had been wrong, yet again.

When the graves were dug, the bodies were laid out in their tunics, stripped of their armour, which was too precious to the exiled warband to put in the ground, but still holding their weapons. No matter how dire the situation became, they would never take weapons from those who had died holding them.

Gjaldir stood through the ceremony in a deaf, mute haze. Men came forwards to speak of their dead friends, and share stories and praise. Vidar and Bjorn spoke for Gunnar, but Gjaldir did not remember their words.

At one point he realised they were looking to him to speak or act, but he had nothing and just gently shook his head. Bjorn stepped in to cover for him and gave the order for the bodies to be lowered one by one into the earth and covered.

Gunnar was the last, wrapped in his tattered and once vividly blue cloak that was then, as the great warrior himself, a faded shadow of its former glory.

Men drifted away in groups and singly, but Gjaldir remained, staring at the low mound of damp earth that was all that remained to show Gunnar had ever existed, his mind slurring and tumbling his thoughts.

Finally he looked around and saw that only Bjorn and Vidar were still with him, standing talking in low voices at a respectful distance, waiting for him in the dim light of a small fire.

Gjaldir breathed in heavily, taking one last look at the grave, and then walked over towards them, the exhaustion finally hitting him.

‘Perhaps one day we will return, and raise a stone to them,’ said Bjorn.

Gjaldir just grunted, the tradition meant little to him.

Vidar looked pained. ‘I hope when I die we will meet him again, fight once more at his side in the sight of the gods. It will be glorious.’

Gjaldir looked at him and shook his head. ‘If I hope for anything for Gunnar, it is that he can finally rest. He was sick of war, of battle and killing. If we join him when we die, I simply hope none of us ever has to raise a sword again.’

Vidar looked uncomfortably at the ground and Bjorn put a hand on Gjaldir’s shoulder. ‘Go and sleep, Gjaldir. We have a long march in the morning. Vidar and I will watch over Gunnar.’

Gjaldir tried to work out if the dismissal was an insult, but decided he did not care. He nodded and turned away without a word, heading off to find his blankets. He stumbled through the trees without care and realised he had taken the wrong direction. He could suddenly see no one else, nor any sign of the camp. He cursed himself, wide awake now, and looked around desperately, not even being able to work out which direction he had come from. It all looked the same.

He chose a direction and set off, and stumbled to a halt as he saw a figure standing motionless in the dim moonlight. He did not know what to do at first, and he put his hand on his seax.

‘What led you here, Gjaldir,’ came a rattling voice from the figure, and Gjaldir recognised it with a resigned sigh.

‘I am just looking for my bed, Tormund.’

‘No, the gods brought you to me, yet again. How else can you explain that you came to interrupt my solitude, so far from camp?’

‘I don’t think the gods care where I walk.’

‘You could not be more wrong.’

Tormund levered himself fluidly to his feet and approached, his features almost entirely masked by the darkness. Gjaldir began to wonder if he was dreaming.

‘But it was not what I was asking, the gods bringing you to me at times of crisis no longer surprises me. I was asking you what brought you to be here, leading these people.’

Gjaldir could not answer. ‘Duty?’ he tried, weakly.

Tormund laughed. ‘No, duty is just a word that always means something else more selfish. Duty means caring for someone you love and wish to preserve, keeping your word so that you appear honourable, obeying your lord so that he gives you shelter and food. Duty is a word for slaves. You are not a slave anymore, are you?’

Gjaldir swallowed. ‘I am not.’

‘Then what is it that brought you here, to this place?’

Gjaldir shrugged. ‘If I ever knew, I have forgotten.’

‘You always knew, you just refuse to believe.’

‘You will say it was the gods.’

‘Yes, and you will reply that you don’t believe it,’ Tormund said with a smug inflexion.

‘Why should I?’

‘Why should you not?’

‘If the gods want me here, leading, why did they take Gunnar from me when I needed him?’

‘Ah, a good question. You must not need him anymore.’

‘You understand nothing.’

‘Something I am reminded of every day,’ Tormund said with a nod. ‘But I seek the truth, in dreams and in the waking world I see glimpses of it.’

‘Nothing you have claimed has come true. You claimed this sword was going to save the people, but it has brought nothing but misery and death.’

‘It has not come true, yet,’ replied Tormund without pause. ‘The way is hard and the end impossible to see. But nothing is decided.’

‘How can you be so sure then? How can you claim to know I am important, that this sword is important, if you admit you cannot see the truth?’

‘You spoke to Odin yourself, on the mountain.’

‘I spoke to an old man who you claim was Odin,’ Gjaldir said, but he felt a flutter at the reminder of the unearthly experience in the storm.

‘We both know who he was. And you are right, I see little of the truth, but some things I saw very clearly, some things the gods showed me with certainty.’ He paused and put a hand on Gjaldir’s arm, with surprising force. ‘Do you remember the dream?’

‘Which one?’

‘You know the one.’

Gjaldir sighed. ‘The old man skipping stones.’

‘Yes, Odin skipping stones across a misty lake as fish jump and the wind whips the mist into swirls of sun and darkness while he watches them go, seeing where they will land.’

‘And you think that was Odin laying his plans, looking into the future, but unable to predict exactly where the stone would land due to the mist.’

‘Yes, I knew you would remember.’

‘So what is your point?’

‘You are in the mist, Gjaldir. You cannot see the end, you cannot see the point, but Odin can. He led you to me, here, in this dark forest, despite the fact that you could not see.’

‘Nonsense, you must have followed me.’

Tormund chucked slowly. ‘Then how was I in front of you?’

Gjaldir had no answer to that except an unseen scowl. ‘If you know so much, do you know where my bed is?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then take me to it.’

‘When we have finished our conversation.’

‘Then finish it.’

‘A conversation is a journey you cannot reach the end of without completing.’

‘You are infuriating.’

‘So I am told.’

Gjaldir took a deep breath, but arguing with the seer was always pointless. ‘Then complete the journey.’

‘Happily. You asked me why Odin took Gunnar from you, when you have relied on him so much.’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, you remember, in the dream, how we believed Odin guided the stones once he had cast them, nudged them and adjusted their course to reach where he needed them to go?’

Gjaldir pressed his fingers to his nose to think about it. ‘Yes, fish.’

‘Not just fish,’ Tormund chided. ‘Gusts of wind and fish jumping at flashes of light causing ripples in the water, the stones landing on those ripples and ever so softly changing their course.’

‘Yes. So what!’ Gjaldir half-shouted in frustration.

Tormund nodded. ‘Gunnar was a ripple. He was thrown into the path of the plan Odin has set for you, to guide you to the next step in your journey. That ripple has passed, served its purpose, but you must go on.’

Gjaldir was taken aback. ‘You are saying Gunnar, the champion of King Sigurd, was just a ripple in the water of some lake?’

‘The waters of fate, but yes.’

‘And what are we? You said I was not a slave, but you talk as if I am a slave to Odin’s plans, destined to be pushed around by his ripples.’

‘I did not say you were not a slave, I asked you if you were, and you were wrong to deny it. We are all slaves to the gods’ desires.’

Gjaldir shook his head. ‘Nonsense. Why would you accept that?’

‘Accepting the truth is hard, as you have struggled to accept the truth of Gunnar’s death and your place in the world. But does denying the truth change it?’

‘Perhaps a man can change the world.’

Tormund nodded. ‘He can, Gjaldir, he can. With the gods’ help. Is it not wondrous? This is what you have been chosen for!’

‘You still truly believe that?’

‘I know it.’

‘And if I am the stone, if Odin has cast me and is guiding me. What are you?’

Tormund was silent for a moment. ‘I think I am the fish. Odin lures me in, whenever needed, to create the ripples that guide you. That is what he has done tonight, in this forest. I did not know why I was brought to this spot, I just knew I had to be here. You do not know how you came to be here, or what difference this conversation will make. But Odin knows, his hand is behind it.’

‘Why should I accept this?’

Tormund smiled, teeth flashing even in the darkness. ‘Gjaldir, you already spoke the answer. It is your duty. The future of your friends and the ones you love depends on it, and you cannot turn from them.’

Gjaldir sighed deeply and looked away into the darkness, more confused and bitter than before. ‘Can you take me to my bed now?’

‘Of course. Even fish have to sleep.’

The next day the warband gathered itself and set off, with Vidar and Bjorn organising it. Rekke and his men stayed slightly separate, but after a consultation with Vidar, they also followed. Leif stayed with a few of the men he knew well, and took no part in any of it.

Gjaldir just followed with them, still silent.

The warband and the people of Västerås that had gone with them walked for a day into the forest, and then several lightly wounded men were given to the people as a guide, to take them north to the village. They were given all the supplies they could carry, but it would be a hard journey nonetheless. Frida came to Gjaldir with her daughter to tearfully thank him. Her husband had chosen to remain behind, too weak and too stubborn to leave.

Then they were gone, and the warband was alone once more.

As the rest of them made camp on the banks of a lake on the second day, Rekke came over to the centre of the camp with a couple of his men, to where Gjaldir was sitting with Bjorn and Vidar and Brunhild. He stared down at them and Gjaldir immediately felt the tension. Vidar and Bjorn rose, and squared off to Rekke.

‘What are we doing now, wandering aimlessly in the woods? Who leads us now that Gunnar is dead. You, Vidar?’

Gjaldir was barely stirred by the obvious repudiation of his role. In truth, he welcomed it. He had no more interest in being in command. Let Rekke and Vidar argue over it.

‘Gjaldir is the leader, as you well know. Nothing has changed.’

Rekke shook his head sadly. ‘Gjaldir has never been the true leader, and all know it.’ He said it loudly so everyone in the small camp heard him. Many of the warriors stood and started to watch the confrontation nervously.

‘Gunnar was in command, and Gjaldir was just his mouth when he required it.’ Rekke looked around and waited for someone to refute him.

‘You are wrong, Northerner,’ said Bjorn, bristling with outrage.

Brunhild stood next to Bjorn.

‘You lie, we all gave our oaths to Gjaldir, he is our leader. Your words mean nothing compared to our oaths.’

‘Ah, you are brave enough to stand up for him? Good for you, what a woman he has.’

‘I am not his woman,’ snapped Brunhild

‘So you say. And he is not our leader.’

‘Be careful, Rekke,’ Bjorn growled.

Rekke nodded and turned to face the growing audience with a confident smile. ‘And what do you say? I say we need a new leader, a strong and well-known warrior. I say it should be me. I respect those that gave their oaths to Gjaldir, they are honourable. But I never made such an oath, my loyalty is to the North, not to this broken Christian who has not risen to speak for himself. What do you say?’

Gjaldir felt enough of a pang of shame to look up, and saw a lot of sympathy for Rekke’s words among the crowd of warriors.

‘Gjaldir, get up!’ Brunhild hissed at him under her breath.

Gjaldir rose reluctantly to his feet, just in time for Rekke to look at him with a sad expression. ‘Look, he has not even the strength to argue against it. This is your leader? I say not. He is a good, honourable man, a fine warrior, but a leader of men?’ Rekke shook his head sadly. ‘We all know that he is not, and most of all, he knows it.’

Gjaldir felt a terrible mix of outrage and delight at the words, as if a great secret was being revealed that he had not wanted to keep any longer.

Vidar and a few of the others looked at him nervously, Bjorn looked furious. Gjaldir took in each one of them in turn. He saw Tormund there, smiling, his expression totally out of place. The strange seer nodded encouragingly, and something stirred in Gjaldir. Annoyance, no… rejection. Rejection of all of it.

‘What would you do, Rekke, if these men broke their oaths to follow you?’

‘I would continue the fight,’ Rekke said with a triumphant look. ‘We would fight the Christians, hunt them in the woods and burn them in their strongholds.’

There was a murmur of agreement around the group.

‘To what end?’ Gjaldir asked, and Rekke looked confused.

‘To what end? To kill them all, to rid our land of them.’

‘You can’t kill them all, there are too many.’

Rekke furrowed his brows, as if what Gjaldir had said was absurd. ‘Then we would kill as many as we can.’

‘That is it? That is your plan? To mindlessly fight until we are all dead?’

‘What do you suggest, surrender? I know you are not a coward.’

‘No, I suggest we actually try and win. Our aim is to free our people, and we cannot do that if we are dead.’ Gjaldir shook his head vigorously and stepped forwards into the circle of warriors.

‘Your plan is the absence of one. You would just lead all my people to their deaths. No, I will not allow it.’ He had little care for himself or his position, but the idea of letting Rekke lead his friends and his people to their deaths enraged him.

Rekke smiled sympathetically. ‘Gjaldir, I do not think you have the choice. I like you, but your leadership was a pretence, and now it is over. Come, follow me. I know how to lead men in battle.’

‘This isn’t a battle, Rekke, this is a war, and cannot be won with swords and spears alone.’

Rekke laughed and turned, looking around the group, spreading his arms imploringly to them all. ‘What do you say, warriors of the North? Who will you follow now that Gunnar is dead?’

‘Do not ask honourable men to break their oaths to me,’ Gjaldir snapped.

Rekke dropped his arms with a heavy sadness and nodded. ‘You are right, Gjaldir. They can only be released from their oaths in two ways. With your word, or your death. So give your word.’

Utter silence descended on the circle as the threat landed.

Gjaldir tensed in disbelief.

‘I saved your life, Rekke, and you threaten me?’

‘You did, Gjaldir, and I thank you for it. I have said you are a brave warrior, that is not in question. I have no desire to harm you, but as a loyal Svearman I do what I must. Do the right thing, release these people from their oaths so they can follow me.’

‘And let you lead them to pointless deaths? Never.’

‘At least I would lead them! You do nothing, you could not even speak for Gunnar at his grave.’ Rekke spat on the ground, and Gjaldir recoiled as if he had been struck. He felt the weakness welling up in him again, and he so desperately wanted to give in, to just release them all from his service, go back to being the simple blacksmith he knew he was.

But the shame of those thoughts burned his chest, the anger welled up in him and the words of Tormund muttered in his ear. I am not just a ripple to be passed over.

He took a deep breath and looked at Rekke, holding his stare. ‘I will not.’

Rekke nodded. ‘I respect that, Gjaldir.’ He drew himself up to his full height. ‘According to the laws of our people, I challenge you. Let us make the Holmgang and have steel decide our fates.’

There was an uproar all around the gathering and Rekke and Gjaldir faced each other in the centre of it. Bjorn rushed over to Gjaldir.

‘Don’t do this. He is far too experienced a warrior, you cannot defeat him.’

‘I must.’

Bjorn cursed and looked around at the others for support. Even Leif came over, and Gjaldir felt a sudden welling of shame. ‘Leif, I’m sorry for what I said.’

Leif shook his head. ‘No, you were right. I am a coward for putting you in this position. Let me fight in your place.’

Gjaldir shook his head.

‘I almost lost these people by letting Gunnar lead for me, I will definitely lose them by letting you fight for me. No, it must be me.’

‘How can you beat him?’

Gjaldir smiled, a sudden peace descending over him now that his mind was made up. ‘I will rely on Gunnar’s teaching, and the blessing of the gods.’ He turned to Tormund, who was standing there, eyes alight with excitement. ‘Do you truly believe?’ he asked the seer.

‘With every bone within my body.’ The seer shook the pouch that hung around his neck. ‘And the ones without.’

Gjaldir nodded. ‘Then it is time we tested your faith. If the people believe I am blessed by Odin, surely I cannot die here today.’

‘Gjaldir! This is madness, steel can kill you as certainly as any man. Rekke is one of the best warriors in the North. Gunnar trained you, yes, but not enough for this!’

Gjaldir shrugged them all off. Rekke was standing in the centre of the camp, sword and shield in hand. The rest of his men were pushing the crowd back and laying spears on the ground in a square, forming the Holmgang, the small arena for the duel.

‘My mind is made up. This is the time to find out if what you all believe about me is true.’ He leaned in to Leif and Vidar. ‘I remember watching Gunnar fight in the tournament at Jönköping, during the siege. Do you?’

Vidar smiled nervously and nodded. ‘Of course.’

‘You beat him by trickery, when he was the greater warrior.’

‘I did, but it was not so simple.’

‘It is all simple, Vidar, in the end.’

Leif cursed and put his hand on Gjaldir’s shoulder, seeing that he could not be dissuaded.

‘Gjaldir, the longer the fight lasts, the worse it will be for you. He is fast and skilled, but he isn’t used to fighting someone with your size and strength, with your reach. Use it against him and try and get a good blow in quickly.’

Gjaldir nodded, Bjorn was handing him a shield. He drew Ljós a Norðan, checking the bright sword and feeling a rush of reassurance from its feel and weight.

Brunhild came over with his helmet, reaching up and putting it on his head. Gjaldir smiled down at her lovingly. ‘And what do you want me to do, run from this?’

Brunhild shook her head firmly. ‘Show them who you are, Gjaldir.’ They smiled at each other, and Brunhild put both hands on his cheeks and drew him down for a powerful, intense kiss. ‘And kill that fucking arsehole.’

Gjaldir laughed, all the tension and stress and fears flowing over him like water. He felt it, he felt it deeply as if it would make his legs buckle and his stomach explode, but his feet were firm on the ground, and his grip solid on his sword. He felt the weight of the moment, the inevitability of it. He did not truly believe in himself, he knew his people did not either. Being able to finally find out the truth of his fate, even in the face of death, was a blessing that gave him strength.

He was tired of living in fear of himself, a fear even worse than that of Rekke’s steel.

His friends backed away and he strode out into the square, facing Rekke, who gave him an approving nod. ‘You are a true warrior, Gjaldir. I want you to know that I hold you no ill will. I will honour you in death, and I will lead these people well.’

‘You will die and be forgotten, Rekke,’ said Gjaldir with a smile. ‘Like the dog you are.’

Rekke was taken aback, his face flushed. ‘You would speak such lies, at a time like this? I respect you, Gjaldir, the least you could do would be to return it.’

‘You are not worthy of respect, Rekke. You are a dog, a reckless hound who would be dead without luck and my help. Sure, like a dog, men loved you and found you amusing. But when you are dead they will not grieve for even one day. I doubt your men will even bury you.’

Gjaldir said this all with a casual smile, even twirled his shield carelessly as he did.

Rekke’s brows furrowed even further and his face went red, then he bellowed like an angry bull and charged at Gjaldir.

Gjaldir brought the shield he had been twirling in his fingers up with a powerful flick of his arm, throwing it directly at Rekke’s face. The big warrior instinctively brought up his own shield to ward the unexpected missile away, staggering slightly in his step even as he swung his sword at where Gjaldir had been standing, unsighted as Gjaldir’s shield clattered off his shield’s rim, twisting his head back.

Gjaldir lunged forwards with a long stride of his left leg, deep and low, too deep and low to ever recover from if he missed, ducking his head down and using his entire body to launch a single, powerful thrust in under Rekke’s raised shield. An all-or-nothing move, a single thrust to decide his fate.

Rekke’s momentum betrayed him, his anger led him astray, straight into the path of the bright blade he could not see as two shields clattered together in front of his face.

Ljós a Norðan slid through the air and punched through Rekke’s tunic, burying itself to the hilt in his lower stomach as their bodies slammed together, Gjaldir’s shoulder under his opponent’s armpit.

Rekke’s sword passed through the air above Gjaldir, carving through where the big man should have been but was not, and clattered harmlessly to the ground at the end of its missed swing, his nerveless fingers dropping it as he exhaled an agonised gust and collapsed to his knees, his spine severed.

Their faces ended up right next to each other as Gjaldir pulled his head back and put his right knee in the dirt, and Rekke’s wide, shocked eyes met his.

‘But how…’ Rekke gasped, looking down, his hand fumbled feebly at the sword hilt.

‘I learned more from Gunnar than you can know,’ Gjaldir replied, cradling the terribly injured warrior’s head with his free hand, faces as close as lovers.

‘I had so much left to do,’ Rekke groaned. The man looked terrified.

Gjaldir smiled sadly. ‘So do I, I wish you had chosen to help me.’

Rekke looked up again, his breathing shallow and laboured. ‘Bastard,’ he muttered, and then coughed, moaning with pain at the arm’s length of steel in his stomach.

‘I didn’t mean those things, Rekke. You are no dog, I just needed you to run at me. We will honour you.’

Rekke stared at him and Gjaldir saw a small spark of relief in his pained eyes. ‘Finish it,’ Rekke whispered with difficulty. ‘I can’t stand the pain.’

Gjaldir nodded, and supported the wounded man with one hand while he reached over to pick up Rekke’s dropped sword, pressing the hilt carefully into Rekke’s fingers. Rekke gave him a pained nod of gratitude, spittle drooling from his open mouth.

Gjaldir lifted Rekke’s limp left arm and put it over his own shoulder, then drew his seax.

Rekke gave him a single nod, and he plunged the long, heavy blade in under Rekke’s armpit, up to the hilt, burying it in the fierce warrior’s heart. Rekke shook with the impact and took in a single, strangled breath. Then his eyes faded and his head slumped, and Gjaldir lowered him carefully to the ground, pulling both of his weapons from the body.

He stood and looked around the shocked audience. Some of Rekke’s men looked furious, others were unable to watch.

He dared them to do something with his eyes, but none of them made any hostile move.

‘That is the last time the life of a Norseman in my warband is taken by another. There will be no more duels, no more challenges. I am the leader of this group. You can follow me, or you can leave now in peace. Make your choice.’

He looked around, staring them all down. ‘Gunnar might be gone, but his intent and his lessons to us survive. He died for his belief in us, his last word to us was to persist. Persist in our fight against the Crusaders who have claimed these lands, persist in the struggle to free those of our people who are so badly abused by them. That is what we will do. Tomorrow we march south. We will cross the lake and move into new lands, strike our enemy where they do not expect it, harry them when they try to travel and kill them in their beds. We will show the people that there is a way to fight, if they believe in victory. We will make this land so unbearable to live in that the Christians are forced to leave. That was Gunnar’s wish, that was his final plan. I will not ask or beg for your support, you are all free people and you will follow me or not. Those who do not believe are useless to me. Go, live what lives you can.’

Gjaldir glared around the group for a while longer and then nodded. ‘The rest of you, get some sleep. We have a long way to go in the morning.’

He turned away from the Holmgang and stalked back towards his friends. Leif was staring at him open mouthed, Bjorn was shaking his head in amazement.

Brunhild ran over to him and leapt at him with a savage smile, kissing him furiously and then beating his chest with the flat of her palm. ‘I knew who you were,’ she said.

Gjaldir smiled at her. ‘I didn’t, thank you for showing me. I would be long dead without you.’

Brunhild smiled and wagged a finger at him. ‘I know. And don’t forget it.’

Gjaldir nodded, and then gestured to the two blood-slicked weapons he was clutching in each hand. ‘I need to clean these.’

Brunhild nodded. ‘Of course, I will get you some food.’

‘You are a warrior, not a kitchen slave.’

Brunhild nodded and waved him away. ‘I know. Don’t worry, sometimes I will make you do it.’

‘I am terrible at it.’

‘You have been terrible at a great many things. Like with everything else, I will teach you.’ Then she laughed, and shoved Gjaldir playfully away.

He gave Leif and Bjorn a nod and a smile and walked away towards the lake shore to clear his head. Vidar fell into step with him, offering him a rag to clean his blades.

‘That was magnificent,’ Vidar said with a chuckle.

‘It was a waste of a fine warrior.’

‘No, not really.’

‘Vidar, he was a fine warrior, there is no point denying it.’

‘Oh, he was. But it was not a waste. We lost him and finally gained our leader.’

Gjaldir grunted, the flippancy made him uncomfortable. He had liked Rekke, and felt slightly ashamed by the way he had fought him.

‘I remember Gunnar doing that, throwing the shield,’ Vidar said.

‘Yes.’

‘It was fucking stupid. It was stupid then, and stupid today.’

Gjaldir laughed as he cleaned his sword in the water and then rubbed it dry. ‘Well, it worked.’

‘Exactly, and that is all that matters. If you had tried to fight him the right way you would have lost. But don’t do it again. It will never work a third time.’

‘I will remember that too,’ said Gjaldir with a grin.

‘Gjaldir.’

He turned as the voice called out from behind, finding one of Rekke’s men standing there, looking conflicted. Gjaldir was still holding the sword, rubbing the last of the moisture from it.

‘What?’ He did not feel like the warrior was a threat, but he was not sure. ‘You will be leaving with Rekke’s body in the morning?’

The warrior shook his head. ‘No. We will bury him, and follow you.’

Gjaldir looked surprised. ‘You will follow me, even after I killed Rekke?’

The man nodded. ‘It is hard, we loved him. But he challenged you and he attacked you. It was honourable and we respect the result. We want to come with you, to continue the fight against the Christians, if you will allow us.’

Gjaldir nodded thoughtfully. ‘My mistake was to allow Rekke to follow me without swearing to me.’ He looked at Ljós a Norðan, turning it over and then tilting the hilt towards the man. ‘I won’t make the same mistake again. If you want to follow me, you must swear to me.’

The warrior thought about it for a second, and then nodded, stepping forwards and placing his hand on the dull bronze, fingers pressed into the image of Odin standing in the doors of Valhalla, his empty, ever-watching eyes witnessing them.

The man sank to one knee on the sand and pebbles of the lake shore, ignoring the discomfort and the dampness. Gjaldir looked out at the evening mist drawing in over the lake and as he did, he saw a fish break the surface a little way out, the ripples spreading out over the calm surface. He felt a wave of certainty where before there had only ever been doubt.

Gjaldir looked down into the man’s eyes, and saw the warrior’s certainty too.

‘I would welcome you into my service, warrior of the North. Speak your name and your words, and let it be so.’

Chapter 12

An Unexpected Ally

In the woods south-east of Tuna

October AD 1121

‘Gjaldir!’ a voice called out quietly.

Gjaldir looked up from his food, a simple flatbread made with stolen grain, and a little dried meat to go with it.

He saw it was Leif.

‘What?’

‘The scouts have brought someone in.’

Gjaldir gestured in annoyance. ‘Why? Why did they risk bringing a prisoner to our camp? Just kill them.’

He did not even think about giving that order. It was normal to him now.

‘It is not a prisoner, it’s a local woman.’

‘What?’ Gjaldir squinted at the man and then nodded tiredly. ‘Bring her here.’ Then he set aside the remains of his meal, wondering who it could be.

A great deal had changed in the two months since Gunnar’s death. For weeks they had rested and tended their wounds, surviving off the food they had gathered from Västerås while the Crusader retaliation and patrols intensified. Eventually, they had run low on food and Gjaldir had decided to move away from the area, to go south to new lands where they would not be expected. They had made their way around the lake, for the most part avoiding the Christian strongholds, trading for food from unoccupied settlements, or stealing it from Christian outposts.

Finally they had found a good winter campsite deep in the woods between Tuna and the road that ran east along the south side of the lake, where they could raid a wide area but remain hidden. They had been sporadically attacking the Christians since, and recruiting in the relatively untouched towns and villages in the extensive lands between the lake and Götaland to the south. The area was far less ravaged. The war had been over before the Christians had reached these lands.

The men of south Svealand had been guarding the passes of the Kolmården, the rugged, deeply forested area that formed the south border of Svealand. The Christians had failed in their attempts to march through that barrier, and the losses to the men guarding it had not been severe.

They had mostly missed the final battle at Uppsala, and many of them had simply gone home after the king died and the war ended. So finally, the warband was able to covertly recruit men who had real experience, the old breed of Norse warriors. Men had flocked to them, and to the man who wielded the sword said to be their chance at salvation.

The scouts in question appeared through the trees, leading a small, plainly dressed woman, and Gjaldir’s annoyance turned to confusion. He just folded his arms and looked at the scouts, waiting for them to explain themselves.

‘Gjaldir, we found this woman in the woods. She said she was looking for us.’

‘Why would you show her our camp?’

‘I told you not to,’ said the second scout to the first.

‘Quiet,’ snapped Gjaldir, pointing at the first man. ‘Svenn, is it?’

‘Yes, lord.’

‘Don’t call me lord,’ Gjaldir said tiredly. Most of the new recruits did not understand the concept of following a man that was not a lord, and called him that out of habit.

‘Sorry… lor—’ The scout fumbled nervously to a stop. ‘Gjaldir.’

‘Well, why did you lead her to our camp?’

‘Well, she is Norse, not Christian.’

‘I can see that, but the Christians have spies and lackeys, entire armies of traitor Danes. So what does it matter? If they were looking for us, why risk helping them find us?’

‘I am not a spy!’ spat the woman, glaring at them all. ‘I curse the Christians, I piss on their nailed god. Fuck you and fuck your accusations.’

She elbowed the man holding her in the stomach and he nearly let go of her as she struggled.

A small group of men had gathered to watch and many of them laughed at the outburst. Vidar stepped forwards to help Svenn control the wriggling woman, grabbing her shoulder and laughing.

The captive spun and lashed out with a knee, catching Vidar directly between the legs. Vidar’s giggle turned into a squeak of pain and he almost collapsed to his knees, barely managing to maintain his grip on the woman and more leaning on her for support than restraining her.

‘That wasn’t very nice,’ he managed to sputter, only increasing the laughter around the group.

Even Gjaldir cracked a smile, which he didn’t do often. ‘Well, she certainly fights like a true Northerner.’

‘I’m more a Norse than you, Gjaldir,’ she spat.

‘Ooohh!’ Leif exclaimed, pursing his lips and looking at Gjaldir. ‘Shall I take her away?’

Gjaldir smiled. ‘No, I like her. Let her speak. If she is a spy we will hear the truth of it. Vidar, come on, let her go.’

Vidar grinned and let go of the woman, carefully backing away, one hand guarding his groin.

Gjaldir walked over towards the woman and stopped in front of her. ‘So, she-wolf. Who are you and why were you looking for me?’

‘I am Astrid, of Birka.’ She drew herself up proudly, and Gjaldir finally assessed her from close up. She was small, wiry and dark-haired. He could see now she was younger than he had first assumed, but gaunt. She looked like she had had a hard winter. She also looked utterly furious.

‘I am glad to meet you, Astrid.’

‘You do not seem so.’

Gjaldir smiled. ‘You would not be the first spy sent to find us, nor the first Norse who was pressured to turn against us by captive family and threats.’

Astrid just stared at him, and Gjaldir saw no fear in her. ‘Well, my family cannot be held captive, apart from my father every one of them is dead, murdered by the Christian scum.’

Those words ended the amusement in the circle of watching men. All of them had lost people that were close to them, and it was no laughing matter.

‘And your father?’

‘He is in Tuna.’

‘In Tuna? With the Christians?’

‘No, not with them, watching them. I came here seeking your help, and to help you.’

‘With what?’

‘With fighting the Christians. That is what you do, is it not?’

‘Yes, but you are no warrior, you are too small to train for the shieldwall. So what help can you be?’

‘No, I am not a warrior, I brought information.’

‘Information? And how did you find us, that is what concerns me,’ Gjaldir said.

Astrid laughed. ‘I know these lands better than anyone, better than any of you. There are only a few places a group as large as yours could hide in this area.’ She jutted her chin out proudly. ‘And I know all of them.’

Gjaldir looked at Leif in annoyance. ‘Then others can know that too. We might have to move again.’

‘You should, and I can show you where to go. Further south, in the lake-country, there are places no one goes unless they know them. There is food there, good fishing, and no Christian would ever find you,’ Astrid said confidently, then looked around. ‘This valley is stupid. A blind goat could find you here. The only reason you have not been discovered is the Christians are even more ignorant than you.’

Gjaldir laughed and nodded. ‘Fine, but still, Astrid, you have not explained why you are here. What information do you have?’

‘A place and time you can attack the Christians while they are weak.’

That got Gjaldir’s interest. ‘And how would you know that?’

‘My father is a trader, he travels all over the lake and the rivers, he sees many things, he hears many things.’

‘Who is he?’

‘I will not tell you.’

‘Why?’

‘Because if one of you is taken by the Christians, they will burn that knowledge from you and kill him.’

‘Hmm, I see. But surely they will know to look for a trader with a daughter named Astrid.’

‘That would be true, if Astrid was the name I used among the Christians.’

‘So you use a false name with the Christians?’

She smiled and cocked her head. ‘Or maybe Astrid is a false name. It does not matter.’

Gjaldir considered the strange young woman for a moment and then nodded. ‘So, what is this information?’

‘There is a new church and outpost being built in Ekeby, south-east of here, by the Christians who call themselves the Order. The ones who wear white coats with golden crosses on. You know of them?’

Gjaldir nodded, remembering the disastrous battle in the river where Jarl Gustav’s army had been destroyed. Many of their enemy had been wearing that white and gold surcoat of the Order. Some of those men had then chased them across the forests, hounding them until Gunnar had finally defeated them in the woods at the fight where he had recovered Ljós a Norðan. The knight he had defeated who had been using the sword had been wearing the white coat with the golden cross. A knight of the Order.

‘We have fought them before, and we have heard of their atrocities in towns and cities like Västerås and Kalmar.’

‘Well, there is some kind of conflict between the Christians. My father talked to a Christian in Tuna, whose lord is a rival of this Order, who wants that outpost and the men in the white gone. He told us when the men at this outpost will be vulnerable, and he hopes that we could find someone to use this information.’

Gjaldir’s eyes widened. ‘You are doing this to help the Christians?’

Men around them grumbled at this and an atmosphere of hostility fell over the group, but the girl was not cowed.

‘No, we don’t care about the conflict between the Christians, we just want these men of the Order to die. I have heard of you, Gjaldir. That is what you do, is it not? Kill Christians? Will you not kill these men who have so abused our kin?’

‘Why do you care about them?’

Astrid stiffened. ‘It was those men with their white coats and their golden crosses who burned my home, who killed my family and my people.’ She screwed her face up into a mask of hatred. ‘I want them all to die.’

‘Even if some other Christian benefits?’

‘Yes.’

Gjaldir looked around at his companions. Vidar looked deeply uncertain. ‘You know our enemy, Gjaldir. Is it believable that they are turning on each other, that they would use us to fight each other?’

Gjaldir puffed his cheeks out and tilted his head. ‘Yes, I think so. Even during the first Crusade when I was with them, the great lords were always rivals, scheming against one another. Could the Order have made enemies of another lord somehow? Yes.’

‘Who are they?’

‘I don’t know really, I never heard them mentioned while I was with the Crusaders, only since I was with you. But from what we have heard they must be some kind of army of the Church. Maybe they are loyal to the Pope instead of a great lord.’

‘Who is the… Pope?’ asked Leif, tripping over the unfamiliar word.

‘Uh, that is difficult to explain. He is like the chief priest of the Christians.’

‘And why would he have his own army? Why would they be enemies of the great Christian lords?’

Gjaldir shrugged helplessly. ‘I do not know. I was just a blacksmith with the Crusade, I spoke once with a great lord, the man who owned my service, and heard of his rivalry with others. But that is it. I know nothing else except that this Order we have fought seems to be part of the Church.’

Leif still looked confused, but Gjaldir did not know how to explain what he knew of the structure of the Church, or if it mattered. There was nothing similar in the North to compare it to.

‘For now, it doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is determining if this information is useful to us.’

‘Or if it is a trap,’ said Bjorn grimly.

‘Yes,’ said Vidar. ‘If I were a Christian hunting us, this is how I would lure us out. Offer us a tempting target, and trap us when we attack it.’

‘That is my concern too,’ said Gjaldir. He turned to look at Astrid, assessing her carefully. ‘Tell me everything you know, and then we will decide what to do.’

‘I like her,’ said Vidar with a grin as Gjaldir gathered with his companions later to discuss what to do with the information Astrid had provided.

Ekeby was a small town, not much more than a large fishing village at the tip of an arm of the Lǫgrinn that stretched out south-west from the main lake. The Christians had spared the inhabitants there, and were building a fortified outpost next to the town, and a church in the centre.

The outpost was not finished, the walls did not yet encircle the whole town, but the wooden church was complete. Astrid said the Order was going to hold a ceremony there to bless the church and conduct its first service, and that a number of Order soldiers, priests and important men would be there for the service, outside the outpost walls. For that one moment, they would be very vulnerable.

‘You like her?’ replied Leif with a laugh. ‘The only thing she did was try and end your family line.’

‘It was barely a tickle.’

‘Of course he likes her, that was the first woman who has touched him there for years,’ Bjorn said drily. ‘In his situation, even a quick blow from a knee is courtship.’

‘Hey now, when was the last time you felt the touch of a woman in these forests?’

‘The last time you brushed past me leaving the tent,’ replied Bjorn with a wink.

Vidar tried to give Bjorn a slap but the normally stoic warrior laughed and managed to lean out of the way.

‘Enough,’ said Gjaldir quietly, shaking his head. The two men gave each other a last friendly glare and settled down. ‘We need to talk about what Astrid knows, not what Vidar thinks of her.’

‘I would admit that seems more important,’ agreed Vidar with a grin. ‘For now.’

‘Do we trust her information?’

‘I don’t sense a lie in her,’ said Bjorn.

‘No, she is not lying,’ added Brunhild.

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘We women, we know, especially with each other. We can lie to you from sunrise to sunset and you will never notice it if we distract you with a smile or a knee to the stones, but to each other? Much more difficult.’

Gjaldir nodded. ‘There is probably some truth to that.’

‘It is not the real question though, is it?’ Bjorn said. ‘The issue is why she was given that information. She might believe it utterly, and yet it could still be a trap.’

‘That is what concerns me most,’ agreed Gjaldir. ‘But if we ignore this opportunity, what is our purpose here? Destroying this outpost, killing the Christians there and stealing its supplies might see us through the winter, not to mention how it will weaken our enemy.’

‘So, you want to attack it anyway?’ asked Vidar dubiously.

‘I do, but we will have to take extreme care, have scouts in every direction for half a dozen miles to ensure nothing surprises us.’

Bjorn nodded. ‘If we watch them carefully, we should be able to do this safely. But if we see something is wrong?’ He shook his head. ‘You must be ready to retreat.’

‘I understand. We will need to find a way to approach the town unseen by any patrols.’

‘Astrid will know,’ said Brunhild.

‘We can’t let her guide us, just in case.’

‘She isn’t lying, Gjaldir,’ Brunhild replied in an irritated tone.

‘Nevertheless, we must be sure. There are others we recruited in the area. We will ask them.’

Four days later the warband broke camp, leaving it for good and moving east, guided by a few local men who said they knew a good, quiet route. The town was on the southernmost point of the lake, at the end of a long bay that stretched out like a tree-branch from the main body, almost touching the sparsely populated area of small lakes and marshes south of Lǫgrinn. There the various trade-routes and roads connecting all the towns south of the great lake bunched together into one before spreading out, making a natural point for a trading town, and now a Christian outpost.

West of the town the road made a loop around a small forested hill, before diving into the woods headed north-west towards Tuna.

The eastern side of that hill, facing the town, was the place where Gjaldir and his companions waited, watching over the road and the settlement.

On the east side of the town there was a freshly built fort with stout log walls and half a dozen buildings inside, some unfinished. In the town itself the spire of a wood-built church could be seen. The wall that would surround the core town was only half-built, and even as they watched several teams of men were working on it.

‘Our people,’ said Leif angrily. ‘Being used as slaves to build the Christians’ defences.’

Gjaldir almost smiled. Leif did not see the irony in making that complaint to a man who had once been a slave of the Norse.

‘So what ceremony are we waiting for?’ asked Vidar.

‘Well, I assume they are having the first service in the church. In the German language it is called a consecration, but I do not know what it would be in Norse. It doesn’t matter. What is important is they will all leave the fort to go to the church for the service, and then we can attack them.’

‘And you believe it will be tonight?’

Gjaldir shrugged. ‘There is no way to tell, but that is what Astrid said.’

‘I hate being here, with someone else dictating the time and the place. It is too dangerous,’ said Bjorn.

‘We have scouts in every direction.’

‘That will give us a little warning, but not much.’

Gjaldir nodded, considering the town, deep in thought. ‘If we don’t take such an opportunity out of fear, what is our purpose? If we let them complete the wall, how much harder will it be to raid this fort at another time?’

No one had an answer to that. Gjaldir stared at the town, considering the choice, feeling the tug of sadness and despair that Gunnar was not there to advise him. The old huskarl would have known what to do. But the same feeling came over him that always did when he thought of the Order in their white surcoats. Of the blood-streaked ruins of Vatnsborð, of the massacre of the women and old folk, and of standing in hollow silence as Aeske’s tiny form was put on the pyre next to Halla. He wasn’t going to let a chance to repay the Order slip away.

He finally grunted and shook his head. ‘We are not retreating for fear of a threat that may not be there. If we leave, we will never know if Astrid’s father is loyal and how useful they might be in our fight. Leif, how would you attack them when they are at the church?’

Leif looked at the town, considering it. ‘There is no way to approach in daylight without being seen. The alarm will be raised by anyone keeping watch in the fort before we reach the buildings. So we need to wait until they are in the church, get as close as we can, and then attack as quickly as possible once we are seen. If we can trap them in the church we have already won, but if they get out, we must stop them reaching the fort.’

‘So, we need to approach from the east?’

‘Yes. We can use the stream that runs into the lake from there, it will hide us for a little time. Then we cut off the church from the fort in case they have time to retreat.’

Gjaldir nodded. ‘Then that is what we will do. And what if they don’t get out of the church before we reach it?’

Vidar smiled fiercely. ‘Then we can offer them the chance to fight us outside like men, or die like cowards inside when we burn it.’

Gjaldir felt a chill run through his body at the delight Vidar displayed, but he did not let his queasiness show. ‘So, we will watch and wait for the ceremony to begin. Have the men ready to move at a moment’s notice.’

Chapter 13

The Fires of Victory

‘Keep low, move quickly!’ Leif called quietly to the men behind them as Gjaldir and his warriors moved through the shallow gully of the stream that led towards the town. They could not see the town from where they were, only the tip of the new church spire appeared occasionally through the foliage.

The fort was hidden from their view below the line of the earth, and so they were also hidden from the sentries on the wall. But the stream would not hide them all the way to the town. Several hundred paces from the walls the stream moved out onto almost entirely flat land, lined only with reeds and bushes and the occasional tree. Nothing that would hide the approach of their warband.

Nor would the field to their left conceal them, laid bare after the summer harvest. No, the final two hundred paces would have to be crossed in the full view of the enemy. If they were lucky, they would have run halfway across that space or further before the shouts of alarm reached the occupants of the church.

The worshippers had left the fort’s walls after midday, looking relaxed and unaware. A procession headed by five robed priests led by a man carrying a gilded cross on a pole, followed by several dozen unarmed men and women, with a dozen or more white-cloaked men of the Order. The garrison of the fort did not leave the procession unattended. Several dozen armed men lined the road to keep the path free and the curious locals back, and more languidly patrolled the edge of town.

All of that was out of view now as Gjaldir panted inside his helmet and fiddled with the hilt of his sword as he rushed over the loose ground by the side of the stream. He had only been able to guess how long the service in the church would last. In his memory, all church services had lasted an intolerable amount of time whenever the bishop of Minden, his birth-town in Saxony, had been present. Those smaller services where only a priest presided had varied considerably from the tolerable to the desperately dull.

How long would the Order spend in the new building? He had no idea. Long enough was all he could hope.

The finally reached the last stretch of cover and stopped, the lead men crouching down all around them. Gjaldir was nervous, more so than normal. They could see nothing from where they were, and if an entire army had come out of hiding to greet them they would not know it until they burst from cover and fell into their untender embrace.

Leif looked around the men nearby. ‘Remember, once we start running, we don’t stop until we reach the church. If you see Christians running towards the fort, cut them off.’

Leif looked to Gjaldir and nodded, waiting for his order for them to move.

Gjaldir took a nervous breath and looked around, seeing none of his disquiet reflected in the faces of the warriors laid out before him. Hard gazes met his, eager looks and half-bared teeth. Every man in their group was a veteran of half a dozen fights, they wanted nothing but to be released onto their prey once again. The realisation gave him courage.

‘Let’s go!’ he said. And then they rose as one and broke from cover, running up the last of the shallow bank and cresting into the full sunlight of the autumn afternoon. Gjaldir let out a whoop of relief and excitement as an empty field was revealed before them, and he started running towards the town. He did not sprint, he was no longer the green boy who would exhaust himself before the first blow was struck. He and his warband loped towards their target, the efficient, measured stride of the hunter.

A voice shouted out from the fort almost immediately, and before they had covered even fifty paces a bell started ringing from inside the fort ahead and to their right. Gjaldir grimaced but ignored it. They had known they would be seen straight away. They kept their distance from the fort as they ran, getting no closer than a long bowshot, which was well, because arrows started falling among them, scattered and arcing in steeply, but dangerous all the same.

If men were hit during that run Gjaldir didn’t see them, his eyes were fixed on the church spire above the thatched rooftops. They ran into the shelter of the buildings at the edge of the town and out of the danger of the arrows, and met their first armed men, who simply fled at the sight of their overwhelming numbers.

Gjaldir followed them, jogging down the street after the white-robed enemy, outpaced by the men fleeing in panic but unworried. They were nearly at the church.

They burst into the square in front of the church just as party of soldiers was setting off for the fort, escorting a gaggle of priests and unarmed men. The Christians scrambled to a halt, eyeing up the numbers behind Gjaldir and obviously not liking what they saw.

One of the soldiers, armoured in maille from neck to knees but without helmet or shield, drew his sword from a gilded belt and turned to the men behind him, speaking in German. ‘Get our people to the fort another way, we will deal with them here.’

Gjaldir turned to Leif. ‘They are going to try going around us to the fort with the priests, take thirty men and stop them. We will fight through here.’

Leif nodded, and pushed back through the throng, shouting to some of the men to follow him to find a way between the buildings.

Gjaldir did not take his eyes off the Christians lining up in front of them. At least a dozen of them were belted knights. They were not fully armed and armoured for war. They had no spears, shields or helmets, but all of them wore hauberks under their surcoats, and all of them had swords in hand. They looked confident, excited even. A dozen fully armed spearmen were with them, and the knight got the spearmen into a block in the centre of the street with his fellow brother knights on their flanks even as Gjaldir’s men formed their own wall ready to attack.

Gjaldir looked around him to make sure he had enough men with him, and that they were ready. He raised his spear above his head. ‘Forwards!’ he cried, and the front rank stamped forwards as one, shields together, spears over the top and long-axes waiting above the ranks behind.

The smaller Christian wall came forwards to meet them and the spearpoints of the two sides met first, clattering against each other and jabbing out at shields and faces in a noise like hail on boards. Gjaldir’s spear was snatched from his grasp as he ducked down to avoid a strike, and he cursed and drew Ljós a Norðan behind the cover of his shield as something thumped into it and a spearshaft, theirs or his own side’s, he knew not which, clattered off the top of his helmet.

He got his sword free and risked a look over the top of the shield, seeing his direct opponent was closer now, and he stepped forwards to slam their shields together, then brought Ljós a Norðan over in between his own shield and his neighbour’s, jamming it into the ribs of the spearman in front of him and wiggling it as the enemy shrieked and tried to back away, blocked by the men behind.

He kept the point in his foe, levering him around with it, using the enemy’s desire to pull away from the cold steel scraping on his ribs to break a hole in the Christian line.

The enemy were not so easily undone, however, and the man to the side of the Christian he was filleting saw what was happening and dropped his own spear, reaching over and grabbing Gjaldir’s shield, yanking on it hard and trying to pull him out of line to be slaughtered.

Suddenly it was Gjaldir who had to try to back away as another man raised a sword to strike at him while he was exposed. Bjorn’s shield came across and blocked several blows and a strong hand yanked back on his maille, breaking the grip of the enemy on his shield and allowing the spitted Christian to slide off Gjaldir’s sword and be replaced in the line.

‘Thank you,’ Gjaldir grunted, cursing himself for his foolishness in overreaching. Chastised and hearing Gunnar’s voice berating him from beyond the grave, he limited himself to hacking at hands and heads, and thrusts under the shields looking for legs.

Despite his own struggles, he could feel the line either side of him was pushing forwards. The outnumbered Christians were giving ground. Soon the fight had pushed back out of the street into the square, and the disciplined enemy line was suddenly vulnerable as the greater number of Norse warriors spilled out into the open and curled around the outnumbered Christians.

But they did not panic and break. The knights on the flanks wheeled, turning inwards to protect the block of spearmen, cutting down a number of warriors too eager to try to rush them outside of the protection of the shieldwall.

‘Circle and retreat to the fort!’ Gjaldir heard the enemy leader cry, and their foe bunched into a ball, spears and swords facing outwards in every direction, even as they shuffled towards the next street leading towards the fort as one unit.

‘Don’t let them get into the buildings!’ shouted Gjaldir over the din of the fighting. If the enemy got into the narrow confines of the town, it would be much easier for them to fight and retreat. It was their only chance of surviving. A number of his men rushed around the outside of the fight in response, putting themselves between the enemy and safety.

The enemy commander looked at that development in frustration, then swivelled to stare at Gjaldir. Gjaldir smiled voraciously in response, and the enemy commander scowled at him across five paces of combat, then he shouted orders again, but this time it was in French, and Gjaldir did not understand what he said.

The knights at the flanks and rear of the enemy cluster moved, bunching together and facing one direction, and Gjaldir craned his head in concern, not knowing what they were doing. The enemy commander watched Gjaldir carefully, and then shouted a single word of command.

The enemy knights burst from their formation in a sudden rush, hammering into the forming line between them and the fort. Half of them grabbed shields and ripped at them, pulling them away from their owners. Some of the shocked warriors let go of their shields, others were pulled forwards and instantly cut apart by the other waiting knights.

Within moments a hole had been torn in Gjaldir’s men and the Order knights poured into it in a whirlwind of violence. Some of them went down to axe blows and spear thrusts, but their assault was so sudden and so violent that the thin ranks of the warband on that side shattered.

‘Stop them!’ Gjaldir roared in outrage. Then he pushed back through his own men, heedless of the gap it left behind as Bjorn and Vidar followed him. He grabbed at warriors, shouting and pushing them towards the wild melee that had developed at the point of the Christian attack.

He went with the group he was driving, heading straight to the site of the breakout to stop it himself. A warrior in front of him was beset by two enemy, blocking one high attack with his shield while another knight ducked low and delivered a flawless thrust to the stomach that doubled the warrior over.

The knight spent a half moment too long trying to pull his sword from the dying Norseman as Gjaldir attacked at a run, and lost his hand trying to ward off Gjaldir’s vicious overhand blow.

The wounded knight backed away, clutching his shortened arm to his chest, but Gjaldir had no time to pursue him as the other pivoted and threw a cut at his head that Gjaldir barely blocked, and then another at his thigh that he could not.

His good long maille hauberk caught the blow, but the force and pain of it staggered him, numbing that leg, blinding him to the next attack that hammered his helmet aside, opening him up completely.

He took a step back, narrowly evading the thrust to the neck that would have killed him, and tried to refocus his eyes as the fluid, rapid blows of the knight continued to land. He was completely outmatched, his opponent’s lack of a shield mattering for nothing as Gjaldir could not win space to even attempt to return a blow.

The knight was distracted for a moment as another figure charged in with a piercing cry, and Gjaldir felt a jolt of horror as he recognised Brunhild. The knight was forced back a pace and took several blows on his sword and left shoulder before he struck Brunhild across the temple with the pommel of his sword when she over-extended, flipping his sword around to deliver the killing blow with the back-swing.

Gjaldir shouted incoherently and hammered the sword aside, preventing the lethal strike. The knight snarled at him, but then flashed his eyes to both sides and retreated. Gjaldir, shocked, looked around and saw the attempted breakout was over. Half of the white-cloaked knights of the Order were down, their lack of shields and helmets leaving them too vulnerable to survive in the melee despite their ferocious aggression and skill. A shocking number of Gjaldir’s warriors were on the ground around the white-cloaked bodies, but more had sealed the gap and were re-forming the wall.

The block of Christian spearmen had been annihilated, cut apart when their flanks and rear were exposed. Barely a handful were standing to retreat and huddle against the wall of the church with the enemy leader, who had sacrificed them for a chance to allow at least some to escape, a chance now gone forever.

Both sides caught their breath, staring at each other. Less than a dozen Christians facing nearly a hundred Norse warriors.

Gjaldir was sickened by how many of his men were down. The square was a slaughterhouse. These Order soldiers were a far more terrible foe than any they had faced that summer. ‘Enough!’ shouted Gjaldir in German, stepping forwards. ‘Throw down your weapons.’

The enemy leader snapped his head around and met his gaze, and smiled. ‘So the pagan speaks German. We really should stop teaching you animals our words.’

‘Spare your men and surrender.’

‘Spare them?’ the knight snorted in derision. ‘Not one of us would surrender rather than die. I am a soldier of our saviour and I will die with my sword in my hand and gladness in my heart for having your heathen blood upon it.’

The back and forth was interrupted by a commotion at the side of the square, where a large group of warriors arrived, driving half a dozen prisoners ahead of them, including several of the robed priests.

Gjaldir saw the knight’s expression darken and his smile turn sour at the confirmation the desperate rush to get to the fort had failed. He flicked his furious eyes back to Gjaldir.

‘Hand them over to me, alive, and I will call off the men who are about to come from the fort and kill you all.’

Gjaldir snorted in derision. ‘There aren’t enough men in that fort to face us. We have been watching carefully. There is no one coming to save you. Throw down your weapons and I will let your men live.’ It was a lie, Gjaldir had no intention of letting any of them leave alive, but he was hoping to spare his own men more casualties fighting the skilled and cornered men to the death.

The knight’s expression darkened even further now that his desperate bluff had been called. Perhaps he knew it was a lie, or perhaps he truly did not care to live. ‘So be it.’

And without hesitation or warning, he brought up his sword and charged.

The attack was so sudden Gjaldir did not have time to use his shield, and Ljós a Norðan met the oncoming knight’s blade, steel to steel, in a desperate parry that shocked Gjaldir’s hand so much his fingers instantly went numb and the sword fell from his grasp.

But the knight was also hurt, and as he deftly transferred his own blade to his left hand from his nerveless right to attack again, a Svear warrior took his head from his shoulders with a swing of a long-axe, and that whole part of the square descended into a brutal and one-sided melee.

Gjaldir backed away, cursing and holding his aching hand to his chest as his men fell upon the enemy survivors like a wolf-pack on an injured elk. The fighting lasted no more than thirty heartbeats, and Gjaldir shouted in frustration and anger as more of his men were taken down by the belted knights of the Order until they, too, were brought down and butchered.

After the last Christian was down, the Norse warriors picked over and prodded the bodies in a shocked fury, killing any who showed signs of life, and began to help their wounded comrades.

Leif came over, looking disturbed at the carnage around them. ‘What do you want to do with the prisoners?’ He pointed at the gaggle that was following on behind.

Gjaldir just shook his head, still too disgusted to speak. Bjorn brought him his sword, cleaning it on a torn section of one of the white cloaks the men of the Order had been wearing. Gjaldir took the sword and gently closed his fingers on it, lances of pain shooting through them as they tingled and buzzed.

‘I should speak to them before we do anything, see if I can learn anything useful,’ he finally replied.

Leif nodded. ‘It is a good idea. I will bring one.’

‘No, it will be quicker if I do it.’ Gjaldir stepped forwards towards the group. Three of them were priests in fairly simple robes, the others were neither priests nor soldiers. Perhaps leaders of the Christian settlers.

‘Who will speak for you?’ he asked in German.

One of the priests, looking a great deal calmer than the others, replied, ‘I would speak to you.’ He looked at the carnage around them sadly, then to the church. ‘Perhaps you will allow us to speak inside, out of this charnel house you have made of my service.’

Gjaldir bridled at the condemnation, so politely and calmly given, but he nodded.

‘It might be a trap,’ said Bjorn.

‘Then come with me into the church, check it is empty. It is not such a large building that they could hide an army in there.’ Gjaldir turned to Leif. ‘Gather all our wounded, strip any equipment we can use from the dead, and set fifty men to watch the entrance to the fort.’

Leif barely needed such instruction, but Gjaldir wanted the men to see him give it.

They went through the open doors of the church, swords out, but the simple building was a single room end to end, full of neatly made pews with a dressed altar at the far end of the nave.

It was empty.

‘I think I am safe,’ Gjaldir said drily, and Bjorn nodded.

‘I will watch the door.’

Gjaldir motioned to the priest to sit on a pew at the front, but the man instead went to the front of the altar and knelt down in front of it, saying a quick and almost silent prayer. Gjaldir sighed, the exhaustion of the battle overtaking him, and sat down on the front pew, putting the tip of his sword into the floorboards and resting his hands on the pommel.

‘Speak to me, not your god.’

The priest turned around carefully, kneeling on the step below the altar. ‘There is always time for both, but God does not tolerate being held second in precedence. What do you wish to speak of?’

‘I want to know where the other soldiers of the Order are, where their forts are, and where the churches are,’ said Gjaldir roughly, grinding the tip of the sword into the floor.

‘And I suppose you expect that sword to prise the answers from me?’ The priest smiled thinly, almost a sympathetic expression. ‘I’m afraid it won’t. I am far more afraid of what will happen to my eternal soul than my mortal flesh. Your German is excellent by the way, your accent is almost ours, how?’

Gjaldir took a breath to steady himself, unbalanced by the priest’s calmness and companionable tone. ‘I was a German once.’

The priest’s eyes widened. ‘You are one of us?’

‘I am not, and have not been for some time.’

‘My son, a lost sheep is part of the flock nonetheless. What happened to you to be led so astray?’

‘I am not here to answer your questions, priest. You are here to answer mine.’ But his voice lacked the conviction of the words.

‘What makes you hate us so badly that you would turn on your own people?’

Gjaldir scowled, his mind filling with the image of Aeske’s tiny form on the pyre, of Brunhild’s soulless eyes as she watched the little boy burn, of Halla’s headless corpse and Gunnar’s still form, and all the others he had cared for who had died at the hands of the Christians. His blood rose in his veins and his temple throbbed.

‘Your people never cared for me, and they came here for greed and power, not in service to your god. My people love me, help me, and wish only to live safely in their own land. How can you not understand our hate? You serve the Order, do you know what has been done by the men wearing the golden cross? The towns burned, the people consumed alive in the flames or put to the sword for refusing to be starved and abused?’

The priest looked a little ashamed, and he nodded. ‘I am aware, and I do not agree with all that has been done in the Lord’s name. We are all but sinners seeking a better path.’

‘Then seek it elsewhere.’

‘We cannot. Our duty and holy mission is to bring the light of the Lord to this land, to spread his word and increase his flock so that we might end the terrible privations of these pagan people on our homelands.’

Gjaldir was taken aback. ‘What privations?’

The priest laughed softly, and then realised Gjaldir was being serious. ‘What privations? Are you unaware of what the Norse do to our people? Your true people? Do you think the Order are the first to kill and burn? My son, the Norse heathens have been killing us, besmirching our people and stealing from us since before the time of glorious Charlemagne. Have you ever seen the results of one of their raids, these peaceful people you talk about?’

Gjaldir baulked. ‘No.’

The priest nodded earnestly. ‘Then no wonder you are so misled. What we are doing here is necessary. We have to tame these wild people, end their savagery, and save from them the poor lost souls like you.’

‘Like me!’ Gjaldir hissed. ‘You know nothing of me, or what our people did to me. I was with the army of the Crusade, marching with a great lord. I was no more than a dog to him, called at his command. I was abandoned to slavery by your people and forgotten!’ The anguish and shame of his capture, of watching Sir Hans meet his eye as the Norse warriors surrounded him, yet ride away from him, abandoning him to capture, tore at his chest.

‘The Norse took you as a slave? And you yet love them?’

‘Yes, they took me as a slave, but they respected me, they elevated me, they freed me and they loved me. They trust me to lead them, despite who I am,’ Gjaldir said, veins in his neck and temple pulsing. ‘I am more than a dog to them, I have love, I had a…’ He let out a strangled gurgle as he had been about to say that he had a son. He still thought of Aeske as his boy, and every thought of him and his loss drove a dagger of anger and deep-held frustration into his soul.

The priest looked desolate at the outburst, and he nodded sympathetically. ‘I can see that you have suffered, my boy, and I am sorry my brothers were a part of it. But what we do is God’s work, you will see it one day.’

‘Enough of your preaching, priest. And tell me what I want to know.’ He raised the sword half a handspan and plunged it back into the floorboard with a thud by way of encouragement.

The priest looked at the sword, and his eyes narrowed as he peered at it, then widened. ‘Is that… It is. It is the Light of the North.’ He looked up. ‘So you are Gjaldir?’

Gjaldir sighed in annoyance. ‘I am.’

‘By the saints, you are one of us?’ The priest looked at him in amazement. ‘You, a Christian boy, a slave of our enemy, have had the sword of our cause brought to your hand and became their champion?’

‘It was not brought to my hand, I claimed it in battle. Why does it matter to you?’

‘Why does it matter? My dear boy, it is the symbol of our purpose here.’ He pointed at the blade with its bright core. ‘The light of our Lord, burning away the darkness of the heathen faith. Look, do you see the flames eating away at the darkness?’

The priest closed his eyes, intoning quietly, his hands clasped together at his breast. ‘And by the fire they will see us, by its flames they will be cleansed, and by its fury they will know our name.’ His eyes opened and he was joyful, enraptured. ‘My word, I had heard men who had seen it describe it, but I had no idea how vivid the image could be in steel, our Lord’s hand at work.’

Gjaldir bristled. ‘It was not your Lord’s hand who made this blade, it was mine. And the fire is not burning away our faith, it is a symbol of the light of hope in the darkness of your Crusades…’ He shuddered to a halt, because he realised he had been repeating without thought the claims of Tormund Five-Bones, and that a part of him believed them, despite knowing the pattern in the sword was caused by nothing more than using the metals he had available when he forged the blade in the best way he could. The flames pattern had simply been one Dengir thought would look beautiful in the blade, and it did. It had held no deeper meaning.

‘You forged this sword?’

‘Yes.’

The priest looked at him in a new way, almost awestruck. ‘You, a Christian slave, forged this blade for the heathens who took it as a false idol. It was found by the Order and was a great symbol to us… but then you yourself retrieved it in battle and you don’t see the hand of our Lord behind this? My son, for someone who has witnessed so much, you see so little.’ The priest shook his head in despair.

‘I am so tired of people telling me what this sword is and what it means. I am the one who made it, only I know its true birth and meaning.’

‘God often guides us in ways we do not understand.’

‘God will not prevent me putting this blade through your neck if you do not tell me what I wish to know.’

The priest rocked back on his knees slightly, and then gently pulled his robe away from his neck with both hands, exposing it, smiling softly.

‘I do not fear death. The Lord will welcome me into his kingdom as a faithful servant, if I deserve it. But what waits for you, my boy, as a betrayer of your people and your faith, when you face the final judgement?’

Gjaldir did not answer, he just clenched his blood-flecked hand on the hilt of Ljós a Norðan. ‘Do you have anything to say to me?’

‘Only that you cannot know it, but you are an instrument of God’s plan. That sword is his symbol to us, and once they find out you were here my brothers will hunt you until they find it. Their wrath will never end, your new people will suffer every day for your rejection of our Lord. You cannot escape this fate by running from it, Gjaldir, but you can yet spare further suffering by giving yourself up. Come home to your people, it is not too late.’

‘Do not threaten me, priest. I am with my people, I am home. And I will die to defend it.’

The priest smiled sadly. ‘I can see that you believe that, but it is not true.’ He nodded, defeated, a kind and sincere smile on his face. ‘I will pray for you, my son, for hope of your salvation. Whatever you do, know our Lord can still forgive you for it, if you choose to return to his light.’

Gjaldir rose stiffly to his feet, the priest’s eyes never leaving his, utterly calm and bright.

‘Don’t waste your words on me, father. I am not returning to your god.’

‘We all do return to him, my son. That is the promise our saviour made with his death.’

Gjaldir turned away and walked out of the church, flexing his aching swordhand with the other, deep in thought. As he went through the doors, his companions turned to look at him, quiet, expectant, awaiting his orders without a trace of indignance.

Gjaldir’s hooded eyes turned to Brunhild, who stood there fierce and blood-spattered, questioning him with her glare. ‘What did he say?’

‘Nothing useful.’

He took a deep breath, the voice of the priest still prickling at the back of his head, the urge to reject all the things he had said driving his fury.

‘What do we do now?’ Vidar asked.

‘Seal the doors, then burn it. Let it be a message to those that follow.’

‘With the priest inside?’ said Vidar, looking a little unsure.

‘He says fire is how their god cleanses the world and that he doesn’t fear death. Let him test his faith.’

A slow smile spread across Vidar’s face. ‘As you command, Gjaldir. What of the rest of the prisoners?’

‘We don’t need them.’ Then he glanced back over his shoulder at the open portal to the church, the dark anger still coursing through his veins. ‘Let the unarmed ones and the women go. Take the priests and the white-robed ones and put them in the church.’

Leif came up to Gjaldir, looking uneasy. ‘Gjaldir, the Christians’ revenge for this will be terrible. People will suffer and die.’

Gjaldir nodded. He couldn’t admit to Leif that mostly, he just wanted any witness to his presence erased. The priest’s words had chilled him. The thought that the Order would hunt him so devoutly was terrible indeed. He could not go back to them, not now, so he would have to become as fearsome as his enemy.

‘That is true anyway. We either surrender or we fight them just as harshly as they fight us and show we cannot be cowed. They burned whole towns, herded people into the flames long before we did anything like this. Let us show them we are not afraid of their reprisals.’

Leif looked shocked, sickened even. ‘You so easily accept the death of our people?’

Gjaldir met Leif’s gaze without flinching, emotionless. ‘I want them to understand our resolve, and the choice they have. Let the Christians take their revenge on the innocent, it will turn more people to our cause, and it does not blacken our hands. Some of our people will die, we knew that when we resolved to continue the fight. But perhaps the rest will be free because of it. So yes, I accept that some of our people will die because of this, but that is the cost of our resistance.’

‘Who are you?’ said Leif, backing away slightly.

‘He is who he needs to be. He is Gjaldir, the last hope of our people as told by the gods,’ said Brunhild, coming to Gjaldir’s side and holding his arm, smiling up at him proudly. ‘The sword he forged and wields bring the promised light in the darkness, and you cannot have light without flames.’

‘We don’t have time to discuss it, put the prisoners in their church,’ said Gjaldir.

Bjorn and Vidar nodded, not showing any reluctance to carry out the order. Leif stared at Gjaldir a moment longer, his face clouded and conflicted, and then he yielded and walked away with the others.

Gjaldir looked down at Brunhild, finally allowing his fear to show in that private moment. ‘Do you really think I am doing the right thing?’ he asked, almost in a whisper.

Brunhild put a hand on his face, a look of concern and sympathy softening her hard features. ‘Of course. Gjaldir, I think that this is the first time I have been sure you know what the right thing even is. It is better that we all die than allow these people to rule us, to enslave us, to take our children and our gods from us. Let our people fight for their freedom, and if they will not?’ She shrugged sadly. ‘I will not be a slave again, death is preferable. Some are just too weak and afraid to see it.’

The doors slammed shut behind them as the last of the Order prisoners were herded inside. Four men hauled a cart full of planks from one of the half-finished buildings the other side of the square and pushed it up against the entrance. Then they took several lengths of rough timber and braced them against the cart into the soft earth.

Vidar stood back from their handiwork and nodded in satisfaction. ‘They used fresh-cut pine at the end of a long summer. It will burn like a torch.’

Then Bjorn leaned in, listening. ‘What is that?’

Gjaldir walked over and bent one ear towards the doors. He could make out a quiet voice singing in what he recognised as Latin, the language of the priesthood.

‘They are singing prayers,’ he said.

‘They try and save themselves with Christian magic?’ said Vidar, looking confused.

‘No. I think they are preparing themselves for death.’

‘Ah, let’s not disappoint them then.’

Vidar took a lamp that someone had found and poured it over some rags wrapped around a stick. Then the man leant over with a flint and steel and, with a few crisp strikes, set the doused rags aflame.

Vidar looked over at Gjaldir, proffering the burning brand. Gjaldir hesitated a moment, but all eyes were on him, and he could not show unwillingness to do what he had himself ordered.

He ignored the churning feeling of doubt in his stomach and stepped forwards, taking the blazing torch and paused, standing before the doors of the church for a moment as the heat chewed at his hand. Then he wedged the burning rags into the stacked timber in the cart, standing back as the flames caught and the sound of prayer from within was drowned out by the crackling and spitting of the fresh-cut pine.

‘Where do we go now?’ asked Vidar.

‘We lost so many men today… too many. Winter is coming, and the Order will be hunting us after this. We should leave, go south, recover our strength. We will resume our attacks next year.’

‘That is sensible,’ Vidar said with a nod. ‘I will gather the men ready to leave.’

‘Thank you, Vidar. For everything.’

Vidar nodded and turned away, leaving Gjaldir to watch the fire.

Gjaldir’s hand caressed the hilt of Ljós a Norðan as he watched the flames grow. He whispered to himself the words the priest had spoken, so softly none behind him could hear. ‘And by the fire they will see us, by its flames they will be cleansed, and by its fury they will know our name.’

Chapter 14

The Ashes of Defeat

Uppsala

Reinhard tapped his fingers to his lips, contemplating the question Bertrand had asked him. It was vexing him significantly. Eventually he raised the finger in the air, signalling for Bertrand’s attention.

‘Vespers. I shall see him after Vespers is sung, in the ante-chapel.’

Bertrand’s brows furrowed slightly. ‘But Count Otto is not a brother of the Order.’

Reinhard looked up at his attendant sharply. The Order’s chapel attached to their new barracks in Uppsala was only open to members of the Order.

Bertrand questioning him annoyed Reinhard for two reasons. Firstly, he hated being questioned by his inferiors, it clawed at the back of his mind and threatened his composure. Secondly, Bertrand was right, Reinhard had forgotten that rule, a rule he himself had instated. Being questioned was one thing, normally he could marshal a scathing reply that would put the supplicant in their place and ensure there was not a repeat. Being questioned and found lacking was quite another issue. Unacceptable.

‘I am aware of that, Bertrand. But the rule does not apply to the ante-chapel, nor to guests as senior as Count Otto. He is the lord of Uppsala, and will be granted privilege accordingly.’

Bertrand nodded, not letting any emotion show. ‘I apologise, he had sent word asking to attend you in the chapel before, and I had replied to regretfully decline. If he asks again in future to join us in prayer there I will pass on the request for your acceptance.’

The slight amused raising of Bertrand’s eyebrow, a movement so subtle anyone who knew him less well would have missed it, was the only giveaway to Reinhard that Bertrand was wise to his deception.

But he could not lash out, to do so would only look weak. He merely set his jaw a fraction and imagined a near future where he would punish Bertrand for some perceived slight in retribution.

Bertrand did not look up to see Reinhard’s hard stare, to do so would have risked escalation. The priest simply pored over a page in one of his carefully recorded journals. The motion reminded Reinhard of something that pushed his annoyance to one side.

‘In my last meeting with Count Otto, what did I promise him by way of support?’

Bertrand looked up from his angled writing desk, trying to remember but looking bashful when he could not. Then he started leafing through the pages of notes, finally finding what he was looking for.

‘Ten brother knights and fifty men at arms to help man the fort at the settlement known as Karlsgrind. Supplies for them and fodder for one hundred horses.’

Reinhard nodded. ‘And what did we send?’

Bertrand looked up. ‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing?’ Reinhard was taken aback. Did I really forget to do that? He had meant to under-deliver, but not to avoid keeping his promise entirely. It was far easier to get away with not meeting the exact scale of an agreement rather than reneging on it entirely. Well, that explains why Otto is so intent on meeting with me.

‘No, you gave no instructions on the matter after the meeting.’

‘And you did not ask me?’ Reinhard snapped. There was no point in trying to pretend he had not forgotten, it was obvious from his reaction.

‘I did not.’

Reinhard fumed, pressing his palms together until the knuckles went white. ‘If you thought I had forgotten, you should have reminded me. What is the point of keeping such detailed records on everything if you do not use them to help me?’

Bertrand looked guiltily down at his notes and nodded. ‘My deepest apologies, Grandmaster. I will be more attentive in the future.’

Reinhard tapped a finger on the table as he gained control of himself again. He hated losing his temper. Self-control was dear to the Lord.

Finally, he was calm enough to give instructions in a neutral tone. ‘Summon Brother Sighard. I will need to have men ready to offer Otto instantly when he asks. And find some reason that help was delayed, perhaps I can subtly blame Grandsteward Hugues.’ Bertrand nodded, and half-turned to go to the door that led outside. ‘No, no that will not do. I don’t need Otto going to Hugues directly if he thinks that will be more effective,’ Reinhard muttered, mostly to himself.

‘Grandmaster?’ Bertrand asked, unsure if the muttering was directed at him.

‘Fetch Brother Sighard, go!’ Reinhard said, dismissing Bertrand with an annoyed flick of his wrist. The priest opened the door to Reinhard’s chambers and headed out into the corridor beyond.

They were not Reinhard’s chambers, in reality. He was still using Duke Henry’s quarters since the duke very rarely needed them. His last visit to the province he had conquered had been months ago and Reinhard did not expect him back that year now that winter was falling. The duke’s duties kept him at home in Bavaria, and although for appearances’ sake Reinhard would never have been able to order such luxurious quarters be constructed for himself, he was quite happy to make use of the duke’s instead of letting them stand empty.

His musings were interrupted when the door opened and Sir Sighard strode through, fully armoured and his scabbarded sword clattering the doorframe.

‘That was fast, Sir Sighard. How did Bertrand find you so quickly?’

‘I have not seen Brother Bertrand, Grandmaster. I come straight from the gate. There has been an attack.’ Sighard was breathing heavily, his whole body visibly roiling with fury beneath his white surcoat.

‘Another one? Where this time? If it was Otto’s lands again it will make my meeting with him later quite unbearable, I am sure.’

‘Not Otto’s, Grandmaster, in Conrad’s to the south.’

‘Ah, good,’ said Reinhard brightly.

Sighard ignored him, his voice rising in anger. ‘But not Conrad’s men, ours.’

Reinhard finally took notice. ‘Ours?’

‘The town of Ekeby.’

‘Ekeby?’ Reinhard’s mind raced, annoyed he didn’t have Bertrand there to tell him exactly what was there, but he remembered enough. He had given the order to complete the new fort and church there before winter fell, to help impose on Count Conrad the Order’s presence in his lands. ‘We have a new outpost there, and a church. The fort has been attacked? Did our men fail to defend it? Was it captured?’

Sighard shook his head, his hard-lined face screwed up with anger. ‘The fort is intact, but they burned the church. As I am told, with our brothers inside it.’

Reinhard’s stomach fell. ‘Who?’

‘All the brother knights assigned there are dead, most of the men at arms… and all of the priests and clergy. They were burned alive,’ Sighard said in barely controlled fury.

‘Dear Mary preserve us,’ muttered Reinhard. ‘All of them, are you sure?’

‘That is what I am told. The heathens slaughtered our brothers as they attended a service, then locked the priests in the church and burned it.’ Sighard was heaving now, almost overcome with emotion. It was raw and hot, and Reinhard wanted to retreat from its intensity.

And he was scared, not because of the loss of the men and clergy, they could be replaced, but of what this meant. His mind was already racing. By now, the news would be spreading to the hundreds of men of the Order in and around Uppsala, men who had done little to nothing all summer, and their blood would be rising and they would be seeking someone to blame. Reinhard cursed himself furiously, thinking of the support he had failed to send to Otto. Would the men blame him and his inaction for this desecration?

That could not be allowed, no, he must be seen to be as outraged as the rest of his men, and to do something about it. An order wouldn’t do, he couldn’t trust that men gained the right impression. Unambiguous action and a public display was required. He stood from his desk.

‘Can we travel there, I need to see this atrocity myself so we can judge what action to take.’

Sighard raised his chin, a look of grim satisfaction on his features. ‘Yes, I can have two ships and a body of men ready at first light tomorrow.’

Reinhard suddenly felt a stab of fear. The garrison at Ekeby had not been small yet had been defeated; was he putting himself in danger? Could the rebels who had slaughtered the brothers at the outpost overcome his own escort?’

But he did not let Sighard see his fear. He just nodded decisively. ‘Then that is what we will do.’

At that moment Bertrand huffed back into the room, looked at Sighard in confusion, and then at Reinhard. ‘I… I…’

‘Don’t worry, Bertrand, Sighard found me. He has news, there has been an attack on our men at Ekeby. We must go immediately in the morning and investigate, prepare my things and my attendants for travel.’

‘For travel?’ The normally unflusterable priest looked fraught, but he recovered quickly. ‘Yes, Grandmaster, at once. Ah, what shall I say to Count Otto, about the men we are going to give him?’

Reinhard winced again, then shook his head. ‘Count Otto will have to wait, and attend to his own security.’

‘I see… you will tell him that after Vespers?’

Bertrand looked lost, and then Reinhard remembered his desire to find a suitable and proximal excuse to punish his assistant and his eyes sparkled slightly. ‘No. He will be upset to hear that, so be careful how you word it. Give him my sincerest apologies and regrets.’

‘I must tell him… you will not meet with him?’

Reinhard gave Bertrand a reproachful look. ‘Do you think I will be holding evening meetings while we prepare to leave? No, don’t be foolish. Now get on, there is much to be done before the morning.’

Reinhard was already in a foul mood when they arrived at the outpost at Ekeby. The weather had been poor, the two-day crossing of the lake on the small ships unpleasant, and the overnight camp at the space cleared in the abandoned ruins of Birka cold and damp.

His mood was not improved when he saw the piteous collection of charred timbers, standing up from the ground like broken teeth, that were all that was left standing of the church. Inside the remains of the walls was a mess of charcoal and ash which the locals were about halfway through clearing.

Some of the fort’s garrison had hurriedly come out to meet him when he and his large escort had bypassed the new wooden construction to go straight to the church. A dozen or so of them stood in uncertain silence to one side of the square as Reinhard studiously ignored them.

A nervous-looking Order man-at-arms approached, flanked loosely by a pair of his comrades, who seemed intent on distancing themselves as much as possible from their leader.

‘Who are you?’ Reinhard asked with a dark glare.

‘Simon, Grandmaster,’ replied the man.

‘Simon?’ Reinhard turned to Sighard. ‘This is who is in charge? Do you know this man?’

‘I do not. He is not a brother knight,’ replied Sighard.

‘The brothers are all dead, Grandmaster,’ said the soldier unhelpfully.

‘Then why are you alive?’

‘Me? Uh, your grace, Brother Hunold ordered me to watch the fort while he went to the service… so I did,’ the man added limply.

‘Did you leave the fort to confront the attackers while they massacred the brothers of the Order?’

The soldier looked crestfallen. ‘I did not, it was not in my orders, Grandmaster.’

‘Not your orders? Do you believe following orders is important, Simon?’ asked Reinhard with a level gaze.

‘Yes, yes, Grandmaster!’ replied the terrified man, grasping at the hope of the question.

‘Good. I order you to stand still.’ Reinhard turned to Sighard. ‘Execute this man for cowardice.’

The soldier’s face went ash-white, and he staggered back a step, holding up one hand in supplication. ‘Grandmaster!’ he squeaked in protest as Sighard drew his sword and stepped forwards without a moment’s hesitation.

‘Halt!’ said Reinhard, and he pointed at Simon’s feet. ‘I thought orders were important to you, Simon, yet you moved when I ordered you to stand still.’

Simon looked at his feet in slack-jawed silence, as if they had betrayed him.

‘You cannot claim following orders as an excuse to avoid death facing the enemy, and then fail to follow orders to preserve your own life. Sighard, execute this man for disobeying orders.’ He raised a finger and looked at Sighard with distaste. ‘But not here, do not desecrate with the blood of a coward this hallowed ground where brave, devout men died. Take him behind that building.’

Sighard stepped forwards and half snatched the wretched Simon off his feet. The soldier’s cries of protest barely formed intelligible words as the big German knight dragged him away with one hand.

Reinhard did not watch Simon be dragged away, instead he just stared at the ruins in disgust and anger. No one in the square moved as the sounds of squealing were muffled when Sighard turned the corner behind Reinhard to go into a side-street. Reinhard’s escort stood statue still in perfect ranks, and the soldiers of the fort tried their best not to look horrified. Some merely looked ashamed.

Reinhard maintained his fixated stare as the heightening sounds of protest from behind the building were cut off by the sound of a wet impact of steel on meat and bone. There was utter silence, and Reinhard let it linger until the clomp and rustle of Sighard’s mailled footsteps returned across the damp earth.

Reinhard let his gaze wander to the two men who had flanked the recently deceased Simon. ‘Which of you is in charge now?’ he asked calmly.

The two men looked at each other in horror, neither making any move to claim the title.

‘Not even brave enough to do your duty? Pathetic, no wonder this tragedy happened. Sighard, strip every armed survivor of the garrison of their surcoats and weapons, they are fit to bear neither, and then drive them out of the town. Your men will stand in their place until we can send suitable replacements.’

‘Yes, Grandmaster,’ said Sighard, motioning to a dozen or so of his men to follow him. There was no resistance at all from the deflated men of the garrison as they were disarmed and de-cloaked, then driven from the space with the aid of kicks and spear butts. Reinhard did not know where they would go, he did not care. All that mattered to him was that word of how he had treated those who neglected their duties would spread.

He pointed at a civilian member of the fort’s garrison, who was standing near the church with a work party that had been clearing the ruins when they arrived.

‘You, come here.’

The man motioned to himself with comic uncertainty, and Reinhard snapped his fingers then pointed at the ground in front of him to confirm his command. He did not repeat himself.

The man, a middle-aged German, half-jogged over, cap in hand, and stood in front of Reinhard, staring at the ground behind the bishop in supplication.

‘What happened here, exactly?’

‘Uh, my lord…’

‘Your grace.’

‘Sorry? Yes, your grace. Yes. Well, I did not see it myself, but so the men said, a party of the Norse attacked while the brothers were at service.’ He tailed off. ‘In the church,’ he added superfluously.

‘And all my men died in the church?’

‘No, your grace, they came out and fought.’ He gestured around the square, where blood still stained the earth in dark patches. ‘They died here, and in the streets, but some prisoners and the priests were locked in the church after and… Well.’ He gestured nervously at the church.

‘I see,’ Reinhard said. ‘And where are the bodies of my men?’

‘Well, we had to bury them behind the church, your grace. I’m sorry, we had no priest to say a service for them, but we did the best we could.’ He pointed at the ruined church. ‘We are still finding bones, we treat them properly, I promise. They all go in the ground, we don’t let the dogs have them.’

Reinhard nodded slowly. ‘I will go and pray over them. And what of the murderous heathens, where did they go?’

The man pointed instantly south-west. ‘That way.’

‘You are certain?’

‘Yes, your grace. I did not see them arrive or the battle, but I saw them leave.’

‘How many?’

‘Oh, at least a hundred, your grace, and more were waiting for them on that hill over there.’

Reinhard turned to Sighard. ‘Do we have enough men to pursue?’

‘We do not,’ said the knight angrily.

Reinhard was careful to look disappointed. Of course, he had known they did not have the men to pursue, it was the last thing he wanted to do, but he wanted his men to see that he had desired to do so, and tell others of it.

‘Then we will gather reinforcements to do so as soon as we can,’ he said sadly. ‘Now, take me to the graves.’

Reinhard performed a ceremony to consecrate the ground, because he was not sure if the new churchyard had already been consecrated before the attack. There were over forty graves that half-filled the brand-new graveyard, each just a mound of fresh earth with a simple wooden cross.

Then, when he and Sighard were alone, he looked at the knight. ‘Could the garrison have done anything differently?’

Sighard thought about it for a moment and shook his head. ‘No. They were too heavily outnumbered to overcome that many attackers in the open.’

‘The purpose of the fort was to protect the church and the town. I want everyone to know, our men and the enemy, that we do not just let our churches be taken and burned, that it would be better to die defending them than to have to explain to me why they did not!’ said Reinhard with genuine anger.

‘I understand, Grandmaster, and I agree.’ Sighard looked angry and distraught. His usually composed features twisted in hate as he looked down at the graves of his brother knights. ‘I knew these men, I fought with them. I would have died out here with my brothers rather than live with the shame of defeat.’

Reinhard put a sympathetic hand on Sighard’s elbow. ‘I know, and that is why you are my guard commander.’

Sighard’s look only darkened, and Reinhard pulled his hand away in surprise. ‘What troubles you about that, Brother Sighard?’

Sighard shook his head once, fighting to control himself.

‘Speak, my son.’

Sighard breathed hard and cast a sideways look at Reinhard, full of a hatred that scared the Grandmaster. ‘What they did here, to our men, to the priests of our Order? To burn them in a holy place?’ Sighard shook his head. ‘It is a work of devilry. I want to find these men, I want to kill them. I want to eradicate their stain from his earth.’ He spoke with such urgency and passion that Reinhard almost recoiled. He sometimes forgot just how fanatical in his devotion the quiet brother knight really was.

He managed a sympathetic smile. ‘I understand, I share your outrage and I assure you, justice will be served.’

That mollified Sighard a little, and he nodded curtly, returning his steely gaze to the graves in front of them. Reinhard’s mind raced as he thought through how best to handle the situation, and, in fact, what the situation really was. Finally he broke the silence and turned to his guard commander.

‘I know how you will resent this, Brother Sighard, but you will not be conducting the reprisals against the Norse.’

Sighard tensed and gave the Grandmaster a look of hurt and outrage. ‘Why?’

Reinhard did not let himself be rushed or intimidated. He calmly gestured to the church behind them. ‘Do you think it is coincidence that the heathens attacked at the exact moment our brothers were vulnerable?’

Sighard’s features softened and he looked at the ruins, his brows furrowed in thought. ‘I had not considered it,’ he finally said. ‘You think they knew in advance?’

‘They must have. Or, at least, it is most likely. Someone has informed the rebels when the service would take place. While it is important to hunt the attackers down, it is more essential to find who gave them that information, or risk this happening again. Someone has betrayed us.’

Sighard’s anger redoubled. ‘A traitor, in the Order?’

Reinhard thought about it. It was possible, of course, but an internal hunt for a traitor would not be beneficial. No, he needed unity. ‘I doubt it. It is more likely someone local or a traitor outside our ranks did this.’ He looked at Sighard intensely. ‘That is what I need you to do, that is the important task: find the traitor.’

Sighard stiffened and his eyes blazed with dark pleasure. ‘I will do my duty, the traitor will be found.’

‘I know you will, that is why I have chosen you.’

Sighard’s visage transformed, the resentment and frustration replaced with the cold, vicious anger that sometimes troubled Reinhard so much. This was a man capable of nearly anything, an unpredictability he disliked, but one he hoped to use to his advantage here.

‘So who will lead the hunt for the attackers? Will Grandsteward Hugues conduct the search?’

Reinhard pretended to muse on the question, then shook his head slyly. ‘Grandsteward Hugues is in Lund, keeping the peace in the south, and I do not expect him back before winter. No, best we do this ourselves, use someone we trust absolutely.’

‘Who then?’

Reinhard looked at the men of the escort, who were now spread out all around the square in groups. ‘How about the young man Brother Hartung. Is he here with us?’

Reinhard knew full well that Count Hartung was in the escort. He had made sure the young noble was kept close, ready for when he would be useful again. He decided that time had come.

‘Yes, shall I call him?’

‘Wait one moment. Tell me, what do you think of his progress since the… incident last year, has his overeagerness and zeal been tempered?’

Calling what Hartung had done – executing a prominent knight of Lothair’s Saxon contingent in the street for opposing the massacre of townsfolk – ‘overeager’ was stretching the meaning of the word somewhat.

‘He has done well, Grandmaster. He has grown in stature and judgement, but his zeal is not diminished. He is one of our most loyal and devoted men. He speaks of nothing but serving the Order and redeeming himself in your eyes.’

Reinhard tried not to look too satisfied. ‘Excellent, I am glad to hear it. Perhaps, then, he would be suitable for this task.’

‘He may not be ready to lead men in battle.’

‘It is not battle I require of him. Go ahead, call him over.’

Sighard stepped away and went to summon the young German noble, and Reinhard waited there alone for the moments it took for them to return.

‘Grandmaster!’ said Hartung with barely constrained hope and enthusiasm. ‘How may I serve?’

‘My boy, your service is already appreciated.’ He touched his finger to his chin thoughtfully. ‘Brother Sighard says you are ready to lead men again, with more wisdom and understanding this time.’

Hartung winced slightly at the implied criticism but nodded. ‘I believe I am, I have learned much from Brother Sighard, and from you.’

Reinhard gave a benevolent smile. ‘Good. Well, I need someone to hunt down the enemy who attacked us here. I need to know who they are, where they hide, if anyone helps or supports them. I am going to leave you here with fifty men, more will be sent later. You will have writs that allow you to travel wherever you need, take whatever supplies you need, and question whomsoever of the local population you choose. Even,’ and Reinhard held up a single finger to emphasise, ‘to use extreme methods to gain the answers you seek. And you may give justice to any you believe have aided the rebel cause, however small that aid may have been. You will be the Order’s sword of judgement and all good Christian men will expect revenge for this atrocity, and demand that you conduct it on their behalf. Am I clear?’

Hartung swelled with excitement. ‘Thank you, Grandmaster! It would be my pleasure to serve.’

‘Take note, Hartung, you are not to bring this enemy to battle. You will not have enough men, you do not have the experience. From you all that is required is to gather information that will allow us to find and destroy these rebels. Nor must you harm or menace any of our own people, if you are led to suspect any of them, you will report it to Brother Sighard, and we will take appropriate actions. There will be no repeat of the last incident, do you understand?’

Hartung looked contrite but he nodded. ‘I understand, Grandmaster.’

‘Good man. Now, go with Sighard and he will assign you the fifty men. You will have command of this fort until more men are sent. Start with the people of the town, and then the local area. Spare no effort, and find me what I want to know.’

Hartung nodded vigorously, and Reinhard proffered his hand, leading the young man to gratefully kiss his ring of office.

Then the two men went away and Reinhard was left alone once more with Bertrand standing at a polite distance. ‘Come over here, Bertrand,’ Reinhard said irritably. ‘I will need you to take note of these orders. Writs will need to be prepared giving Sighard and Hartung authority.’

‘Yes, Grandmaster.’

‘You heard all of it?’

‘Of course.’

‘Good.’ Reinhard looked at Bertrand, and saw his assistant was slightly troubled or perplexed.

‘What is it?’

‘Well, I don’t understand.’

‘That is often the case, what in particular don’t you grasp?’

‘Why Hartung, there must be men better suited? He is not a subtle man.’

Reinhard smiled like a man might smile at an ignorant child. ‘That is precisely why I have him and not Sighard tasked with this. I don’t want him to find the rebels, you foolish man. I want him to blunder around causing as much destruction as possible. The enemy will be far too canny to be discovered by him, but his reprisals will satisfy the bloodlust of the men of the Order. They won’t care who was responsible, only that the enemy pays in blood, large quantities of it, and quickly.’

Bertrand nodded slowly. ‘And his actions will continue to stir up the Norse against us.’

‘Precisely. And as they are stirred up, so we will gain the justification to exact harsher and harsher measures upon them as Duke Henry demands. Hartung’s appointment to this task will thus satisfy everyone. Sighard and the brothers will have their revenge and their support of me will be strengthened. I will have my justification for further clearance of the heathens, and Duke Henry will have his chaos.’

Bertrand smiled thinly. ‘As you say, Grandmaster.’

‘Then why did you doubt me, Bertrand? It really is most tiresome. Where men like you could only see disaster, I saw opportunity. That is why I am a bishop who may one day become Pope, and you are a priest with no prospects other than those I provide for you.’

‘Undoubtedly the truth, Grandmaster.’ Bertrand did not look the least bit offended, Reinhard’s degradations had never affected him other than to spur him to be more careful of his duties. They were the things Reinhard valued most in Bertrand; humility and discipline, for both were dear to the Lord.

Reinhard smiled, feeling satisfied for the first time in days. He briefly considered the importance of remaining humble himself, but the thought was quickly washed away with more pressing concerns.

He set off from the sad, ruined church without a glance back at the freshly dug graves. ‘Come, Bertrand. You need to find me quarters in the fort, and write out those orders. I want it to be done tomorrow morning so we can return to Uppsala. Winter is coming, and we have much to do before it falls.’

Bertrand gathered his robes in one hand and waddled after him. ‘Yes, Grandmaster.’

Part 2

On the host his spear did Othin hurl, Then in the world did war first come.

Völuspá, verse 23

Chapter 15

A legend Reborn

Lundjen, May 2017

‘Good evening, Mr Halfar,’ said the man with a cheery wave as he headed out of the employees’ exit near the back of the building.

‘Yes, ah… good evening!’ said Halfar with a cheery wave, trying to cover for the fact he could not remember the man’s name at that moment. It was difficult, after all, with so many new staff around the nearly complete museum wing. There had been endless electricians, builders, cleaners, security, conservators and visiting academics. Far more than Halfar could have expected.

The museum’s exhibits were nearly complete, and opening day was only three weeks away. His little museum in Røros had been emptied and closed, replaced with a tourist shop. It had saddened him, but now all his exhibits, combined with hundreds more, had been gathered together, carefully displayed in the huge and fabulously appointed museum wing purpose built and dedicated to displaying them.

True to his word, Felix Meyer had ensured nothing stood in their way, ensuring funding, permits and resources were secured, and clearing the way of red tape and nonsense the government was usually so fond of.

‘Are you staying late, Mr Halfar?’ the cheery staff member asked. Jens, that was his name… or was it? Yes. Jens. One of the new administrative assistants.

Halfar nodded. ‘Yes, Jens, I have a couple of things to see to before I go home.’

‘No problem, shall I let security know?’

‘Hmm, no, don’t worry, I’ll tell them,’ said Halfar with a wave, not wanting to inconvenience the man who was already late ending his shift.

Jens nodded and waved goodbye before leaving through the big glass double doors. Halfar waved back and then sighed contentedly, looking back towards the inner building.

Truthfully the late evenings were when Halfar most enjoyed his work at the museum. There was no one there to disturb him and he could get on with his tasks in peace. Or even just wander the halls, enjoying watching the transformation, step by step, from building site to finished museum.

Nor did he have a family to return home to. His artefacts had always been his comfort zone, and leaving the museum to go home sometimes appealed so little that he slept on the sofa in his generously sized office. Often enough that he had spare clothes and his toothbrush there. He considered staying that night, but left the decision until later.

He whistled a cheery tune as he walked back through the security door separating the back area from the public areas, and made his way into the 8th century.

He smiled at that little internal quip. The hall at the back of the museum was dedicated to the early Norse period, the earliest time for which any real history was recorded. Before that was only myths and scattered archaeological findings of the Nordic Iron Age, but few written records.

He walked happily past the exhibits on the Germanic gods and the origins of the Norse peoples, and past glass cabinets of archaeological treasures from that early time. Tools, weapons, some early runestones.

He sauntered through into the Viking age exhibit, the 9th-to-11th-century period of travel and conquest, and the vast array of weapons, tools, runestones and everyday items that had survived from that time.

He passed the section on trade and travel, and paused, looking down the crossroads that led to the Mythology section, where the stories and folklore of the Norse were preserved and explained. He would like to read all their information boards and check one more time that he was happy, but truly he knew he did not need to. Really he just wanted to go through and down into the centrepiece of the collection, the rotunda containing King Sigurd’s grave goods and the finds from Lake Bjørsjøen. The sword Ljós a Norðan was there, freshly installed in its glass security cabinet on a pedestal in the centre of the room so that people could look at it from all sides even as they read the panels that surrounded it, containing the entire saga of the Light of the North, and all that was known about the artefact and its context.

But that was just an indulgence. He had to go to his office and work on the visitors’ online guidebook materials. There was a deadline for the end of the week and he was behind.

With a sigh, he turned left instead, headed towards his ground floor office tucked into a corridor behind the trade and travel hall. He went through another open doorway and settled himself down to his computer, completely forgetting that he had meant to inform security that he was still on site.

Several hours later, and Halfar was satisfied with his work. He closed the document and stretched, glancing at his wall clock, eyes going wide as he saw that it was nearly midnight.

Well, that settles it. I’m sleeping here.

He went to the full-height cupboard at the back of the room, and reached up to pull down the blankets and sheet from the top shelf along with his overnight bag, making up the sofa into a makeshift bed and changing into a t-shirt that sufficed as sleepwear. He hung his bathrobe on the back of the door. He would need to be up early and shower in the employee changing rooms before everyone else arrived.

He got underneath his blankets and yawned, letting his mind wander as sleep came for him.

As his thoughts drifted, there was a distant, but distinct, shattering of glass. His eyes snapped open, and he tried to work out if what he had heard was real. He sat up in bed, listening intently, but heard nothing.

He thought about trying to go to sleep again, but his pulse was racing and he was sure he had heard something from inside the museum. Had one of the new glass cases not been correctly installed? There were no alarms going off, and the sound had come from inside the museum, not from the outer doors. Security outside was tight, and no one…

Halfar closed his eyes and cursed. He had forgotten to tell security that he was on site. He got up and scrabbled for his phone. The screen looked back at him mockingly, dead and dark. He had forgotten to charge it.

A string of internal curses went through him again. He always did this, getting so absorbed in his work that he forgot everything else. The landline connection in the office wasn’t hooked up yet, that was due to be done next week. No, he had no choice but to amble over to the security office and sheepishly find someone, get them to check out the noise he had heard.

He hoped they wouldn’t be too surprised when he turned up in his robe and slippers. He chuckled to himself at the thought as he pulled it on and headed out of his office.

The lights in most of the museum were off, which was normal. They were on timers, but there were enough security lights and fire-escape signs that he could easily see where he was going.

He took a shortcut through the trade and travel hall and towards the 8th century when there came a distinct sound of crunching glass, down to his left, from the rotunda.

He froze, suddenly aware he might not be alone in the museum. Then there was a muffled voice, and it sounded annoyed.

Was it security? Perhaps they had broken something on one of their patrols.

He was paralysed in indecision. He could either go to the security office, which was far past the rotunda, or sneak down and see for himself.

His internal monologue screamed at him to go to the security office and find someone, but he did what he so often did and ignored that voice, succumbing to his intense curiosity.

He padded down the aisle towards the rotunda, and heard a voice receding. The lights were dim in the room as he peered into it, but they were bright enough to show what had happened. His mouth opened in horror.

The glass case where Ljós a Norðan was kept was open, one panel completely removed. The missing panel had been set to one side and had fallen over, the big, armoured glass slab crashing against a small display case and smashing it, scattering tempered glass fragments everywhere.

The sword itself was missing from its cradle, and Halfar searched desperately for it with his eyes, suddenly spotting it leaning against a display panel, underneath the full-sized image of Gjaldir holding the boulder up, the famous climactic scene of the saga.

His heart hammered in his chest. Someone was stealing the sword.

He was about to turn and run for the security office, but then he looked back. The sword was right there, just a dozen yards away, and the rotunda was empty. They could be back at any moment and take it, but he could get it, he could save it.

He looked furtively around the room and noticed that other glass cases were open too. Sigurd’s axe was missing, and a glass panel that should have protected it was just leaning against the open case.

Why weren’t the alarms sounding?

He shook the thought from his head. It didn’t matter. He had to save the sword before the thieves returned for it.

He padded over towards the sword, making his way around the panels, cursing the circular railing system that would guide visitors around in an orderly fashion, but doubled the length of his terrifying journey.

He made it to the sword and, his hand shaking visibly, he wrapped his fist gently around the hilt and lifted it, turning to leave even as he heard quiet voices coming from the next room.

A gust of wind came from somewhere, maybe through the open doors the thieves had entered though, and Halfar was certain he heard the cry of a bird, a raven cawing, and felt the passing of wingbeats as he stood stock still in terror, looking at the panel of glass resting precariously against the open case that should have contained Sigurd’s axe.

The panel shifted in the gust of wind and teetered. Halfar willed it with his mind to stay, but it mocked his wishes and slowly toppled, thundering to the floor with a rending crash.

Halfar closed his eyes and scrunched them together in mental pain, not daring to breathe as the crash reverberated around the room.

‘What the hell? Again?’ said an angry voice, and then loud footsteps approached from the adjoining room.

Halfar looked around in panic, but there was nowhere to go, and he pressed himself against the information panel containing the image of Gjaldir and clung to the sword, holding it against his chest, hand wrapped around the hilt.

Two men appeared past his left shoulder, just two paces away, looking into the room and missing him as they stared at the shattered glass.

‘What the hell?’ said one of them. They were dressed all in black, even in that dark room, and were wearing hoods.

Halfar didn’t breathe, didn’t move, but he could hear his heart pounding and feel his legs shaking and he knew they must surely hear it too.

One of them turned suddenly, as if he had felt Halfar’s eyes on the back of his neck, and stared right at him.

‘Hey!’ the man shouted, even more surprised than Halfar, and stepped forwards to make a clumsy grab at him.

‘No!’ shrieked Halfar, strength suddenly rushing up his arm as he held the sword, his body filled with indignation and rage at the sight of the two men who were stealing his life’s work.

He stepped back, right foot hitting the panel behind him, and raised the sword, staring wide eyed at the man who was coming at him. ‘Get away!’ he shouted shrilly.

The man just stopped, confounded, and then stepped forwards again. ‘Give me the… Arghh!!’ he shouted, reeling back and clutching at his forearm as blood sprang from a gash in his sleeve.

Halfar looked down in shock to find that his hand had been the one that had slashed the thief with the sword, without thought or intent, and the blade was pointing at the ground, blood spattering its edge.

He felt a rush of horror and excitement.

The second man tried to come at him, with more intent this time, and Halfar howled at him, empowered by a righteous anger and terror, and swiped clumsily at him with the ancient blade, catching an outstretched hand on the way across, gashing it, and then connecting with a shoulder on the way back in.

His attacker roared with anger and pain, snatching his injured hand back and retreating, cursing and promising Halfar every type of painful death.

Halfar did not listen though, did not hear the words, he just felt the rush of adrenaline and vigour and advanced on his attackers, swinging and lashing out wildly with the ancient artefact, and the two injured men retreated and cowered before him, until the first one panicked and turned to run.

‘Get out!’ Halfar screamed at the top of his voice, swinging again at the second man, who backed up and had no answer.

‘OUT!’ Halfar roared, reaching out again with the blade, both hands clasped around the metal hilt and feeling it bounce off the man’s thigh.

That settled it, and with a last look of fury, the second man turned to run, hobbling away on his newly creased leg, shouting at the first man to wait for him.

Halfar stopped, his hands suddenly losing all their strength and the sword feeling like it weighed a dozen kilos in his enfeebled grip. He breathed heavily in and out, panting like he had just run a marathon, and heard the slamming of a vehicle door and the screeching of tyres.

He ambled into the next room, which was the exhibition of the transitional era at the end of the Viking age, and saw that the attackers were gone, and the exit doors stood wide open.

He looked around and saw a pair of fuel cans standing by the door along with tools and some boxes. His eyes widened in horror.

He walked over, carefully cradling the sword in both arms, and peered into the top box. It was open, and Sigurd’s axe lay inside.

Muttering angrily, he scooped up the precious artefact in his other hand and looked around furtively. He felt weak and exhausted as the adrenaline drained from him, and his mind was clouded. All that mattered to him was getting those two precious artefacts to safety.

Ah, security!

He walked breathlessly towards the office, and found the door open and no one there. He got over his confusion at that and found a phone, a working phone, on their desk.

Carefully laying down the ancient weapons on the desk, and with hands that refused to stop shaking, he dialled the number for the police.

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Halfar, sitting in the hospital waiting room as a frantic-looking Hallsson tried to calm him.

‘Sorry for what?’ Hallsson said, looking concerned and putting a hand on his shoulder. Halfar’s right hand was bandaged. He had cut it quite badly on the corroded and naked hilt of the ancient sword during his insane fight with the would-be thieves.

‘I damaged a priceless artefact!’ said Halfar, on the verge of tears. ‘Dear God, I used it as a weapon!’

Hallsson laughed, shaking his head. ‘Halfar, it is a weapon, and you saved it!’

‘I shouldn’t have done that,’ Halfar said, shaking his head, still feeling the wave of panic anew. ‘I should have gone to security.’

‘Security wasn’t there,’ Hallsson said, all trace of amusement fading from his face.

‘Why weren’t they there?’ Halfar said indignantly.

‘We aren’t sure. They were a private firm, employed by the ministry. I’m trying to get hold of Felix but he isn’t answering. Not surprising really. It’s the middle of the night. You are lucky I was reachable.’

At that moment, Inspector Schulz came back into the room, looking grim and officious. He had already taken Halfar’s initial statement, and then left him to make some calls.

‘Oh, this doesn’t look good,’ said Hallsson, seeing the inspector’s look.

‘I’m sorry,’ Schulz said quietly, bringing a chair over. ‘This was a very serious attack, fortunately it seems to be over, and everything is accounted for, but I don’t yet know how it happened.’

‘Where were the security people?’ Halfar said.

‘We don’t know. They are not on site and it looks like they left early in the evening.’

‘Lazy bastards,’ Halfar said. ‘They are supposed to be twenty-four hours a day! Why did they go home early?’

‘I don’t wish to speculate, Mr Asleson, but I don’t think it was a coincidence.’

Halfar’s face fell. ‘You mean…’

‘Yes. The security were called away.’

‘Why?’

‘We don’t know.’

‘By who?’

‘We don’t know.’

‘Well, what do you know?’ said Halfar, feeling enraged again.

Schulz looked at him sympathetically. ‘We are in the very early stages of the investigation. I have sent officers to wake the minister, and to secure the museum. You are safe, the collection is safe, that is all that matters at the moment. Don’t worry, I have significant resources being brought to bear on this already. There will be half a dozen detectives working on this by the morning. We will discover the truth.’

‘And what about the sword?’ Halfar said. ‘The museum needs it back.’

Schulz nodded sympathetically. ‘The sword is a key piece of evidence, it has blood from at least one of your attackers on it, perhaps both, according to your testimony. We need to process that evidence to identify them.’ Schulz held his hand up to forestall Halfar’s rising outburst. ‘But I am aware of your concerns, that we must clean the artefact as soon as possible to avoid damaging it further. My lab people will work with Professor Hallsson to ensure it is properly handled and cared for.’

He looked to Hallsson, who nodded studiously. ‘I will do that.’

‘Hmph,’ said Halfar. ‘I want it back before opening day!’

‘I will do my best, within the legal boundaries,’ said Schulz.

‘So what now, what do we do?’ Halfar said.

Schulz rose to his feet. ‘You go and sleep, Mr Asleson. Let me handle this from here.’

Halfar grumbled, then his eyes narrowed. ‘Do you think this was those criminals who call themselves the brotherhood again?’

Schulz pursed his lips and considered it carefully. ‘We are considering multiple lines of investigation,’ he said guardedly. But then he nodded slightly. ‘But unofficially? Yes, I suspect so. This attack was well organised and required significant resources and planning.’

‘Significant?’ said Halfar, looking confused.

‘Yes. Look, Mr Asleson, I know you want answers now, it is only natural, but please, go and rest. Be assured I will come and update you the moment I can.’

Halfar stared indignantly at the man for a while longer, and then relented. ‘Fine. But I expect to see you on Monday at the latest! We still have an opening day to achieve and I won’t tolerate this preventing that.’

Schulz gave a thin smile and a knowing look at Hallsson. ‘I will try not to disappoint you. You have my number if you remember anything else.’

Then the inspector left the room, and Halfar looked at Hallsson bitterly. ‘This is going to delay opening day, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ said Hallsson with a confident nod.

‘Then why didn’t he admit it?’

Hallsson laughed, and patted his fiery little friend on the shoulder. ‘After what you did to those thieves? I suspect he just didn’t have the courage.’

Chapter 16

The Game of Thrones

Aachen, capital of the Holy Roman Empire

March AD 1122

Duke Lothair craned his neck discreetly in his seat to watch as the great door to the central nave at Aachen Cathedral closed, signifying that the emperor was about to arrive.

The great octagonal space reverberated to the sound of the door shutting, and then, on the upper level at the rear of the church, opposite the altar, a pair of heralds appeared with a quartet of horn players in the emperor’s livery.

The horn players raised their instruments to the silent gathering and played a rising note to get the attention they already had. The noise was almost painful in the magnificent but relatively small space, and the twin heralds waited a moment before they spoke in unison.

‘All will stand for Henry the most serene, King of the Germans, King of the Italians, and by the grace of God Emperor of the Romans. All will stand!’

The ranks of the assembled nobles of the empire dutifully rose to their feet and waited, all eyes on the balcony behind them, where the emperor would soon appear.

There was a moment where nothing happened, and then the royal entourage shuffled into view in procession, carrying the imperial regalia and tokens of Henry’s authority, his banner, and his crown.

Finally, the emperor himself appeared. But he did not approach the railing that marked the edge of the upper level, he just looked out over the room once and then went to sit on the plain white marble throne in the recessed space, where he dropped out of sight of most of those in the nave beneath.

Lothair’s brows knitted at the strange appearance, and he turned to look at his vassals Conrad and Otto, standing beside him, who met his querying gaze with blank expressions.

But they were in the midst of the great men of the empire, and it was no moment to gossip. The archbishop of Aachen moved to the front of the altar to begin the service, and Lothair sighed as he settled in for what was going to be a long and boring afternoon.

He finally had a moment to speak to them quietly as they funnelled out of the lower level of the Cathedral at the end of the service. Lothair, along with Duke Henry of Bavaria, Duke Conrad of Franconia, Duke Frederich of Swabia, Duke Simon of Lorraine and Margrave Leopold of Austria had been summoned to a personal audience with the emperor on the upper level at his throne, to pay their respects and reaffirm their loyalty in each other’s presence.

That was, in itself, unusual. Typically at these ceremonies Henry and the emperors that preceded him would have invited a much broader range of the empire’s nobility to come and profess their support.

‘Did you see the emperor’s face? He looked unwell.’

Conrad nodded discreetly. ‘Yes, but he always looks unwell.’

Lothair grunted in assent. ‘I thought he seemed worse this time.’

‘He is a weak man who does not fight, does not hunt, does not even drink. Of course he looks worse. A man needs such things to prosper,’ said Count Otto derisively, and Lothair frowned slightly at the outburst. It would not do to have anyone hear such words said about the emperor.

Lothair did not feel the need to press the point, or risk inciting further incendiary remarks from his vassal. Regardless, he had other things on his mind at this great meeting, foremost of all the situation with his newly granted lands in the conquered provinces of the North, and his rivalry with Duke Henry, who sought to control those provinces through his manipulation and patronage of the Order of the Brothers of Christ’s Light, the most powerful military force in the North.

The struggle between the two dukes for supremacy in the conquered provinces was just one part of a wider contest for power in the empire, as both men positioned themselves to be the heir apparent in case the childless emperor died. It was a game with an uncertain prize considering the fact that Henry was younger than both of the dukes. But the emperor’s sickly nature, and the benefit of being seen as the likely successor, made the efforts and risk worthwhile to both men.

They climbed the curved stairs towards the upper level behind Duke Frederich of Swabia and his closest vassals. Duke Frederich, and his brother Duke Conrad of Franconia, were the Emperor Henry’s nephews, closest allies and most fervent supporters. Frederich, the elder, was regarded by Henry’s political faction as the natural successor to the throne in the event of Henry’s death. Lothair’s faction had other ideas.

They reached the upper level and stood waiting in uncomfortable silence, the men present representing most of the military and political power at the empire’s disposal, forced to await the pleasure of the emperor.

Finally they were called through to the balcony around the throne, where Henry sat swaddled and hunched in his finery, cutting a rather pathetic figure, almost swallowed by his robes.

Lothair could barely hide his shock. The emperor was clearly wearing a deal of makeup, almost making him look like a market-day actor rather than the most powerful man in Europe. The rosy makeup could not disguise that his skin was sallow, stretched over his bones, and that his eyes were sunken and dim.

Henry nodded at them as they appeared, and tried to raise himself in his throne. He did not speak. One by one the six great princes of the empire were called forwards by the herald and allowed to give their voice of support, and Henry held his gloved hand out to allow them to kiss it. Lothair felt the weakness of Emperor Henry’s grip as he kissed the soft glove, and the bony thinness of the fingers concealed within.

Henry did not speak beyond formalities, and did not hold court to hear questions or complaints, or ask about the state of their duchies and provinces. Once the barest ceremony of allegiance was over, he simply announced he was taking his leave, and his entourage escorted him from the room, the emperor standing on his own but unsteady as he shuffled out in his robes.

Once he was gone, they all stood around the throne of mighty Charlemagne in shocked silence, before Duke Frederich coughed and stood by the marble steps, seeking their attention.

‘My uncle has asked me to attend to the usual matters of state today, as he has been taken with an illness and needs his rest.’

‘What illness? If the emperor is so ill, why were we not informed? This is a danger to the whole empire, and we were not warned?’ said Lothair with a tinge of anger.

‘We did not wish to inspire rumour or panic,’ said Frederich with a haughty air. ‘It was best you saw him yourselves.’

‘It sounds like you planned this, how long have you known of this illness?’ Duke Henry asked, eyeing Frederich suspiciously.

Frederich waved the question away nervously. ‘His grace has been ill for some months.’

‘So it is more than just a passing illness,’ Margrave Leopold said with a worried tone.

Frederich nodded curtly. ‘It would seem so.’

There was a burble of chatter amongst the dukes at that startling admission, for the emperor’s nephew to admit the seriousness of the emperor’s illness in such terms was shocking indeed.

‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ Frederich called, trying to control the small audience. ‘We must conduct the business of empire nonetheless. We must speak of the Italian campaign against the rebels.’

‘The campaign against the rebels is nothing but a distraction, the only subject we need to discuss is the security of the empire in the event the emperor’s illness progresses!’ said Leopold.

‘What do you mean by progresses?’ Duke Conrad said in outrage.

‘We all know exactly what he means,’ said Henry.

The words reduced the gathering to silence. The idea had been said out loud, and it could not be purged. The emperor was quite possibly dying. Those words had started a new phase of politics in the empire. The time of jockeying for position to become the heir was over, the fight to be pronounced the new emperor had begun in earnest, far sooner than any of them expected.

Suddenly the six great lords were eyeing each other the way dogs might before considering a fight. Frederich was the first to raise his hackles and try to force the others to back down.

‘There is no cause for alarm or disruption. The emperor has made his plans, and entrusts the management of his realm to me. If, by some terrible fate, he is taken from us, I am ready, with his full support, to step into his place.’ Frederich looked around the room, daring anyone to speak up against him, looking certain of his position.

‘The emperor has named you heir?’ Duke Simon asked cautiously.

‘Yes,’ Frederich said with a confident nod.

‘There is no such thing,’ Lothair snapped. ‘As you all well know. The next emperor will be chosen by imperial election when the throne becomes vacant, as Henry and his father before him were chosen. There is no heir.’

‘Lothair, be reasonable, the crown passed from father to son. Yes, it was by election, but it was decided in advance,’ said the Duke of Franconia. ‘And my brother has the support of the throne, and of Franconia.’

‘And no one else,’ said Henry drily. ‘I must agree with Duke Lothair. Nothing is decided until the election, there is no heir, and you are not Henry’s son. There is no law or tradition that the seat of Charlemagne must pass to a nephew.’

‘I am the continuation of the royal lineage!’ protested Frederich, clearly shocked by the open resistance to his pronouncement.

‘A lineage that will die with the emperor. A lineage that came to power after the second Emperor Henry died childless a hundred years ago. As it was then, so it is now. An election will found a new dynasty, not your uncle’s proclamation,’ said Lothair, and Frederich went bright red in outrage.

‘Traitor!’ shouted one of Frederich’s vassals, pointing his finger at Lothair. ‘The emperor has made his choice and all loyal men will support it!’

There was uproar in the chamber as the vassals of the various dukes shouted at each other, and even the staid Count Conrad joined in, gesturing above the chaos at the count from eastern Germany who had initiated it. ‘Retract your accusation or be dammed by it!’ Conrad thundered, but his protest was lost in the din.

Finally Lothair and Frederich managed to get their overprotective vassals under control, and the shouting subsided to a general staring and muttering. Frederich looked utterly shocked and dishevelled. He was a young man for his position, and clearly out of his depth with his clumsy attempt to secure power.

Duke Henry, on the other hand, looked calm and thoughtful, his eyes flicking between Lothair and Frederich.

‘You do not have enough support to proclaim yourself heir, my friend,’ Henry finally said, shaking his head at the Duke of Swabia. ‘It was a foolish attempt that betrayed your unpreparedness.’

‘And who would be emperor instead, then, this hotheaded upstart Lothair? By God, ten years ago he was barely a count. He comes from no family, no family at all! It would disgrace the throne to have him sit upon it,’ the Duke of Franconia retorted.

‘Calm, gentlemen. Calm,’ said Frederich, desperately trying to control the room.

‘An upstart count who earned his place through skill and power would be preferable to a man barely out of childhood, who never earned a thing in his life,’ said Lothair with an ironic bow to the much younger duke.

Frederich looked at Henry oddly, ignoring his brother and Lothair’s argument. ‘You mean you propose yourself as a candidate?’ he said in shock.

Henry thought about it for a moment, considering his words, but then he nodded carefully. ‘I do.’

‘You have been a duke for barely two years!’ said Frederich in horror. ‘Gentlemen, this is outrageous. I am the clear choice, by blood and by experience. I have the support of the emperor and my family’s duchies.’

‘The two least important duchies in the empire, and a man who will not be alive to see the election. It is not enough, Frederich, and the fact you do not understand that betrays your inadequacy for the task,’ Lothair said, grinning at Henry as Frederich deflated like a punctured bladder. ‘No, the contest will be between Duke Henry and me, and I am thrilled he is finally honest about it. He has been hiding his intentions for years, a cowardly strategy born of greed and desperation.’

All eyes fixed on Henry now, because it seemed Lothair was the only one in the room who had known Henry intended to try to be elected as the next emperor.

Henry looked around the room and smiled confidently. His candidacy might have been drawn out early, but he was not letting that show. ‘Indeed. I am the perfect candidate.’

‘In what way?’ asked Duke Simon of Lorraine carefully. Neither he nor Margrave Leopold of Austria had any real chance of election, but they might hold the balance of power in terms of support and influence.

‘Well, Duke Lothair has your tentative support, I believe.’

Simon did not react, but he looked nervously at Lothair.

Henry smiled. ‘Exactly. And Lothair also has the largest and most powerful duchy, he has much of the new Northern provinces, but yet he cannot win an election against you, Duke Frederich, without the support of your brother, who would never do so, or me, who would likewise never give it.’

‘So support me, and my election is guaranteed,’ huffed Frederich.

Henry smiled and politely shook his head. ‘I do not believe I will, and if I did, I suspect Lothair would not accept the results, which could split the empire in two.’

There was a sharp intake of breath. It was a serious allegation, that Lothair could rebel against the empire. However, it was made significantly less outrageous by the fact Lothair had done so twice already; once in support of the Emperor Henry’s ascent to the throne, then once opposing him several years later, and threatened it openly on at least two other occasions. Lothair had made rebellion something of a hobby.

Lothair did not even look annoyed, he did not mind the rest of the great lords worrying about him rising against them. In fact he relied on the fear that idea infused.

‘So,’ said Henry, looking around. ‘Neither of you can win, and I am the solution. I believe I am not abhorrent to anyone except Duke Lothair. I have never rebelled against the throne and never would. I am wealthy, I am well respected, and I have the ear of his holiness the Pope, who we seek to remain on good terms with since the end of the recent period of conflict with Rome. It is true that within Germany Bavaria does not hold the same power as Saxony, perhaps even as Swabia or Franconia, but I alone wield significant power in Italy. Of all of us, I would be the emperor that could unite and expand the empire’s power most effectively.’ He smiled thinly at them all as they digested it.

Frederich looked at his brother in mild horror, and Duke Conrad shook his head. ‘You are the least important and least experienced duke in the empire, we will not elect you simply because you have support in Italy or out of fear of Duke Lothair.’

‘I agree,’ rumbled Frederich.

Simon and Leopold looked at each other nervously. Their realms were on the extreme east and west of the empire, isolated by potential enemies if they chose the wrong side.

‘Your claim to be the best option for the stability of the empire is somewhat undercut by the reports we hear of continuing trouble in the Northern provinces you supposedly pacified during the Crusades,’ said Leopold. ‘Churches destroyed and desecrated, men of the cloth burned alive, outrages and massacres against our people. If you cannot keep the peace in a single province, how can you do so in the whole empire?’

Henry looked like he had been physically struck. ‘My friend Leopold, it is just some bandits and troublemakers, soon to be dealt with. Besides, it is in Lothair’s demesne, not mine.’

‘But the Order is charged with keeping the peace in the entire province, and the protection of our sacred places and our priesthood and pilgrims.’

‘The Order is under the control of the papacy,’ Henry said with a feigned shrug of regret.

‘Don’t expect to win them over with an obvious lie, Henry,’ Lothair said reproachfully. ‘We are all well aware that you control the Order through your proxy: Grandmaster Reinhard.’

Actually, Lothair wasn’t sure the other dukes knew that to be the case, but revealing that information so confidently surely would confirm any rumours or suspicions. Henry gave Lothair a look that would have melted lead, and Lothair merely smiled sweetly.

Henry looked back and found all the rest of the dukes looking at him dubiously, and he nodded. ‘It is true that I have some influence over their activities, but not absolute control as Lothair claims.’

The defence was weak, and Lothair saw the blow had landed hard. Henry’s confident proclamation of candidacy was punctured. Now all three of them had no immediate path forwards, and the argument would only weaken them all, which was to Lothair’s advantage. He needed time.

Lothair made all these calculations in his head, and saw the very guarded Henry was looking unusually nervous. He grabbed his chance to be the politician. ‘Gentlemen, all this talk is premature and inappropriate. Declaring candidacy for a throne that has an occupant, one we are all loyal to, is beneath us. Duke Henry would be well advised not to go around declaring that he intends to be the emperor without the current one’s approval, lest rumours of potential treachery abound. I will not, despite what you may believe, consider announcing my own possible candidacy until the appropriate time.’ He said that with a smile that left no one present in any doubt that he did, in fact, already think of himself as a candidate.

Lothair gave Henry his most withering smile. ‘You are new to this, Henry, but you will learn.’

To Henry’s visible fury, several of the other dukes murmured their agreement, and Lothair basked in the humiliation of his adversary. He turned to Frederich. ‘Now, you wished to speak about the Italian rebels?’

‘That went rather well, I thought,’ said Lothair to Otto and Conrad with a smile as they left the cathedral into the frigid winter air and were finally free to talk. ‘Henry was drawn into announcing his position prematurely, a serious error. He may have lost his credibility entirely now. He never normally makes such mistakes, God, how it will rankle with him.’

‘I wouldn’t rule him out so easily,’ Conrad said with a look of concern. ‘The emperor may be ill, but there is no guarantee he will die from it.’

‘True, my friend, very true. And of course we do not hope for that tragic fate.’ Lothair managed not to outright grin while he said it. ‘However, we must plan as if he will. Frederich’s candidacy is dead. He is a hopeless man and everyone knows it. It is Henry we must weaken. The issue with the resistance in the North is where he is weak. That blow was well struck by Leopold, I could kiss him for it. Henry manoeuvred himself so carefully to take all the credit for the success of the Crusades, but he must also be responsible for any failings. We must make sure of that.’

Lothair turned to the two counts. ‘Tell me, how bad is it up there?’

‘Awful,’ said Otto bitterly. ‘I keep losing men to their raids and ambushes, with no end in sight. Even the people that are supposedly compliant are surly, workshy and troublesome.’

‘That bad? And you, Conrad?’

‘It is not so bad in my lands, I have the fortune of being in a less wild area than my friend Otto. But still there are problems.’ Conrad looked uncomfortable. ‘I think there is something I probably should have told you before. I didn’t want you to be involved in case it was compromising.’

Lothair looked at him with curiosity. ‘Oh, yes?’

‘Baron Hugues asked me to help him… cause some more trouble.’

Otto looked outraged. ‘He asked you to what? Hugues is working against us?’

‘Not exactly, be calm, my friend. No, not against us, against the Order.’

‘Why in seven hells would Hugues want to cause more trouble for the Order?’ Otto asked in disbelief.

‘Because he believes the Order is avoiding dealing with the trouble and wanted to spur them into action. Don’t you get that sense that they are avoiding ending the trouble, Otto?’

Otto paused and bit his lip as he thought about it. ‘Well, they have not been especially helpful. I find them to be arrogant and unresponsive to my requests, making promises and not keeping them. Grandmaster Reinhard is very irksome indeed, downright disrespectful.’

Conrad continued, ‘Well, Hugues believes that is deliberate, at the direction of Bishop Reinhard.’ He looked at Lothair and Lothair suddenly understood.

‘Which means it is the policy of Duke Henry.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why is Duke Henry trying to make the resistance to our rule worse?’ said Lothair, thinking it through. ‘We own most of the land, he very little. Is this an attack to weaken us financially, drain our military strength?’

‘Yes. I think it is. Hugues did not opine on the matter and I did not ask, but that is the obvious reason. I think Henry wants the provinces to descend into chaos, negating any power or wealth that we could gain from them, while barely hurting his own interests.’

‘The slippery bastard,’ said Lothair with a smile. ‘Well, that makes sense if he is considering the long game. Preventing me from building up power in the North over the next decade would, indeed, weaken me. But he had obviously not considered the possibility of the short-term effect on his credibility. Why would he? None of us believed the emperor was about to die. No, this changes everything. So, Conrad, what did Baron Hugues ask you to do?’

Conrad looked uncomfortable. ‘He asked me to help the rebels conduct an attack on the Order, a massacre to inflame their passions and force the Order to deal with the rebels.’

Lothair’s eyebrows shot up. ‘That is an extraordinary request, and you accepted it?’

Conrad nodded regretfully. ‘I did, I apologise. I really just enjoyed the idea of thwarting my brother, I did not fully consider the effect on your position.’

‘And it has already happened?’

‘Yes.’

‘Hmm. What were you and Hugues going to do once this attack on the Order was complete?’

‘Turn on the rebels and crush them if they become too troublesome. I’m sorry, it was a foolish thing to keep from you.’

‘Yes, you should have told me about this before, I would have forbade it. Lucky for me you did not tell me then.’

‘What?’

‘Things have changed. Our interests inherently oppose Henry’s. If this chaos is now bad for him, it’s good for us. No, don’t turn on the rebels.’

‘What do you mean? What do you want me to do?’ asked Conrad, nervously.

Lothair looked around at the empty street where they stood at the back of the royal compound behind the cathedral, checking they were truly alone, but no one else was out in the winter evening. Then he turned to the two counts and nodded to them, smiling darkly. ‘I want you to support the rebels and bandits further, secretly, as much as you can. I want you to encourage them, give them information, equipment and food even, aid them in any way in their attacks on the Order. I want you to help them burn the Order to the ground. It will weaken Henry fatally.’

Otto made a sharp intake of breath and looked at his duke in shock. ‘But if we are successful in stoking this rebellion against the Order, that violence will spill over against us too. We will lose men to this, we will lose control of settlements and our income such as it is will disappear. Everything we have been striving to build will be destroyed.’

Lothair shook his head. ‘Yes, but it doesn’t matter any more. The next emperor will probably be crowned far sooner than we expected. That is the prize now: the throne. The Northern provinces were only a long path to reach it that no longer matters. All that is important now is making Henry look weak in the eyes of the other electors.’ His eyes glittered and he softly hammered one fist into an open palm, his whole body rippling with excitement.

‘I want you to help set the North aflame, and I will work here to ensure the blame lies at Henry’s feet. Burn it, burn it all, but keep your involvement a closely guarded secret. Revelation will destroy us. And do not worry for your incomes, I will compensate you richly for your losses once I am emperor, I promise. The duchy of Saxony will be available to a loyal man, after all.’

The two counts straightened and stared at each other in sudden hostility.

Lothair laughed and put a hand on each man’s shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, friends, do not turn on each other to compete for it.’ Then he leaned in to whisper to them. ‘After all, once I am crowned, I have a suspicion Bavaria will need a new duke shortly thereafter.’

Chapter 17

A Son Rising

South of Tuna

April AD 1122

Hartung shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, watching his men with a carefully stern expression, one that mimicked Sir Sighard. He had spent quite some time with Sighard in the nearly three years since the incident where he had ordered the arrest of Sir Dietmar, his old tutor and guardian, for trying to save some Norse villagers who were hiding weapons. An order that had led to Dietmar’s death. He still could not understand why Dietmar had been willing to die for the pagan peasants, it bewildered him. Perhaps the older knight had simply gone soft after too many years of war.

Whatever the reasons for the incident, the humiliation heaped on him afterwards still infuriated him, and although the white-hot rage had dulled with time, sometimes it still bubbled to the surface. His father Adolf had been a count, a powerful one and a respected war leader, but he had been treated like a badly behaved boy just because Dietmar had been too stubborn to follow orders. Hartung hadn’t ordered the proud knight’s death, he had wanted to take him to Bishop Reinhard alive to answer for interfering with Hartung’s duties, but Dietmar had refused to be taken, and had chosen to fight instead.

When the German knight fell dying to the ground, Hartung had felt a rush of fear and excitement. The men of the brotherhood had followed his commands, no matter how difficult. It had pleased him, awakened him to a feeling of power and control that he had never attained before while his father lived.

But Dietmar’s death, however justified in Hartung’s eyes, had been a political problem for Bishop Reinhard. The Order’s Grandmaster had patiently explained to Hartung that good judgement and political awareness were as important as justice, and to temper his passion and ambition with calculation and forethought.

The bishop had told him that he would have to be removed from power and view for a while, to be seen to serve his penance until the affair was forgotten. Reinhard had promised that when the time came, he would once again be called to serve and to lead, but until then, he would be discreet and patient, and learn from serving Sir Sighard.

Hartung had accepted this; serving a lower man such as Sir Sighard. He had hidden from the world the pain it caused his pride and done his duty, trusting Reinhard to be good to his word and elevate him again.

Now his time had come. He was twenty-one, old enough to be a man in the eyes of everyone who mattered, but young enough to still feel insecure about his age. He needed to go home and press his claim to his father’s lands and titles, but to do that he needed the support of men like Bishop Reinhard, and to gain Reinhard’s support he first had to serve him well. A reputation as a successful military commander and devout man of the Crusade would also help him, so all his interests aligned in being the best servant of the Order that he could be.

When Reinhard had finally summoned him to give him a new command, a new holy quest to extract revenge for the massacre of the priests and the burning of the church at Ekeby and then hunt down the perpetrators, he had been overcome with joy and appreciation. This was his chance to prove himself, and he could not afford to fail, nor lose the respect and fear of his men and risk further disobedience.

So he sat on his horse and adopted the hard, calculating stare that he had seen Sir Sighard deploy so effectively. The stare that seemed to brook no dissent, contain no compassion or empathy, just righteous dedication to duty, and hid his roiling emotions and worries within.

For a month they had burned and killed, reaping the toll of divine retribution and justice in the lands around Ekeby, repaying a dozen-fold the death and destruction visited on the Order and burning half a dozen villages and farms until the Order’s thirst for revenge had been slaked. Now the hunt was on for the true perpetrators of the outrage, and he was prowling the region, following sightings and reports of raids, and questioning the locals.

He had seventy men combing this small village, looking for rebels, weapons, suspiciously large amounts of food – anything he could question them about. It didn’t matter to him what his men found, he only wanted an excuse to put someone to the question, find people to punish or execute, or better yet, someone who actually knew where the rebels carrying the sword Ljós a Norðan were hiding.

Hartung did not care much for the sword itself, he had only seen it a couple of times before the fool Roland had lost it. His burning desire to find the sword and its wielder was entirely driven by its value as a symbol. The degenerate pagans of the North saw it as their beacon of hope, the faithful of the Crusade as a divine symbol of God’s favour. If he was the man to capture it back, not only would he earn Reinhard’s unlimited favour, but also earn a reputation he could trade on to gain allies in his quest to secure his father’s inheritance.

That was all he needed; the sword, then he could be gone from the cold, sapping wilderness of the North that he despised so much, and return to the power, wealth and comfort of his native Saxony.

‘Brother Hartung?’

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound, and he realised one of his men had approached him unnoticed while he was musing. He strengthened his affected scowl a little and nodded sharply. ‘What is it? What have you found?’

‘Nothing much. A few long knives, an old shield, some men who look like they might be familiar with weapons.’

Hartung’s scowl became more genuine. ‘But we heard from the previous village that the rebels might have passed this way.’

The man looked awkwardly at Hartung’s horse. ‘The man who said that, we were putting the knives to him, he might have said it just to make us leave. Another woman said they had been seen in the west, going the other direction.’

‘But she confessed she was lying under the knife.’

‘Maybe they were both lying,’ the soldier said with a shrug. ‘Shall we put a few of these ones to the question?’

Hartung ground his teeth in frustration. He had assumed it would be easy to find information about the elusive Gjaldir and his warband of rebels, but all they heard were rumours, obvious exaggerations, and sightings that turned out to be false. He had learned people would say anything to stop his steel-enforced questions, and it was extremely hard to tell the truth from desperate lies. In several months of searching since winter receded, his men had not even sighted the rebels. As far as he knew, he had not even come close. The land they were searching was vast, and covered in hills, forests and lakes. You could pass two armies within five miles of each other and both might never become aware of the other’s presence.

What he was doing wasn’t working and he needed to change his tactics. He wanted to drag every damn peasant from their homes and eviscerate them one by one until someone told him what he needed to know, but these were Conrad’s lands, and he could not continue to eliminate entire villages on a whim. Not without a good reason, anyway. Reinhard’s instructions to temper his instincts with good judgement rang in his ears.

But he had latitude to take some extreme measures, short of mass extermination.

‘Did any of the fighting-age men have families? Wives, daughters?’

The man thought about it. ‘I think so.’

‘Good, bring several of them. We will see if we can use them to extract the truth where steel and fire did not.’

Three men with a total of eight women of varying ages were brought before him. Hartung glared at the piteous group as the men were forced to the ground with their families around them.

He looked at his translator, a heavyset and permanently morose man whose name Hartung had not bothered to learn.

‘I want to know where the rebel called Gjaldir and his men are. They have raided in this area in the last few weeks, someone must know where they are or how to find them.’

The translator nodded and relayed it to the group. There was immediately a babbling of worried voices and what Hartung could tell without translation were protestations of ignorance.

‘They don’t know,’ said the dull translator.

‘They claim not to know,’ Hartung corrected him tiredly. ‘Tell them that unless they give me information, their families will be taken away as servants of the Order, and they will never see them again. See if that helps loosen their tongues.’

There was another, more panicked round of babbling as the men argued and pleaded with the translator, who had done this enough times that he no longer looked ashamed or upset as he tried to persuade the men to talk. He had good reason to behave, his own family were hostages of the Order in Uppsala.

‘Well?’ asked Hartung impatiently.

‘They all claim different things,’ said the translator with a shrug. ‘I don’t believe any of them.’

Hartung sighed. ‘We will check each of their claims, if any of them are wrong, we will not only kill that man’s family, but those of the other two men also.’

The translator looked at Hartung for a moment after he finished speaking, his face a mask of emotionless defeat, and then he turned to the men.

The three Norse were shocked, and Hartung watched them carefully. One of them looked at the others and shook his head fearfully, the second just looked forlorn, and the third furious. The furious one yammered some harsh words at the one who looked afraid, causing the other to shake his head even more forcefully.

‘That one, what is he saying?’ said Hartung, snapping his fingers at the angry man.

The translator looked indecisive and hesitated to answer.

‘I can find another translator, you cannot find new sons. Tell me!’ hissed Hartung.

The translator nodded. ‘He is telling the other man not to speak, that it is better they all die.’

Hartung waved at the soldiers behind the three men. ‘Kill that man before he speaks any more.’ He pointed at the angry villager.

The translator just looked on as two Order men grabbed the angry Norseman and pulled him roughly to the side. Before any of the Norse could even work out what was going on, one of the Order soldiers thrust his spear into the angry man’s chest again and again as the other held him down, eliciting a shriek of pain that subsided into breathy moans and then silence.

The family of the man being butchered screamed and cried out in anguish. One daughter tried to run to her father but was shoved bodily to the ground. The other two men huddled closer to their own families in shock as Hartung looked on impassively.

He took no pleasure in the killing of locals as he had seen other men in the Order take pleasure in it. Neither did it particularly bother him any more than slaughtering a goat or a chicken would bother him. He could never forgive the Norse for killing his father, he would always hate them as the backward pagans that they were. He did not understand their continued resistance against the obvious supremacy of both the German people and the Church, and if killing some or even most of them would end their pathetic resistance, he regarded it as simply a task to be done.

He did, however, dislike the wailing and shrieking of the women. That still clawed at something inside his chest, even after so many times hearing it.

‘Quieten them!’ he snapped at the translator, who passed on the instruction to little effect.

‘If they will not be quiet, take them away!’ he said to the soldiers, who then dragged the dead man and his wailing family away, leaving the other two men clutching their own women on the ground.

‘Now, ask them again. I want to know where Gjaldir and his rebels are, and if they give me information which turns out to be true, their families will be returned to them. If not, I will make them watch while they die.’

The middle man, the one who had looked sullenly at the ground, just stared around in desperation and shrugged helplessly. Hartung felt his anger rise, but then the third man babbled to the translator, something that only got a hint of tired disapproval from the middle man.

‘He says Gjaldir’s warband are camped somewhere to the south, near the Kolmården, but he does not know where. No one is allowed to visit them or get close.’

Hartung flicked his reins in annoyance and leaned closer in. ‘I have heard that rumour before, and it is worthless. I need more.’

There was another exchange with the terrified man, and the translator turned to Hartung again. ‘He says he heard that a neighbouring village was supplying Gjaldir with fish, but he does not know if it is true. It is only a rumour.’

There was more babbling. ‘He begs you to spare his family if he is wrong, and take his life instead. He is telling all the truth he knows.’

Hartung looked at the utter desperation and resignation on the faces of the two men and nodded. ‘I believe him. But he better pray the rumour is correct, because if not I will not be merciful. He should have told us this immediately when asked, instead of hiding it.’

‘He was afraid,’ the translator said limply.

‘Not afraid enough,’ muttered Hartung, then he turned to his men. ‘Pack up, take these people with us. We go to this other village immediately.’

It was late in the day before they reached the village the Norseman led them to. It was a smaller settlement without even a proper track leading to it, nestled in the crook of a small river that wound its way down towards the great lake to the north.

There were perhaps ten longhouses, clustered around a collection of boat-sheds, fish-drying racks and a simple dock. Two small fishing boats with masts and sails and a number of smaller rowing boats were tied together at the docks.

The villagers had seen them coming, and his men reported a group had fled as they approached. He sent mounted men to chase the fleeing ones down and return them, and he had his men search everyone hiding in the houses and bring him the elders.

They quickly brought forwards several older men and one of them identified himself as the village leader, a man who called himself Asbjorn.

‘You sell your fish to the rebels,’ Hartung said through the translator.

The man’s brows furrowed and he shook his head.

‘He says he does not know what you mean. They fish for their own needs, and to trade for other food and things they need.’

Hartung took a deep breath to control himself, and felt the anger at the petty defiance of all these people rise. He pointed at their captive, who was huddled against his family.

‘This man says otherwise.’

‘He says this man is a liar, and he does not know him.’

‘Surely he knows what will happen here if he does not help me.’

The elder spat and looked at Hartung defiantly, sneering at the translator and barking some angry words.

‘He says he knows who you are, the devils with the golden crosses, but he cannot help you for he knows nothing.’

Hartung looked at the defiant man, and then around at the rest of the villagers. Something about it felt false to him. At that moment his mounted men returned, dragging half a dozen captives with them, including several children.

Hartung looked back at the village elder and caught his expression as a wave of fear and anguish swept over him, only briefly. Hartung smiled with the flush of victory.

‘He has his last chance to tell me about the rebels who buy his fish, or the killing will start.’

The elder managed to suppress his fear and look calm.

‘He is not afraid to die.’

Hartung smiled and shook his head. ‘He will not die. No. Every woman and child in this village will die. I will have them tied together hand and foot and led into the river one by one. I will make him and his people watch as each one struggles to stay afloat until they finally succumb and drown, and then I will leave him here, to the mercy of those whose families have died.’

The translator looked sick, but a fierce glare was enough to convince the coward to relay his message. The elder’s face drained of colour and his eye twitched. Some of the men behind cried out to him, pleading.

‘I don’t have time to waste. Bring those women who we caught fleeing, I think some of them are his family. And bring all the rest of the villagers out here, I want them all to watch this.’

The elder’s hand trembled but he remained resolutely silent as two women and two girls were brought over and the rest of the locals were prodded into a huddled group near the dock, guarded closely by two dozen soldiers.

‘Take two of them, tie their hands behind their backs, and bind their feet, take them down to the water’s edge.’

Soldiers roughly grabbed one of the older women and a girl she was tearfully clinging to, and separated them, tying their hands behind their backs and their feet together. Then they were carried down to the dock, where the soldiers stood and waited.

The elder was huffing and groaning, and Hartung saw him exchange looks with one of the women who had not yet been tied and taken down to the riverbank.

‘Throw them in,’ he called, and the soldiers unceremoniously shoved the two tied women into the water with a squeal of shock, and a shout of outrage from one of the local men watching.

The elder turned and frantically argued with the translator.

‘He does not know anything, he begs you to rescue the women, he cannot help.’

‘I don’t care. If he knows nothing, those women are out of luck.’

The older woman in the river was already drowning, unable to keep her head above water long enough to breathe. She gurgled and took in a breath of water instead of air and her thrashing grew wilder and then stilled as her mouth sank below the water.

People in the audience wailed and shouted, and the elder looked on, white-faced.

But the younger girl was calmer, she managed to turn herself onto her back and kick in a pattern with her tied legs, keeping her face above water most of the time, enough to breathe clearly.

Hartung watched in curiosity, and then beckoned to one of his men who carried a bow, taking it and a couple of arrows. He walked down to the dock and cast a look back at the elder, then nocked an arrow. The noise of horror and outrage only increased as he walked to the end of the dock and looked down at the young woman who was carefully keeping herself afloat.

He was taken aback for a moment, that close to her. He was struck by her look as she stared at him with fierce defiance, even in her vulnerable state, slowly going round in circles in the water.

He drew the bow and carefully aimed at her stomach, seeing the fear finally spark in her face. Then he let his fingers slip off the bowstring.

The arrow crossed the distance between his fingers and the girl in the flash of an eye, slipping almost serenely through the thin layer of water over her belly and punching into it. The shock of the impact drove the breath from her and caused her legs to contract as she doubled up around the arrow. The water flooded into her open mouth and she started to sink, the last thing slipping below the murky water being those eyes, still fixed on his, filled only with outrage and pain.

Hartung felt a moment of sickness, and took a deep breath to control himself as those accusing eyes faded and stared at the sky, never closing. He tore himself away from the drowned girl and her flooded eyes, bobbing gently at the water’s surface, and looked back at the people watching.

Some of the people were weeping, the elder was staring at the ground in shock.

‘Bring the next two,’ Hartung called, driving away the nausea in the pit of his stomach. Two more women were brought forwards, and the elder snapped out of his paralysis and shook his head, talking urgently to the interpreter.

‘What is it?’ Hartung asked casually as he nocked another arrow.

‘He says he does sell fish to some men from outside the village, he will tell you about it, if you spare the rest of them.’

Hartung hid his satisfaction. ‘Bring him down here and get him talking, he doesn’t have long.’

He nodded at the soldiers, who brought the two women to the edge of the dock. One of them held her head high, sneering at him contemptuously, and he gave her an ironic nod of salute at her bravery. ‘Her first.’

The woman was shoved headlong into the water as the elder shouted in protest.

‘He needs to start talking quickly,’ Hartung said, as the woman managed to surface, gasping for air while she thrashed her tied legs to try and get her body upright. ‘She doesn’t look like she will last long.’

The elder spoke in a furious pace at the interpreter while Hartung watched the struggling woman in fascination. She was desperately trying to keep her head above water, but she kept kicking too hard and rolling over, having to hold her breath until she could right herself again.

‘He says they deliver the dried fish to a man downriver. They are paid well.’

‘What man, where does he go?’

‘He thinks they go to Tuna. He has seen them sail that way.’

‘To Tuna? The rebels are not in Tuna. He is lying.’

The woman was really struggling now, spitting water as she tried to take each breath, her eyes pinned wide with fear.

‘It is not the rebels in Tuna, it is someone who collects food and supplies and then takes it to the rebels, so he hears. But he does not know where, it is carefully hidden.’

‘How? Does he not see the rebel ships?’

‘No, he…’ The interpreter stammered to a halt. ‘He does not believe it is rebel ships. He says the supplies are carried away from Tuna by Christians.’

Hartung’s heart skipped a beat in his chest and he turned to stare at the interpreter.

‘What?’

‘Please save the woman, it is his wife,’ the interpreter said, and the man was crying.

Hartung ignored him. ‘Christians take the food away from Tuna, to the rebels?’

‘Yes!’

Hartung looked at the desperate elder in shock, and then cursed. It made sense. They had been looking all this time for locals, trying to find smugglers, ships or furtive bands transporting the food the rebels must surely need. But no one had been checking Christians transporting goods. Worse than that, they had been actively escorting them. The Order themselves might have been helping guard the supplies that would end up with the rebels.

The revelation terrified and exhilarated him. It was terrifying because of the implications of treachery. Exhilarating because he had discovered it at last. He had the first thing that might lead them to finding the rebels.

‘Please let him save his wife!’ pleaded the interpreter.

‘Hmm?’ Hartung looked up, and then back at the woman in the water, who was gurgling and gasping near the surface in panicked movements. The elder looked on beside himself with anguish as two soldiers held him back.

‘Yes, let him go,’ said Hartung nonchalantly, and the soldiers released the elder, who scrambled to the edge of the dock and jumped in, thrashing his arms and legs as he powered over towards his drowning wife.

Hartung looked over at his second in command. ‘Get everyone surrounding the villagers, be ready for violence.’

‘Yes, brother,’ said the knight, without questioning the strange command. Hartung liked that. The man was one of Sighard’s best, and he never questioned an order, he just did as commanded. Hartung was really coming to appreciate Reinhard’s selectiveness with his followers. Obedience, Grandmaster Reinhard always said, was dear to the Lord.

Hartung watched his men surround the group of fearful villagers, until he was satisfied that they were completely under control. Then he casually nocked another arrow and looked out at the river, where the elder was struggling back towards the bank while holding his limp wife’s head above water.

‘Kill them all,’ he said loudly, not even looking back as his second repeated the order and the screams started behind him.

‘Why?’ shouted the interpreter behind him in anguished outrage. ‘He told you what you wanted to hear!’

‘Yes, he did. And we can’t have the rebels finding that out, can we?’

Hartung drew the bow and took aim, carefully sighting in on the chest of the swimming man, matching his repetitive movements as he dragged his wife through the water, so focused on his rescue that he either didn’t hear or didn’t understand the cacophony of screaming and shouting taking place in the village.

‘No,’ said Hartung to himself in a whisper as he let go of the tension in the string and the arrow thwacked into the swimming man’s chest. ‘That wouldn’t do at all.’

Chapter 18

The Enemy Within

Uppsala

May AD 1122

Bishop Reinhard struggled to maintain his composure, his jaw tensing rhythmically as he went over the information Hartung had just reported.

‘The rebels are being supplied by our people?’

He winced inwardly, having to turn aside and put his hand to his mouth to cover a grimace, for he disliked slack-jawed fools who had to repeat themselves in order to understand what they were hearing.

‘Yes, Grandmaster,’ replied the young count, who was wearing an unbecoming look of self-satisfaction.

Reinhard would have to address that. Satisfaction in fulfilling one’s righteous duty well was indeed a source for some limited personal gratification, but showing it outwardly was unbecoming and dangerously prideful. And pride was not beloved of the Lord.

‘You said you confirmed this story, how?’

‘We laid a trap for the boat that transports the fish to Tuna and captured the man. He told us where he goes and what he does. His confession matched that of the man we questioned from the village.’

‘But you did not discover who in Tuna was collecting this food to supply to the rebels?’

‘No, Grandmaster. To do so would have involved questioning Count Conrad’s people, and I minded your instructions not to.’

Reinhard gave the anxious young count a small nod. ‘Good man.’

‘But that is not all we discovered.’

‘No?’

‘The man we questioned from the boat, he knew where the rebels camped for the winter.’

Reinhard’s brows climbed in surprise. ‘And they are still there?’

‘We don’t know, but I request permission to check. You instructed me not to engage with them alone, so I did not risk marching south to see for myself. It is difficult country, far from our nearest garrison.’

‘Well done, yes. Well done. You have proven yourself worthy of my faith in you, and done good service to the Lord.’

Reinhard’s appreciation was not feigned. He had given the young man careful instructions and he had followed them dutifully and well. A little too well.

‘I will summon Sir Sighard and assess the possibility of gathering a force to go and stamp out this nest of vermin you have discovered.’ Hopefully not before they have time to move on.

‘Brother Sighard says he should be able to gather five hundred men before the end of the week!’ Hartung said brightly.

Reinhard froze, anger flushing hot into his veins. ‘You have already told Sir Sighard?’ he asked in an icy tone.

Hartung’s satisfied smile faded. ‘He met me at the gate, he asked for a report… I thought I should tell him about the threat.’

‘Before me? Your report is due to me, and then I decide what to do with that information. I thought that was clear?’

Hartung gasped like a landed fish. ‘I did not intend it, but he is my commander and he asked me… I apologise, Grandmaster. I will not make that mistake again.’

Reinhard levelled his stern glare at the young man for a little longer, but then allowed him a kindly, sympathetic smile. He put one slender hand on the count’s shoulder. ‘I forgive you, my boy, for your indiscretion. I see that it was only the excitement and eagerness of youth that led you into this error. You will learn to control these things, with time.’

He let the last word linger, giving Hartung the subtle warning that this mistake would cost him more time in the lower part of the Order, more time of service, more time before he could return home with Reinhard’s support. It was his truest and perhaps only method of control over the powerful noble.

Hartung’s face contracted like he had eaten something unpleasant, but he had the sense and the discipline not to complain.

‘You may go and see to your duties, I will be pleased to expect you at Vespers.’

Hartung nodded without hesitation, that he was a devout disciple of the Lord was pleasantly apparent.

Reinhard rewarded the faithful young man by offering him his ring to kiss, doing him the favour of not lowering his hand so far as he often did, forcing men to bow low just to deliver the sign of fealty. He smiled as Hartung gratefully bent his head and placed his lips upon the gold-encircled stone. He liked to give reward where it was due. Men of noble birth could not be led simply with fear and chastisement alone as the lower orders could. Above all things they craved respect and recognition, to the point of being willing to suffer pain and death in its pursuit.

He blessed Hartung’s inclined head and sent him on his way with a warm smile, letting it fade and evaporate the moment the young count left the room, to be replaced with a scowl of irritation.

‘I did not expect him to actually find the rebels. It is not our intent to destroy them yet,’ he said to Bertrand, who was standing silently at his desk as he always was. The sombre man reached for his quill to make a note in his book but Reinhard snapped his fingers at the man. ‘Don’t write that down!’

Bertrand looked taken aback but carefully set the writing instrument aside.

Reinhard shook his head, suddenly concerned he did not pay enough attention to what Bertrand wrote in his notes. ‘Remind me to go over your work and make any necessary erasures before you copy it into good vellum,’ he said with a decisive nod.

‘As you say, eminence,’ replied Bertrand, momentarily glancing at his quill again before thinking better of writing that instruction down.

‘While I do not wish to destroy the rebels, this matter of traitors in Tuna must be addressed. I cannot abide it. Treason spreads like rot in damp wood, and the very touch of it might infect my reputation. No, that must be stamped out immediately. Everyone must know the price of betraying the Order. Punishment must be swift and righteous. I need you to arrange a journey to Tuna later this month, when Sighard is away hunting the rebels. I need to investigate these supposed traitors myself, and it will be a good reason to drain his numbers and reduce his chance of success. I’ll need two hundred men to escort me.’ He pondered it for a moment and nodded. ‘We should go all the way by ship, I don’t want to risk being ambushed on the road.’ He hated travelling by ship, even on the usually placid lake, but the safety it offered was worth it.

He looked at Bertrand to see that the priest was eyeing the quill with great uncertainty and Reinhard sighed. ‘Yes, you can write that down!’

Bertrand nodded gratefully and started making a note.

‘I really should consider replacing you with someone younger, with a better memory,’ Reinhard grumbled, settling in behind his own desk.

‘Yes, Grandmaster,’ Bertrand said without a hint of anguish. ‘Shall I draw up a list of candidates?’

Reinhard raised his eyes, squinting at his attendant suspiciously, seeing the slight hint of mischief in the priest’s eyes.

‘No. Not yet,’ Reinhard said slowly, holding eye contact until the man had the sense to give in and look back to his notes with an appropriately humble demeanour.

Reinhard, for perhaps the tenth time, made a mental note to consider actually replacing the priest, but he knew immediately that he would not. There simply wasn’t anyone else living that he trusted to know the things that Bertrand knew and, despite the occasional tiny acts of rebellion and mockery, no one would be so compliant and loyal.

He returned his attention to his desk and silence descended once more over the space. He smiled to himself. That was what really made Bertrand stand out in his mind as an attendant. How quiet he was, fastidiously so. There was nothing he appreciated more than men who knew how to be quiet. He was convinced it was dear to the Lord, although the scripture was ambiguous on the matter.

He reached for a still-sealed letter from Grandsteward Hugues, sighing as he considered the complaints that were likely to be contained within. Perhaps his least favourite thing about his co-leader of the Order was that Hugues knew how to be loud, even from a very great distance.

Chapter 19

The Hunt Begins

Deep in the Kolmården hills, Svealand

June AD 1122

‘No, no, watch your left! You are shielding the man in line to your left. If you ignore that, he dies,’ Gjaldir said, rapping the young warrior on the helmet with the shaft of his spear.

‘Then what if the attack comes from my right?’ asked the man.

‘Your comrade to your right will deal with it.’

‘But what if he doesn’t?’

Gjaldir laughed. ‘Then you die! Which is why you must trust your friends to have listened to what we are teaching you. Bjorn!’ Gjaldir turned and waved to the stocky huskarl.

‘What?’

‘How many times have you saved my life in battle from your position on my right?’

Bjorn made a great show of thinking about it and then shrugged dramatically. ‘Too many to count, and more times than you deserve.’

Gjaldir laughed and turned back to his little group of trainees. ‘So, you learn to trust the warrior on your right, and shield the one on your left.’ The young man looked unconvinced, but then trusting another with your life was always a difficult thing for new fighters to grasp.

Gjaldir set the little group fighting again with sticks and shields, and walked off the training field towards their camp.

And what a camp it now was. Over the winter recruits had flooded in, until they now had over seven hundred men and women, well over half of them experienced, battle-tested warriors and the rest under a harsh regime of training. At Vidar’s direction they had established a quiet but effective network of informants all over the region who fed them information on the movements and garrisons of the Christians that had allowed them to greatly improve the frequency and success of their raids.

But it all paled in comparison to the support they were getting from Astrid’s father, who organised regular shipments of food and supplies of everything from blankets to tools, or gave them information about where what they needed could be stolen from the Christians.

Their raids had reduced the Christians in southern Svealand to cowering in their largest garrisons, and convoys rarely moved with less than three hundred men guarding them. With that success came problems of its own. It was becoming increasingly difficult to find suitable targets, and they had to travel further and further away to find weak or isolated Christian outposts, or lightly guarded convoys to ambush.

He made his way through the camp of lightly built structures and fur-lined tents, headed for Astrid’s tent. As he got there, he heard the unmistakable sounds of a woman enjoying herself, and then a man laughing. The tent flap was half-open, and he rounded it to find Astrid straddling a very happy-looking Vidar. Neither of them looked ashamed or embarrassed. There was little or no privacy in the packed camp.

‘Vidar, it’s late to still be in a tent, eh? I need you out training the new men while we have the time.’

Vidar looked over, stretching his hands behind his head and winking at his leader. ‘No problem, we just finished our morning exercise.’

Gjaldir gave Vidar a raised eyebrow and then turned his look from the horse to the rider.

‘Astrid, we are going to need a new shipment from your father,’ he said, trying not to let his eyes wander as the beautiful woman turned to face him, legs still spread across Vidar’s middle, naked other than the hair she was born with.

‘I will send word, what do we need?’

Gjaldir laughed. ‘Food, as always, but mostly we need a new target, somewhere we can raid and get weapons, armour, and clothes. We have so many recruits now that we can no longer equip them all.’

Astrid grinned, slapping Vidar on the chest and jumping off, grabbing her clothes and starting to dress. ‘We have never needed extra weapons before.’

Gjaldir tried his best not to stare at her as she wriggled into her underclothes, but his willpower was not up to the task. He struggled to remember what he wanted to say before he managed to clear his head and continue. ‘No, we have always had more steel than men. But with all the newcomers, and the lack of good raids recently, we soon will. I need him to work on fixing that problem.’ Gjaldir waved his hands vaguely. ‘However he does that.’

Astrid refused to discuss how, exactly, her father was able to get so much in the way of supplies and information. She claimed not to know much herself, for her father’s safety. No one in the warband even knew her father’s name, so if they were captured, they could not easily betray him.

‘He might be able to get you weapons directly,’ she said, as she finished putting her long tunic on.

Gjaldir was taken aback. ‘What? How could he get us weapons?’

Astrid looked at Gjaldir carefully, assessing, and then nodded. ‘It is time I told you a little more, but you must not tell anyone else. It is too dangerous.’ She reached for and drank some water straight from a jug before passing it to Vidar, who was slowly dragging himself out of bed.

Gjaldir nodded his assent and Astrid continued. ‘He will get it straight from the Christian who supports him.’

Gjaldir’s eyes widened. Astrid’s father got information on where to strike at the Order from someone in the Christians’ ranks, and recently, that information had expanded to further targets in the rest of Svealand. But to hand over weapons? This was more than some spat between lords. Handing over weapons to the rebels would be dangerous and treasonous. ‘Why would this Christian be willing to risk such a thing? And how would he be able to arrange it?’

Astrid shrugged. ‘I don’t know, do you care as long as it works?’

Gjaldir thought about it for a moment, and he could not think of a reason why it should matter, other than something nagged at the back of his mind about it. It seemed far too easy. He dismissed that vague fear and shook his head. ‘I suppose I do not.’

‘Then I will ask what he can get when I see him next, and have him bring it with the next delivery.’

‘When will you see him?’

Astrid made an uncertain expression. ‘If you want me to go immediately, maybe three days?’

‘Fine.’

‘I will go and speak to Leif about making the trip.’ She smiled at him again and left into the soft morning sunshine, leaving Gjaldir with a very besotted-looking Vidar.

Gjaldir gave his friend a warm grin. ‘I am pleased to see you two so happy together, Vidar.’

‘Yes, I saw just how pleased you were to see her,’ said Vidar, giving Gjaldir a cheeky thump on the arm. ‘Almost speechless with happiness.’

Gjaldir blushed and the raven-haired warrior laughed heartily. ‘You are still so much the Christian boy, no matter how long you spend with us. Enjoying a beautiful woman’s nakedness is not something to be ashamed of. It is one of the great joys of life.’

‘But she is your woman.’

Vidar giggled. ‘You should know women like her better than that, Gjaldir. She belongs to no one but herself.’

‘Like Brunhild then,’ Gjaldir mused.

‘In some ways, yes. She has Brunhild’s strength and fire, but not her toughness. I know that she is not just with me for love or for my many talents in the furs, but because she is afraid and seeks my comfort and protection.’

‘Afraid? Of what?’

Vidar shrugged. ‘What is there not to be afraid of? She fears for the future, for her father, for us, for me. She puts on a brave face, but at night she huddles up next to me as if we will not see the morning. I think it is because she knows, one day, we will not. The pain of her family’s death weighs heavily on her, although she tries not to show it.’

Vidar gave Gjaldir a sad smile. ‘She is not a warrior like us, Gjaldir. War is something she suffers only because she has to. She wants nothing but to be free.’

‘Isn’t that what we all want?’ Gjaldir asked with furrowed brows.

Vidar’s smile faded softly. ‘Is it? If this war ended, we would just find another one. That is the way of men of violence. What would you do, if we won our freedom and our lands?’

Gjaldir looked into the trees outside the camp, thinking about the thing that he rarely dared to consider.

‘I would find a quiet place for me and Brunhild, some village out of the way, and build a forge and a house. Live there in peace making tools, not weapons.’

Vidar nodded solemnly. ‘That is a good dream, Gjaldir. I wish I could claim I shared it. I think it is part of why you are the right leader for us. You don’t seek battle and death, only the way to peace. But me? No, I would find the service of some great lord worthy of my axe, and I would go Viking with him while Astrid raised my children at home, made wealthy and comfortable with the riches I would earn. That is my dream and my destiny, it always has been. I would raise my sons the same way, and then grow fat and old while they sailed the world.’ He paused. ‘Or die in battle with my friends.’

Gjaldir looked at him, perplexed. ‘And you accept that? To risk death in battle, to not see your children grow, after all we have been through?’

Vidar thought about it for a moment and nodded in acknowledgement. ‘Not as readily as I used to, I admit. But this is the only life I know. It’s the only life most of us old warriors from before this war know. It is how our fathers lived, and their fathers before them. I have no forge to build like you, no skill to work the anvil.’

‘You could hunt or farm.’

‘I am no farmer, Gjaldir,’ said Vidar with a smile. ‘Although I do enjoy a hunt.’ He stretched and picked up his shield and swordbelt. ‘I will go to the training and help Bjorn.’ He prodded Gjaldir in the chest. ‘You should go and find Brunhild. You have been neglecting your time with her, and no one will miss you for half a day, eh?’

Gjaldir gave him a weak nod and Vidar walked past, stretching one hand into the sky. ‘It is always a good day to be alive, Gjaldir!’ he called out with a laugh. ‘Don’t forget it.’

He watched the annoyingly happy man go and then shook his head, turning to look down the narrow path between the tents and shelters, to where Brunhild and a group of the other few women with his warband stayed.

Brunhild did not share his tent, she did not want to be seen to be his and Gjaldir understood. If she was seen as being nothing but the leader’s woman it would be intolerable to her. But he also did not have the courage to go and seek her out very often, and so rarely saw her alone. She would gather with Leif, Vidar and Bjorn to discuss plans and camp matters, but then she would be off into the night back to her tent, leaving Gjaldir alone in the furs listening to Bjorn and Leif snore.

Cursing himself for his fear, and feeling the pangs of jealousy, and other things, for the happiness of the couple he had just witnessed, he steeled himself and set off down the path, looking for Brunhild. It did not take him long to find her, but to his annoyance she was not alone. She and two other women were wrestling some thick timbers into place, building a new shelter in their ever-growing camp.

‘Ah, Brunhild,’ he said, awkwardly.

‘What do you need?’ she grunted, wrestling with the ridgepole as the other two women tried to secure the cross-piece above it.

‘I know that face, it’s obvious what he needs,’ said one of them with a laugh, drawing a scowl from Brunhild.

‘Uh, I just need your thoughts on something,’ replied Gjaldir, scrambling for an excuse.

‘My thoughts? My thoughts are you can stop standing there watching and help me fix this cross-piece in place.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Gjaldir felt foolish for the obvious error of just standing there while the smaller women worked, and he scampered over to take hold of the cross-beam, allowing the other two women to help Brunhild set the vertical timber properly, and then the two pieces that connected it to the half-built wall.

Finally it was done, and Brunhild wiped the sweat off her brow with her forearm and looked at him. ‘So? What is the problem?’

Gjaldir was mute as the three of them stared at him, waiting, an amused smile growing on the face of all of them except Brunhild.

‘You cannot be serious, really? I am working, Gjaldir. I am not a donkey to be ridden whenever needed. We need to finish this shelter before night or four people will be sleeping on the ground… again. But you think that is more urgent?’

‘What? No, it’s not what I meant!’ he replied, flustered, casting an evil look at the two other women who were struggling to suppress their amusement.

He was the leader of a warband of seven hundred warriors, the most famous man in the North, but he still felt like a nervous child when confronted with Brunhild’s disapproval or anger. He burned with the humiliation.

‘Then what is it?’

‘I just…’ He flapped his arms to his sides in exasperation. ‘You know, don’t concern yourself with it. I just wanted to see you, talk to you about anything other than war and plans, but this is obviously not welcome.’

Brunhild’s look of anger softened and she turned to the two women. ‘Go and eat something. I will be back,’ and then she jerked her head to Gjaldir. ‘Let’s walk then. I need to go and wash anyway.’

Gjaldir nodded sullenly and followed her as she walked out of the camp and through the woods towards the stream that led down towards one of the many lakes in the area.

‘What is troubling you, to make you so tense?’ she said. ‘Things are going well, we are beating the Christians every time we meet, and they cannot find us, despite their attempts.’

Gjaldir grunted. The attempts were quite alarming, and shocking. Whole villages were being destroyed in retribution, people tortured for information and murdered. Just a few weeks ago they had found out another fishing village south of the lake had been burned to the ground, its entire population slaughtered for no obvious reason.

Each atrocity drove more willing recruits into their arms, but sapped at his heart. Those people had died because of his actions, even if it was not him that held the blades.

‘We are doing well, it is true, but so many are dying. It weighs on me.’

Brunhild nodded. ‘So it should, but it is necessary. We have discussed it many times. We cannot let the Christians deter us with their cruelty, for if it works, they will only use it more widely.’

‘I know, I know. It is still difficult.’

They reached the stream and Brunhild immediately started stripping off, and Gjaldir sighed in frustration as he watched a beautiful woman in her nakedness for the second time that morning.

He looked up suddenly and realised Brunhild was staring at him with a cocked eyebrow. ‘So, it is this you were looking for after all.’

Gjaldir rolled his eyes and threw up his hands in defeat. ‘Fine. Just that? No. But is it so wrong? I must be a leader all the time, is there a little time I can just be a man? I have needs and desires beyond just advice, and it has been years since they were properly met.’

Brunhild laughed softly, laying her tunic out on the ground. ‘I am sure you have had plenty of women willing to help you with your needs, the great Gjaldir. You haven’t another to warm your furs?’

Gjaldir just looked away in embarrassed silence. ‘No,’ he finally said.

Brunhild stared and him and frowned. ‘Really? Come on, I know of at least four women in the camp who speak of wanting you. You haven’t lain with any of them?’

‘Never.’

‘And before that?’

Gjaldir looked at her, hurt she was asking. ‘None except you.’

‘Ever?’ Brunhild looked completely perplexed.

‘Not since I arrived in Uppsala.’

Brunhild looked at him, open mouthed. ‘In all the years I have known you, you are claiming there has never been another?’

Gjaldir looked down at the ground, feeling the fire of humiliation in admitting he had always been too devoted to her to lie with another. She would only see it as weakness. ‘Never,’ he whispered.

‘Oh, Gjaldir, you strange man. No wonder you look at me so hungrily.’ She laughed softly, not mocking in tone, but fondly. ‘I don’t need your loyalty like that, you know. I don’t care who shares your bed.’ They both knew it was a lie.

‘I know.’

He finally found the courage to look up and meet her eye as she stood there beside the stream, glorious and smiling, skin white and soft in the sunlight. He shuffled, and was about to make an excuse and leave, but then she laughed her joyous, hearty laugh, the one he heard so rarely and loved so much. She pointed coyly at the tunic she had laid on the ground, one hand on her hip. ‘Well, I’m not letting you dirty me after I wash, so what are you doing just standing there? I’ve got work to get back to.’

A smile spread slowly across Gjaldir’s face and a rush of excitement spread from his chest to the back of his throat and down again. All the way down. He started fumbling with his belt as Brunhild giggled and laid herself out provocatively on the ground as he rushed over to join her.

‘We should go, before someone finds us,’ said Brunhild languidly, curled against him and stroking a hand over Gjaldir’s chest as he lay there in the warm sunlight after they had washed in the river.

‘Why would it matter?’

Brunhild’s hand stopped its stroking. ‘I don’t want them to think…’

‘Brunhild,’ Gjaldir said with a soft laugh. ‘No one in this camp is going to believe you are bound to me like this. None are blind enough.’

Brunhild grumbled and settled down slightly, putting her head on his shoulder. ‘Well, still, we have work to do. The others will wonder where I have gone.’

‘They will not wonder at all, they know. And they will find someone else to help them. Be calm, we deserve some time in the sun. For just one morning, let us pretend that we are happy and that we are not at war, that we might not be dead tomorrow.’

Brunhild sighed but she did not protest, drawing herself closer into his side and draping one knee over his leg. ‘Fine,’ she muttered in a joking tone, and Gjaldir smiled with pure joy. He did not have to pretend he was happy, every moment of this was precious to him.

He lay there watching the thin clouds scurry past overhead, and the top branches of the trees the other side of the river sway in the light breeze. He could feel Brunhild’s breath on his chest-hair and her heartbeat on his shoulder. It was perfect, it was just…

‘Gjaldir,’ a sharp voice called out from right behind them and Gjaldir jolted with fright and looked, furious, for the culprit who had disturbed his peace. He saw the man responsible standing just a pace behind them, having arrived as silently as a shadow. Brunhild saw him too and sat upright, grabbing at her tunic to cover herself with a curse and a scowl.

‘Tormund!’ Gjaldir said with real anger. ‘What are you doing here? How dare you disturb me like this!’

Tormund looked completely unperturbed. ‘I wanted to speak to you.’

‘So? Could you not wait for me to return? Or let me guess, “the gods led you here”?’ Gjaldir huffed, waving one arm theatrically.

Tormund looked blankly at him. ‘No, I asked around in the camp and someone said they had seen you two down by the river.’

‘That’s just great,’ said Brunhild, hurriedly dressing while facing away from the seer.

‘Brunhild, don’t,’ Gjaldir protested hopelessly, beckoning her to stay.

‘No, I have work to do. And so do you. Nor am I spending another moment with this strange old man leering at me. How long was he watching?’

‘I do not leer. Your bodies hold no mystery or interest to me,’ said Tormund. ‘I did not know I was not allowed to walk in these woods, nor talk to Gjaldir.’ His tone, as always, carried no weight of regret or care.

Brunhild gave him one last filthy look and stormed off.

Gjaldir glared at Tormund, his teeth grinding and temple pulsing. ‘You have no idea what you just ruined.’

‘Clearly not. I will leave then.’ And he turned to go.

‘It’s too fucking late now! What, what is it that you would disturb me while I am lying with Brunhild?’

‘I think I saw the Christians, coming this way.’

‘Ah, another of your dreams,’ replied Gjaldir, pulling on his linen undershirt, a rather fine one he had stripped from a dead Christian knight.

‘I do not dream anymore, Gjaldir, you know that.’

Gjaldir stopped and looked at the seer with a feeling of alarm. ‘So what do you mean “you saw them”? You do not mean…’ He stopped as the shock of it chilled him to the bones. ‘Where did you see them?’ He grabbed Tormund by the nape of his long cloak.

‘In the woods to the north, a day’s walk or so away.’

Gjaldir gaped at the strange old man. ‘What were you doing in the woods a day’s walk away?’

Tormund shrugged. ‘I do not know, I like to wander the woods, and something drew me there. I saw them in the next valley.’

‘How long ago?’

‘Yesterday evening.’

‘How many?’

‘It’s hard to say, a great number.’

Gjaldir released the seer, and then looked towards the camp, eyes wide. ‘Oh, God.’

‘Gods,’ said Tormund reproachfully, but Gjaldir ignored him.

‘Have you told the others?’

Tormund shook his head. ‘You are the leader, I came to you. The others do not listen to me.’

Gjaldir grabbed the rest of his clothes and set off at a run towards the camp without another word, the possibilities running through his mind. They had patrols out around their camp for miles just to prevent the Christians surprising them. It was impossible for the enemy to come too close without being seen. But would Tormund lie about it?

He pounded into the camp and went straight through to the training field. Leif and Vidar were there watching Bjorn, and both of them looked at him in confusion, arriving at a run half-dressed and breathing hard.

‘Have we heard anything from the patrols?’ Gjaldir said breathlessly.

The two men looked at each other. ‘Like what?’

‘Reports of Christians nearby.’

The two men looked concerned. ‘No, why would we?’

Gjaldir grimaced, he was loath to admit he was afraid because their mad seer had claimed to see a Christian army that might exist only in his imagination.

He wrestled with whether to tell them, but he could not risk ignoring it and finding out Tormund was right. So he quickly repeated what the seer had said.

Leif looked contemptuous when the tale was told, while Vidar looked worried.

‘You believe this nonsense? That this old man saw what our patrols have not?’

‘If it is even possible, we should prepare to leave,’ said Vidar.

‘We should move our camp at the word of a disgraced seer who admits he no longer has whatever foresight he once claimed?’

‘If he had said he saw it in a dream I would not care,’ replied Vidar. ‘But he says he saw them with his own eyes.’

‘While he was wandering in the woods, probably eating every strange mushroom he passed. Some of these seers use mushrooms to see things that do not exist, you know that?’

‘It is true,’ said Tormund unhelpfully with a nod, he had finally arrived to join them.

‘We cannot take the risk. We have been here too long anyway. If it is true, and they are coming, we need time to pack up the camp and leave, or we will have to abandon most of our equipment.’

Gjaldir thought it over. They had trained the warriors to pack their essentials – equipment, food and water – and leave at a moment’s notice if needed. But they would have to abandon their precious tents and many of their other belongings if they did not have time to pack their modest herd of horses and mules, stolen from the Christians over the last year.

He looked again at Tormund. ‘You swear to me what you saw was true?’

‘I do not take or make oaths, Gjaldir.’

Gjaldir clenched his fists in frustration. ‘You are so deeply unhelpful, Tormund, at the worst times.’

‘I am telling you truthfully what my eyes beheld. I can say no more.’

Gjaldir stared at the infuriatingly placid man for a moment longer and then turned to his companions. ‘We have been here for too long anyway. I will not take the risk. Pack up the camp, we leave before the sun starts to sink. I want to be ten miles east of here before dawn.’

Vidar grimaced, Leif looked annoyed, but both men nodded. It had been a while since anyone openly questioned his orders, not for anything important.

The camp exploded into well-practised activity as the warband packed to leave. The herd of pack-animals was brought in and loaded, tents collapsed and packed onto them with the cooking utensils and stores. Warriors armoured themselves and rolled their bedding and spare clothes to sling on their backs with their shields.

Unburdened by families or the old, they had stripped the camp to the bone and assembled outside it at the treeline quicker than it would have taken to cook a good stew.

As they were readying to leave, a pair of men came running over to where Gjaldir stood with his companions.

‘Gjaldir, the Christians have been spotted coming this way! They will be here well before darkness falls.’

‘How many?’ asked Gjaldir nervously.

‘An army, perhaps a thousand men.’

‘Shit,’ said Leif.

‘Too many to fight,’ said Vidar, looking at Gjaldir.

‘Yes, even if we won it would cost us too much.’

‘The damn seer was right,’ said Leif, shaking his head ruefully.

‘Thank the gods we listened to him. We need to move, now!’

‘We will leave a trail they can easily follow, with this many men and animals,’ said Bjorn.

‘I know, we will have to march fast, and abandon what we cannot carry.’

‘It will mean leaving food and shelter behind.’

‘So be it. We are warriors, it is summer. We will do without the comforts.’

Bjorn smiled. ‘So we will.’

‘When we get far enough away, we will use a road or a river to lose them. But now all that matters is speed.’

‘Well, let’s stop flapping our jaws and go then,’ said Vidar.

‘Yes, get them started.’

‘Where are we headed?’

Gjaldir considered it again. It was what he had been thinking about for a while. ‘We need to go north and cross the lake again. This area is too hemmed in. Now that they have found us it is only a matter of time before they do so again. They won’t expect us to cross the lake, and the north side is far less populated, with far more space to hide.’

‘It will be difficult to cross the lake with this many. We won’t get enough boats to do it in one trip.’

‘Don’t worry.’ He patted Vidar on the shoulder and smiled. ‘I think we can get help.’

He turned to the others. ‘We move now! And someone find me Astrid.’ He smiled wryly. ‘I have an outrageous request for her father. We need every fishing and trading ship he can get his hands on. Send some men on horseback to escort her to him.’

Chapter 20

A Family Feud

Sighard sat glumly on his horse and stared at the broad clearing. Rows of ramshackle structures and bare patches in the grass where tents had once stood stared back at him mockingly. ‘How long since they left, do you think?’ he asked one of his brother knights, although the answer was plain to see.

‘Earlier today, no doubt, the fires are still smoking. They left in a hurry, some things were abandoned they might have preferred to take.’

‘So they spotted us. We took all precautions, how?’

The knight shrugged. ‘They must have had excellent scouts to cover such a wide area to see us a day in advance.’

‘A shame.’

‘Yes, but we can follow them. Their trail leading east is very plain.’

‘Not until tomorrow, we need to wait a night, and then we will not catch them. They will move faster in this country.’

‘Maybe,’ mused the knight. ‘But we can follow them until they are forced to stop, the hunt is on, Brother Sighard.’

Sighard just grunted. He did not think it would be so easy. The rebels had shaken off pursuit many times before.

At that moment Hartung arrived at a canter, and Sighard nodded to the young man. ‘Brother Hartung, I congratulate you on your information. It proved correct.’

‘Swine got away though,’ said the young man bitterly. ‘Do we pursue? I estimate the camp held five hundred men.’

‘Closer to eight hundred, they crowd into those shelters like animals in a way no Christian would endure. And yes, we will pursue in the morning. See your men to a good rest and water.’ He raised a finger. ‘But be careful, send men upstream a good distance to ensure the water has not been fouled with dead animals or corpses. These heathens will do such ungodly things.’

Hartung screwed up his face in distaste at the idea, but nodded. ‘I will send men to check.’ And then he rode off again.

Sighard sighed and then motioned to his men to dismount. He intended to find a good sleep, because it might be his last for many nights.

Seven days’ hard marching later, having lost the trail briefly at a river and having been lured the wrong way by a diversion, Sighard and his exhausted men reached the southern coast at a mid-sized village with a fine hall, and the end of their pursuit. He stared in utter fury at the half-dozen or more sails he could see clinging to the horizon, sailing away north across the lake.

‘How in hell’s name did they get ships?’ he roared at no one in particular.

‘They must have stolen them,’ replied a knight near him uncertainly.

Sighard would have cursed, if cursing was a thing he did anymore. He satisfied himself with digging his fingers into his knee as he stared at the slowly receding fleet.

‘That isn’t enough ships to carry the whole rebel army,’ Hartung said, rubbing his chin.

‘What?’

Hartung pointed at the sails. ‘I count seven sails, most of them small, they would carry fifty men each heavily loaded. They must be on their second trip, or perhaps only half the rebels were able to escape and the rest fled overland somewhere.’

Sighard looked at the sails again and nodded. ‘A good eye, lad. You are right. There is no way the army whose camp we found would fit into those, with their animals too?’

‘No, they did not take their animals, there are no tracks down to the water.’

‘So some of them left with the pack-animals. Is there anyone left in this village to question?’

Hartung shook his head. ‘No one.’

‘So they left with the animals, scour the edge of the village, find out where.’

‘The main road to Tuna passes through here, they must have taken that route, at least a little way, then their passing would be hidden for a while.’

Sighard turned and smiled at the count, something he rarely did. ‘Reinhard’s faith in you is well founded. You are turning into a wise young leader.’

Hartung straightened in his saddle and blushed under his helmet. ‘I only serve, Brother Sighard,’ he intoned, barely able to contain his happiness.

‘Of course you do,’ said Sighard with a smile. ‘Well, Grandmaster Reinhard is in Tuna, I will go to him and report on the escape of the rebels and bear that burden of failure. You take your men and run down the escaped villagers and the rebels’ pack-animals. It will be some compensation for this set-back if you can catch them.’

Hartung nodded his chin. ‘I will find them, Brother Sighard.’

‘Good lad, you better start immediately. There is time before nightfall.’

Hartung wheeled his horse flamboyantly and headed off down the column, and Sighard soon heard him shouting orders to his detachment to head out of the village.

‘That was generous of you, Brother Sighard, to accept the task of going to the bishop and taking the blame for losing the rebels based on information Brother Hartung provided.’

Sighard nodded. ‘I won’t have men say I lack bravery, Brother Amadeus, nor that I place the blame for my failings on the shoulders of my subordinates.’

‘It is comforting to know,’ said Amadeus with a hearty laugh. ‘I will remember that example if he sees fit to replace you and elevate me to command.’

Sighard did not reply, but images of smashing his fist into Amadeus’s falsely friendly face did briefly flash before his eyes.

‘What do you want?’ Conrad said dismissively, barely bothering to look up from his papers.

Reinhard smiled thinly, disguising his irritation. There was no one else in all the conquered provinces who would dare speak to him like that except his brother.

‘Your manners are slightly lacking after so long in foreign lands, Count Conrad.’

‘What do you want?’ Conrad repeated with even less interest.

Reinhard felt his temple pulse and he took a moment to steady himself. He had known this would not be easy.

‘I want to find the traitors who are supplying the rebels.’

It was five days since the rebel known as Gjaldir and his fugitive band had fled across the lake with ships they had somehow gathered unnoticed. Hartung was off chasing down some group of villagers and stragglers that may or may not have the answers, but Reinhard wanted to know first, and to find out himself. He did not mind that the rebels had escaped, that suited his purposes. He minded that he did not know how. The not knowing was dangerous and irritating.

‘If such traitors even exist, for you have provided no evidence for it. I expect your men are simply incompetent and seeking excuses.’

‘Supplies were being delivered to this town, that you control, and then shipped onwards to the rebels. Some of those ships may then have been used to help the rebels escape. To deny it you are either blind or complicit!’

Conrad refused to be baited into anger. ‘We have open markets, Reinhard. I wouldn’t expect you to understand such earthly matters, but we don’t check who is buying fish and onions. The locals are as free to do so as our people are and who buys food and where they take it is of little interest to me.’

‘And the market is also selling information on the whereabouts of Order outposts and convoys, something that perhaps deserves a little more of your concern. But perhaps the reason you have not discovered the source is that you are the source.’ He tilted his head and studied Conrad intently for any hint in his reaction. It was a bold accusation, and he was not sure it was true.

It did, however, finally get Conrad’s attention, and he scowled at Reinhard, who continued. ‘That treachery has cost me dozens of good men, and caused me great personal harm.’

‘The rebels have killed as many of my men as they have yours, Grandmaster. The difference being I care about the ones I have lost.’

‘Yes, indeed they have. That is what kept me for several long weeks from realising it was you helping them directly, not just one of your people. But really what better way to conceal your treason than to be a victim of it?’

‘Do not play with words you do not understand, brother.’ Conrad emphasised the last word, and Reinhard understood the implication. There was a bond of mutual destruction between them. Reinhard’s career in the Church might still progress if his own brother was revealed to have been a traitor, but it would be more difficult with that stain. Worse, Conrad knew Reinhard still cared about the future of the family, and Conrad was that future, at least for as long as his son Poppo was still young.

‘If anyone was selling information, I am sure you would have found them by now. I have heard of your methods, of your knives and fire.’

‘The Church does not spill the blood of Christians, Conrad. Perhaps if we did, I could indeed extract the truth from your people. But alas.’ He shrugged helplessly.

Conrad snorted in anger. ‘Does not spill the blood of Christians? What of Sir Hans Mettel, Sir Dietmar of Eresburg? Were they not our people whose lives you took?’

Reinhard held up a finger. ‘Ah, now they both attacked my men, and were killed only to defend myself and my subordinates.’

‘Spare me your lies and your excuses. I know full well you deliberately provoked their attacks.’

Reinhard smiled thinly. ‘A matter of opinion. In any case, only those who attack or betray me have any cause to fear me.’

Conrad shook his head at the implied threat. ‘You cannot scare me, Reinhard. I am the one man in the North you cannot touch, no matter the excuse.’

Reinhard smiled, the game had progressed exactly to where he wanted it to be.

‘No, you are no longer correct. It has always been true in the past that I would not cause harm to you nor you to me. Not directly, anyway, despite your many attempts to stymie my rise through the Church.’ He savoured the moment. ‘But have you considered the future? It is your status as my brother and guarantor of our family name that has protected you, not brotherly affection. God knows you have none for me.’

‘You are not my brother, you are some evil thing that crawled into my mother’s womb.’

‘Don’t be petty, Conrad. I had the same dullard father as you.’

‘Our father was dull but he had not a stripe of your malice or inhumanity. Now make your threat clear so I can ignore it and get on with my day. I feel the need to make a shit, and it will be more satisfying and less noxious than sitting in your presence.’ The tone of nonchalance and tedium was good, almost too good. But Reinhard sensed the crack of nervousness behind the bravado. He got the feeling Conrad was deeply uncomfortable with his situation. It was the slim sign of weakness he was looking for, a frayed thread he could pull on and see where it led.

‘Do you know Count Adolf’s son, Hartung?’

Conrad looked wrong-footed for a moment. ‘Yes, I met the lad. What of him?’

‘Well, he is in my service.’ Reinhard stopped and held a hand up to correct himself with a knowing smile. ‘Sorry, in the Order’s service.’

‘I had heard something of the sort. Embarrassed himself, didn’t he?’

‘A minor matter, soon forgotten. What matters is that I own him, utterly. He worships me, he would do anything I ask.’

‘Why are you gloating over this? What would you imagine you can have the poor deluded boy do to me?’

‘If you listen,’ Reinhard said, holding up a finger in chastisement, ‘you might understand.’ He nodded to himself and continued. ‘You see, I saw his potential shortly after his father died. Some claim, erroneously of course, that I contributed to his father’s death by failing to support him. Nonsense, of course, but the claim survives nonetheless.’

Reinhard smiled. ‘I don’t mind the rumours, of course, they lend me a ruthless aspect I find very useful; the idea that I betrayed the father, stole the son, moulded him to my service and will and now control him… It’s a good reputation for me, don’t you think?’

He raised his eyebrows at Conrad, who was stock stone still. Eyes blazing at Reinhard.

Good, he knows where this is going.

‘Now, at my whim, I can use my influence to return to him a great portion of his father’s lands and titles, earning his eternal gratitude and support.’ Reinhard shook his head wistfully. ‘Think of it, I will essentially control a great noble house that is even more powerful than our own!’ Then he gestured brightly, as if it had just occurred to him. ‘You know who reminds me of him?’

‘Don’t you dare,’ snapped Conrad.

‘Poppo, your son! How your son loves me, I have always been so supportive of him.’

Conrad slowly rose to his feet, anger and not a little fear in his face. ‘I have kept the truth of who you are from him, you abomination, simply because you carry my family blood and name. Do not give me reason to change that, I can ruin you with a letter.’

Reinhard leaned in suddenly, getting right in his brother’s face, surprising the bigger man and putting on an expression of pure, wolfish delight. ‘But you did not ruin me, and now it is too late! I have given orders to two of my disciples that if I die here today or any day that follows, to reveal everything I know and suspect about your treason. Yours is the name will be ruined, yours the son disgraced and disinherited, your lands scattered to the winds. I have nothing to lose, no son to protect and no line to secure. I would burn everything we are to the ground before I would tolerate you blocking my rise any further!’

‘You wouldn’t dare,’ Conrad blurted, but his confidence was gone.

Reinhard’s mouth opened into a broad, manic grin. ‘There are no bounds to what I wouldn’t do, brother. You think that I wouldn’t harm you but it is only your name and the product of your loins I need! And Poppo represents both. I would rather not dispose of you the way I disposed of Count Adolf, or reveal your treachery, because it carries risks. But unless you give me what I want I might have no choice! I would bury you, I would mourn you, I would turn Poppo into a puppet and control two great houses instead of one. I would use that sweet young man like I use the fool Hartung and he would love me for it!’ Reinhard closed his eyes and looked up slightly, smiling and basking in the thought of it. Then he opened his eyes and stared at his pale-faced brother. ‘I am headed for Rome herself, Conrad, and you will never get in my way again.’

Conrad recoiled a fraction in the intensity of Reinhard’s assault, his face tight and drained, and Reinhard knew in that moment that he had won, that he was right about Conrad, and that his brother would give in.

Conrad’s face twitched and writhed as he fought with the humiliation of the defeat, of the revelation of the full and true nature and power of his brother’s ambition.

Reinhard leant back, reaching up to smooth his hair and instantly re-adopting the soft smile he so often used to such great effect, years of practising controlling his temper and his outward emotions letting him retake his guard in the verbal sparring like a great swordsman would, while Conrad was askance and disarmed.

‘Would you risk everything to protect these traitors and rebels, brother?’ he asked meekly, injecting an air of concern and sympathy, an understanding of the pain his brother was feeling. The coup de grace to a defeated but worthy foe.

Conrad swallowed hard, thought about it a few moments more, and then quietly sat back down.

Chapter 21

Sacrifice

East of Västerås

Late August AD 1122

‘They will meet us on an island in the lake. It’s uninhabited, out of the way of the routes between the big towns. It should be safe for us to go there,’ Astrid said as they watched the loading of four of their ships with crews.

Leif nodded at Astrid with a smile. ‘I know you and your father will have chosen the best place for the trade.’

Astrid gave him a raised eyebrow in return, trying to see if he was being sarcastic, but relaxed as she clearly decided he was not.

‘We will be very grateful for these supplies now. We had to abandon so much south of the lake. Cloth for tents is essential, the days will start to grow colder before long.’

‘Do not worry, my father will provide. He always does.’

Leif laughed. ‘Your words are true. We could not have wished for a better ally.’ He looked at the ships again as Gjaldir walked over, giving his leader a respectful nod.

Giving Gjaldir respect and deference no longer rankled him in the slightest, as it secretly once had. The young smith had grown into the role of leader like a spring lamb on good grass. Gone were the days of indecision and fear. Gjaldir ruled the warband calmly and confidently, no longer tearing himself apart for each man lost or any opportunity missed.

One and a half years it had been since Leif had sworn his oath on a frigid mountain. Long enough, almost, to forget that Gjaldir had once been a slave, and Leif the huskarl of the man’s master.

But now the man who stood before him was a warrior, a famous one, a leader of men in war and a killer of Christians. No one had really questioned him since he had killed Rekke in single combat, none other than Brunhild, anyway. Rekke’s death had changed something in Gjaldir, and in the way men looked at him. An aura, a confidence, something unknowable. The doubts in who he was, and perhaps the doubts he had in himself, had bled and died on the ground with the fierce Northerner who had sought to replace him.

It was one thing to stand in the shieldwall in battle as Gjaldir had done many times, that was expected of every man and warrior. It was quite another to kill a great warrior in the Holmgang man to man, shield to shield, with no one else to help or defend you. There was little a Norse warrior would respect more.

They still felt the loss of Gunnar too. He had been able to discipline men with a mere look of disappointment, control them with the mere flick of his chin. The taciturn champion had ruled the shieldwall with a fist of oak and a tongue of clarion steel, always braving the fighting where it was fiercest. That approach had earned him the fanatical respect of the warriors, but also cost him his life.

It hadn’t been until after he died that Leif had realised that as long as Gunnar lived, Gjaldir could never truly be accepted as the leader. Gunnar’s presence was too dominating, his shadow too broad and long. Gjaldir had benefited greatly from his advice and guidance, but had lived in fear of the veteran commander’s disapproval, and maybe at times been paralysed by it.

Perhaps, Leif caught himself musing, Gunnar’s death had been the thing they needed. The thing Gjaldir had needed.

‘Are you ready to go?’ Gjaldir asked.

Leif nodded. ‘We are.’

Gjaldir looked out over the lake, scanning the horizon once more and seeing nothing. ‘Be quick, before you lose the light. And turn back at the first sign of trouble. I need you and the men in these ships more than I need fish or equipment.’

Leif resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He knew the stakes they were playing for. Any trip out onto the lake was risky. They were meeting Astrid’s father in the quietest place they could find, one that would not let either party know where the other had come from, minimising the risk of betrayal, or of captured men having the information torn from them.

‘If I see the Christians, we will row like the lost souls of Hel are chasing after us.’

Gjaldir gave him an unamused glare and grunted. Leif just smiled to himself. He was glad it was not his place to bear the burden of command and worry. He had never been good at it, he just wanted a clear task and a sharp sword, and perhaps, gods willing, good ground to fight on.

‘We will go then,’ he said, elbowing Astrid. ‘The sun will not wait for us.’

Astrid shoved back and set off down the stony beach towards the ships, where her lover Vidar was waiting with a beaming smile and a slap on her thigh.

‘She is good for him,’ Leif said with a weary smile.

‘I am happy for them,’ Gjaldir replied, although the tone of his voice did not match his words.

‘Why do you sound so unsure?’

Gjaldir looked at him, and his eyes were clouded. ‘Because having something so beautiful means they have so much more to lose. Go on,’ he said, jerking his head at the boats.

Leif felt a little uneasy at the darkness in Gjaldir’s voice, but he went down towards the boats. Maybe Gjaldir needed a good tumble with Brunhild. That would soothe his soul, but Leif knew the mercurial woman was as like to fight Gjaldir as lie with him. Maybe that was why he was so grouchy.

He went down and stepped into the last ship as they all pushed themselves away from the bank with their oars, before setting off across the lake.

The journey to the island was neither long nor arduous. They did not rig their sails, for they would act as a beacon that could be seen for a dozen miles, instead rowing the three or so miles at a gentle pace with no masts to signal their position to watching eyes further down the waters.

They saw no other ships, and soon they were approaching the island Astrid indicated. As they approached, they saw three longships drawn up against the shore, laden with boxes, sacks and piles of fabric. A few men in tunics and cloaks sat on the grass or kept watch, and one stood in the bow of one ship, alone and motionless. Leif could see it was Astrid’s father.

Leif smiled. ‘It looks like they have a heavy cargo for us,’ he said to Astrid, who beamed and gave a little bow.

‘As we promised.’

‘These Christian lords and their rivalries really do benefit us. I don’t know why they shower us with these gifts, but I pray to Thor it continues,’ said Vidar with a smile.

‘Thor? Don’t pray to Thor, you dog,’ Astrid said with a wicked smile. ‘Pray to me.’

‘My love, I worship you every night,’ Vidar said with a sultry wink.

‘Not as long nor as well as you ought.’

Vidar laughed and reached across to pull her in for a kiss, but she slapped his hand away, snake-fast. ‘Not in front of my father, he can see us from here.’

Vidar made an apologetic face that only lasted a few moments before his cheeky grin came back. Leif just shook his head at the scene. Their public affection could be quite wearying, not to mention envy-inducing.

They were getting closer to the moored boats now, and one man waved to them and Leif returned it with a smile. Astrid’s father remained standing in the bow, and Astrid waved to him.

He raised a single hand in greeting, slowly, before lowering it.

‘Father!’ Astrid called out gleefully, raising herself onto her tiptoes and waving harder.

They were a hundred paces away, the lead boat in front of them starting to slow down.

Astrid’s father did not react.

Astrid went still, staring at him. Leif looked to his own crew. ‘Still oars, be ready to back water on the left.’

‘Astrid?’ Vidar said, with a note of confusion, and Leif turned to look at their guide. She was staring at her father, fixated.

‘Something is wrong,’ she said.

The lead boat was just fifty paces away from the shore now.

Astrid shook her head. ‘Something is wrong, he always greets me so happily.’

‘Leif?’ Vidar turned to Leif, suddenly looking scared.

Leif scanned the shore, looking at the dozen or so men visible. All standing, watching them. None moving to grab ropes, none starting to prepare the cargo.

Astrid waved again, shouting. ‘Father!’

Astrid’s father put up a hand, placing it over his heart and smiling, meeting his daughter’s eyes, and Leif felt the worry subside. Then he shot it out forwards, pointing, his face twisting into a scream. ‘Flee!’

The shouted word barely escaped his mouth before a figure rose from the bows beside him, grabbed him by the hair, and slashed a large knife across his neck.

The figure was wearing a white cloak emblazoned with a golden cross.

‘NO!!!’ Astrid screamed, as her father’s knees buckled and he collapsed. She lunged forwards to the edge of the boat, mindlessly attempting to jump overboard and swim. Vidar grabbed her around the waist and wrestled her back.

‘No, Astrid. No!’ he said, burying his head in her hair to shout in her ear.

‘Turn around!’ Leif shouted, finally overcoming his shock, shouting to his own crew and the other boats.

Bags, boxes and canvas tumbled and was tossed aside on the boats on the shore as several dozen men leapt up out of hiding, and Leif saw that they had bows. Long, deadly warbows.

‘Back on the left, hard on the right!’ Leif shouted in desperation as his men, seated facing backwards, struggled to comprehend what was going on and some reacted better than others, fouling each other’s oars.

The boat in front was already half-turned, but thirty Christian bowmen arrayed on the shore nocked arrows and laid their aim on the closest target, and Leif felt the blood drain from his chest.

‘ROW!’ he roared, as the first arrows ripped out and zipped across his ships. The nearest ship took the brunt of it, arrows pounding into wood and sinking into flesh. His own crew finally understood the danger as stray arrows whipped across their ship, and one went through a warrior’s head, punching out of the far side and leaving him dead before he knew what was happening.

The turn became less sluggish, and they finally got their bows turned to face the direction they had come from, as did the other two ships behind them shortly after.

The first boat was wallowing hopelessly, half its oars tangled in the water as their owners lay limp on their benches, or screamed their lungs out, curled around ash shafts embedded in their bodies.

‘Father!’ Astrid wailed as she struggled against Vidar’s grip, the sorrow and pain in her voice cutting Leif to the core, even amongst the carnage he could see in the first boat of his men. He had spent a lifetime listening to dying men scream, or living ones mourn, and had become somewhat hardened to it. But listening to the pure, raw grief of a woman’s anguished wails was impossible to ignore.

‘Shields up at the back!’ shouted Vidar, and the few men not rowing grabbed shields to try to cover the rowers from the arrows that were starting to come their way now that the first boat was a motionless charnel house of the dead, dying and cowering.

But the shields would not protect them well, only distance could save them.

‘Faster!’ howled Leif, shoving the dead man off his bench and taking up his oar to stop it disrupting the others.

He pulled hard, levering with his back and pressing with his legs against the strake in front. ‘Row, you dogs!’ he shouted as he dipped the oar to bring its blade out and pushed forwards to grab another bite of water.

More arrows were coming for them now. Some were caught on the handful of shields, others splintered wood or splashed into the water at their sides. Somewhere behind him there was a wet thump and a man exhaled in shock before coughing wretchedly around a shuddering scream.

There was nothing to do now but row, the three ships fleeing from their doomed comrades who were still clinging to life on the first, hiding beneath the rim of the sides of their vessel.

‘Sail!’ shouted Vidar, and he pointed at the corner of the island. Leif craned his neck and saw, coming around the corner of the land, a longship, setting their sail to get into pursuit.

‘Shit.’ He looked around, trying to judge the wind. It was not strong, but it was strong enough that a ship under sail would probably be able to catch them before they reached safety.

They were moving out of range of the arrows now, although at least two more of his crew of forty had been hit badly. One of the shield-men, a quick thinker, dragged a dying man from his seat and shipped his oar.

‘It’s only one,’ said Leif, trying to encourage them.

‘Two more!’ shouted Vidar at that moment, and as he said it, Leif saw another pair of longships coming into sight, slower to get their sails set but chasing the first one.

Vidar watched for a little longer as the first ship under sail started inexorably catching them. Then he swore and ran down the boat to Leif, who was rowing his heart out with the crew, huffing and panting.

‘They are going to catch us,’ Vidar said bluntly.

‘We can’t fight them,’ Leif said between strokes. ‘We didn’t bring our armour and we wouldn’t have time to don it if we had.’

‘I know.’

‘Do you have a plan then, Vidar the Cunning?’ said Leif with a manic laugh, because he had realised he was about to die and there was nothing he could do about it.

Vidar looked around. ‘You won’t like it, but yes.’

‘What?’

‘They will only have time to catch and overcome one ship, is my guess.’ Then he met Leif’s eye, looking guilty. ‘We make sure it isn’t us.’

Leif almost missed a stroke, he was so outraged. ‘You mean I should race my other two ships, and the loser dies?’

‘I mean exactly that,’ said Vidar with a hard expression.

Leif snorted with outrage. ‘I will do no such fucking thing. If they catch us, we will all turn and fight them together. We will die as men, not leave our brothers as cowards.’

Vidar’s head drooped. ‘I was afraid you would say that.’

‘Do you value your life above your honour?’ said Leif in disbelief.

‘I do not,’ retorted Vidar angrily, but then his expression softened, and he looked towards Astrid, who was slumped, weeping, in the bow. ‘I cannot let them take her, Leif.’

Leif felt a pang of guilt for judging Vidar so harshly. But then he shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, my friend. But I will not force others to die in my place.’

‘Gjaldir needs us, Leif. It is him we are sworn to,’ Vidar quietly implored.

‘He has Bjorn.’

‘It is not enough.’

Leif looked at Vidar, his jaw tensing and contracting, his muscles burning. There was truth to the raven-haired warrior’s words. Gjaldir would be devastated to lose them both, and they were indeed sworn to protect him. But he could see Vidar simply didn’t want to die, didn’t want to do what was necessary and kill Astrid to prevent the Christians taking her.

The thought clawed at him, for he understood it. He was not sure he would think differently, if he was in Vidar’s position.

He wrestled with the thought, and he almost conceded, but he could not. He could not bear the shame of deliberately sacrificing his own men to save himself.

‘Leif!’ came a shout across the water. He looked to his left, and his eyes went wide as he saw one of the other two ships turning in the water ahead and to the side, oars splashing and bow veering towards and past him, reversing course to head back towards the oncoming enemy. The helmsman of the other ship had had the same idea that they must fight instead of fleeing, but gone before he was ready.

‘No!’ Leif shouted. ‘Wait for us!’

The warrior in the other ship stood up in the stern, leaning on the steering oar, and shook his head. ‘Tell our brothers what we did this day, Leif. And live to warn them!’

‘Sven!’ Leif said, half in panic, and turned into his own crew to shout at them to turn and join their friends, who were now rapidly closing with the pursuing Christians, half the crew rowing and the others arming themselves.

‘No!’ said Vidar, grabbing Leif firmly by the tunic and gripping him so hard he almost lost control of his oar. ‘Do not waste their actions, Leif. They chose this, they saved us.’

Leif looked at Vidar, distraught.

‘This is why you were never fit to be leader, Leif. There is more to leading men than honour, more to winning than courage and doing what is right,’ Vidar added harshly. Then the warrior looked over to where their comrades were bearing down on the surprised enemy ship, all rowing again now, shields on ready and weapons by their sides. ‘They are doing what needs to be done. And we must do the same.’

Sven’s ship speared in towards the lead enemy vessel, who made a desperate attempt to turn out of the way when they realised what the oncoming longship was planning to do. It achieved nothing but to let Sven ram them more squarely on the broadside, crushing in several layers of planks and jarring the hull so badly that the mast lurched and snapped, falling back into the boat, covering half the enemy crew in the sail.

There was a hearty roar, and Sven’s outnumbered, unarmoured crew swarmed into the enemy vessel in a maddened rush, hacking and spearing with abandon as the Christian soldiers within tried to respond.

The second enemy ship showed a moment of indecision, at first making to go around the floating battle and maintain the chase, but perhaps swayed by uncertainty as to who was winning the vicious fight, they dropped their sail and turned in, piling their own ship into the melee and boarding Sven’s ship over the side.

The fight faded into the distance as Leif’s crew continued to row, becoming an indistinct flashing of weapons and receding din of shouting and screams. The third Christian ship, perhaps unwilling to chase two others on its own, also stopped to help, and the floating raft of four ships was quickly left far behind on the lake.

‘Ease off!’ called Vidar to the exhausted crew, turning to look and seeing that they were perhaps only a mile from their destination.

‘We will have to abandon the ships,’ Leif said dully. ‘They know where we have gone now.’

‘There are only three of them, we can fight them off with the men on the shore if they try and chase us,’ replied Vidar, sounding confused.

Leif shook his head, pointing back across the lake, where four fat Christian ships were slowly coming into view, headed their way.

‘Thor’s cock,’ muttered Vidar.

‘Yes.’

‘Those ships might have two hundred men in, each.’

‘Yes.’

‘They are slow, but we will not have long to flee.’

‘Indeed,’ Leif said, starting to row again, matching pace with his crew, his expression glum. ‘I think we are fugitives again.’

They reached the shore of the sheltered bay where the rest of the warband was waiting a short time later. Men were watching in considerable numbers from the beach, armed and ready, because the sails of the pursuing ships were clearly visible on the lake not far behind them.

‘What happened?’ shouted Gjaldir, as the two ships landed on the shore and Leif ordered his men to take everything with them and get out.

‘Ambush!’ Leif called, jogging through the cold, shallow water to meet his leader. He reached Gjaldir, who put a hand on Leif’s arm and looked out again at the pursuing ships.

‘Astrid’s father?’

‘Dead, and the supplies lost.’

‘How many Christians are following?’

‘Too many, we need to leave, now.’

Gjaldir grimaced, but after just a few moments staring at the pursuing ships, weighing the options, he nodded and turned around to shout at the assembled men. ‘Break camp! Take only what you can carry for a long day’s march!’

‘We aren’t fighting?’ called one man furiously, having just been told two ships full of his friends and comrades were dead.

‘Not today, not against that many of them. Move!’

Leif was about to add his voice to Gjaldir’s, but the beach sprang into action as the hundreds of warriors ran back inland to their camp just fifty paces from the shore and started packing. No one stayed to argue the point any further. That was some small comfort. They had been hunted and wounded, but they were still united.

‘Where do we go?’ Leif asked.

‘The other two ships?’ Gjaldir asked tentatively, ignoring his question.

Leif swallowed hard. ‘They were caught. Asel’s in the ambush, Sven turned his ship around to fight, to let the rest of us escape.’

Gjaldir looked at Leif in confusion. ‘And you did not turn around?’

Leif could not meet Gjaldir’s eye. ‘I did not. Sven and Vidar told me to take who I could and escape, and to my shame, I did.’

Gjaldir’s hand grabbed Leif’s shoulder. ‘You did the right thing. We need living warriors, not the honourable dead.’

Leif looked up again, relief washing over him. ‘You do not think it cowardice, to abandon my men?’

Gjaldir shook his head. ‘We are not abandoning the dead, Leif. We are saving the living. That is what you all taught me.’ He cast one look at the approaching Christian fleet, no more than two miles away now. ‘We go inland, into the forests, until we lose them. We have done it before, we will do it again now.’

‘And then what? We cannot run forever, nor win this war that way.’

Gjaldir thought about it. ‘You are right, and we must change our methods. We will talk with the others when we are safe.’

Then Gjaldir strode up the slope towards the camp, without looking back, and the young man’s confidence and calm made Leif shudder at his own weakness.

Chapter 22

The Return

‘Come, I need to confer with you all,’ Gjaldir said softly, looking into Vidar’s tent.

Vidar was sitting on his bed, back against his shield, Astrid curled up by his side, head on his lap, her eyes unfocused and red-stained.

Vidar grimaced, but nodded, and he gently shook Astrid’s shoulder. ‘I have to go, my love. I will return soon.’

Astrid finally returned to the present moment from whatever dark place she had been occupying, and shook her head, clasping Vidar’s arm. ‘Don’t leave me alone.’

‘It is only briefly. I could take you to Brunhild and the other women, they would look after you.’

‘They would mock me for my weakness.’

‘Brunhild understands grief, Astrid. She will not mock you,’ Gjaldir said softly.

Astrid looked helpless, her eyes slipping to the ground, and then she nodded softly.

‘I will come to you after I take her,’ Vidar said to Gjaldir, standing up and helping Astrid rise.

‘Tell Brunhild to come with you. I want all of us to discuss this.’

‘As you wish,’ Vidar said without reproach. His view on Brunhild, an ex-slave and a woman, being part of the circle of Gjaldir’s inner counsel was well trodden, but he had learned the argument was pointless and unwelcome.

Gjaldir nodded and left the tent, heading to the fire where his companions were gathering. Bjorn was there, adding wood to the fire while Leif sat on a rough-hewn log.

‘I miss the comforts of our winter camp already,’ said Leif, shifting on his inadequate seat.

‘You will learn to live without them again,’ Gjaldir said without humour, for he too disliked living in the woods with only the barest essentials. The warriors of his warband were tough, no doubt, but the living conditions were tiresome, and in winter they would be dreadful. If it was a bad winter, men would lose fingers and toes or even die without proper shelter, and starvation was a real possibility.

They had endured one such winter, two years before, the one the people called the weeping winter, and the memory of it haunted him.

Then Vidar arrived with Brunhild, and shortly after that Tormund materialised from the darkness. He had not been invited, and Gjaldir did not know how he always knew to turn up, but he had given up trying to chase the seer away. He rarely spoke anyway, he just sat and listened in annoying silence.

‘It has been three days since the men we left to watch our trail last saw the Christians. I think we can safely assume they have ceased their pursuit,’ Gjaldir said.

‘They were not equipped for a long march into the forest,’ said Leif. ‘Fortunately.’

‘Nevertheless, our situation is bad. We have little food, although it is harvest time and the woods are full of game, so finding more will not be so difficult. But that will not last long. In two months, winter will start to fall, and we need somewhere to spend it.’

‘What about the war, our raids?’ Bjorn asked.

‘I have not given up on them, but making sure we survive the winter has to be our greatest priority.’

‘I agree,’ said Vidar.

‘Well, let’s return to our people in the North,’ said Bjorn.

‘With six hundred warriors? Jarl Einar was clear, we cannot. He would take it as a declaration of war. We would be fleeing one war for another, and putting our people in danger.’

Bjorn looked at the fire in anger at the idea that one of their own kin would do such a thing, but he did not argue.

‘We could capture a settlement and spend the winter there,’ said Brunhild.

Leif gave her a chiding look. ‘And be taken under siege? The enemy from Uppsala would come and drive us out, or worse, trap us there to die.’

‘Then what, we just freeze in the woods in our tents?’

‘We could build a proper village, like we did at Vatnsborð,’ said Bjorn.

‘Time is too limited, and it would have to be far away to avoid discovery. We won’t have the help of the people of Vatnsborð like we did last time,’ said Vidar.

Bjorn threw up his hands in annoyance. ‘Then what is the point of this discussion, if every option is impossible?’ He turned to Gjaldir, who had been sitting silently. ‘You must have some idea to proffer?’

They all looked at him, and Gjaldir nodded slowly. ‘It has been consuming my thoughts, and I have considered every option you are proposing, and rejected them for the same reasons.’

‘Then what?’

Gjaldir looked at his irate friend. ‘I have spent months wondering what Gunnar was going to say to me, the day he died. He told me we would have to change our strategy, that we could not just raid and harass forever, but I never found out what he meant. What would he have done?’

Leif laughed. ‘Something outrageous and bold.’

Gjaldir nodded. ‘That is what I think too.’

‘But we cannot know.’

‘No, we cannot. But we can think for ourselves beyond the bounds of what we have been doing these last two years.’

Leif sat up straighter. ‘So, what?’

Gjaldir inclined his head. ‘You dismiss Brunhild’s plan too easily, to capture a settlement and hold it all winter.’

‘And be put under siege?’

‘We were both in Jönköping during the siege, Leif. The winter broke the besieging Crusaders, not us, and in the summer you drove them from the town and destroyed their army in the forest.’

‘Gjaldir, we don’t have the army of King Sigurd to achieve such things.’

‘As I remember it, the army of the king was much weakened, fugitive even. What is so different now?’

‘We had allies to come to our aid and the enemy had none. If we take some town and hold it, the enemy will come from Uppsala and be supplied from it. It will not be the same.’

Gjaldir nodded slowly. ‘But what if the town we take is Uppsala?’

There was silence, Leif’s jaw fell. Everyone stared at him and Gjaldir did not wither under their glare.

‘The garrison there is large, outnumbering us. The town has walls, new and strong. How could we possibly take it?’ asked Bjorn.

Gjaldir looked around them. ‘You said we needed allies, what about our people inside the walls? There must be hundreds, even thousands of us, kept for their labour. They must outnumber the garrison five to one.’

‘They are unarmed, and how would we organise them?’ Leif said.

‘We could smuggle weapons in,’ said Bjorn, suddenly enthused.

‘How? We don’t know anyone in there. Smuggle weapons to who?’

‘We can send someone inside. People must come and go all the time,’ Bjorn replied.

‘No, we have heard about this, Norse from outside the town cannot just come and go freely. They are checked, recorded, their cargos searched. We cannot slip inside, especially not with weapons.’

Gjaldir looked around and caught Vidar’s eye. The long-haired warrior smiled slowly and pointed at Gjaldir. ‘You are right. We cannot get in. But he can.’

Everyone around the fire looked at Vidar, and then turned to follow his finger and stared at Gjaldir, silent for a moment at the outrageousness of the plan.

‘No!’ said Bjorn, horrified.

‘It is too dangerous,’ added Leif.

They all broke out into argument and Gjaldir held up a hand in irritation. ‘Quiet!’ he said, when they ignored his hand. ‘Vidar, speak.’

‘Why would it be dangerous? You speak their language, you were one of them and know their ways. You look like them! None of them know who Gjaldir is, none of them have seen you. You could walk right in and be accepted without suspicion.’

‘How would he explain who he is?’ Brunhild asked, although she seemed excited by the idea.

‘Blend the truth. He says he is an escaped slave, even better, a blacksmith! They will be glad to have such a valuable worker. Why would they suspect he was one of us?’

‘You think I should be Ordulf again? To get inside Uppsala and arrange an uprising to help us capture the city?’ Gjaldir said, fixing Vidar with a heavy glare.

Vidar looked uncertain for a moment, but then nodded resolutely. ‘Yes, I do.’

Gjaldir nodded decisively. ‘Good, that was my intention also, but I wanted to hear it from someone else.’

Bjorn looked horrified. ‘Gjaldir, you cannot be serious? What if you are discovered?’

‘Then I will die.’

‘And what will that do to our people?’

Gjaldir shrugged. ‘Nothing.’ He reached to his side where Ljós a Norðan lay against a log and held it up. ‘I will leave the sword with you. It is not my hand that is required to be upon it, is it?’ He turned to Tormund, who was watching with intense interest. ‘Tormund?’

The seer looked alarmed to be consulted. He was never consulted. He murmured to himself for a moment, and then shook his head. ‘As long as a Norseman, steadfast and true, wields Ljós a Norðan, the people have a future.’

Gjaldir nodded, placing the sword on his lap. ‘I see three Norsemen, steadfast and true, sitting around this fire. If somehow I am discovered and killed, you will persist, as Gunnar instructed us.’

There was silence at that. The memory of Gunnar’s final act, to leave them a message not to give up even as he lay dying, was impossible to disrespect.

‘What will you do, once you are inside?’ Vidar asked.

‘I will try and make sure I stay in the city. As you say, I guarantee they will find a smith useful. Then, I just need to find some men willing to help me from among the Norse within the town, and with their help, open a gate or find a weakness to allow you in. If we catch the garrison by surprise, especially at a time it is weakened, we might take the city before they know what is happening.’

‘That is an outrageously bold plan,’ Vidar said with a smile. ‘I love it.’

‘It is far too dangerous,’ Bjorn said, looking sick with worry.

‘No, just remaining out here, fighting one small battle at a time, losing more men than we can replace, is what is far too dangerous. It guarantees our eventual defeat. With this, we can win a real victory.’

‘Uppsala will be a great victory, no doubt. But it is not enough to win the war,’ said Leif.

‘No, but once we take Uppsala, maybe we can convince far more to join our side against the Christians.’

Tormund nodded enthusiastically. ‘Once the people hear that Gjaldir has taken the prime nest of the invaders? The people will know that the gods smile upon us, and they will join under our banners.’

‘We don’t have banners, Tormund,’ said Leif.

Tormund put his finger to his lips thoughtfully. ‘You are right, we should have one. I shall make us a banner.’

‘That was not my point,’ Leif said in exasperation, but Tormund was already ignoring him, staring at the ground and muttering to himself.

‘The whole of the Christian force will be sent against us,’ Bjorn said in a last-ditch attempt to dissuade him.

‘But they cannot besiege us in winter, not somewhere as strong as Uppsala. And from there we can block the entry to the lake. Perhaps we can force them from Svealand entirely.’

‘And then what?’

Gjaldir shrugged. ‘I don’t have a plan beyond that.’

‘Well, we could march south and force them from Götaland too, perhaps even Skania,’ Leif said, nodding. ‘Their forces there are not nearly so strong as they were during the Crusade. They are merely thousands, not tens of thousands. If we convince the people there to join us, we might have the numbers to force them out.’

‘We are not an army, Leif.’

‘No, but if we act quickly, we may not need one.’

‘And when they return?’

‘Will they return, when defeated? Will they gather the men to invade once again? For what? What paltry riches are left here? What here is worth expending so many lives?’ He looked at Gjaldir. ‘Would they really come again?’

Gjaldir shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps not if it is too expensive. But if they do? Then we fight them again. We keep doing it until it is simply too costly for them to remain here.’

‘I like this plan,’ Vidar said. ‘The future we cannot control, but in the present, this is our best hope.’

‘I agree,’ said Brunhild.

Bjorn was just shaking his head tiredly. ‘We all swore an oath to protect you, Gjaldir. You will have to go in there without us, and we will be helpless to keep it.’

‘I understand, but it is a risk I can accept. Can you?’

Bjorn looked at Gjaldir, and then at the others, seeing he was alone. He nodded. ‘If you believe it is right, I will do as you command.’

Gjaldir smiled. ‘Good. And you, Leif?’

Leif grinned. ‘You are a mad bastard, Gjaldir.’

‘Is that a yes?’

‘To have the chance to spend the winter in Uppsala instead of in the forest? Of course! A horse-turd for what happens next year, we will worry about that later. Let’s kick these bastards out of our home and defy any who come to reclaim it.’

Gjaldir smiled. ‘Then it is decided. I will make my way to Uppsala as an escaped slave, and find a way to open the city to you for you to storm it.’

‘That sounds simple, but it must be carefully planned,’ said Vidar. ‘How are we going to do it?’

Gjaldir nodded. ‘I have some thoughts on the matter.’

‘Are you sure you are ready?’

Brunhild put her hand on Gjaldir’s face, looking at him intently. ‘It is not too late to change your mind.’

‘We are as ready as we can be,’ Gjaldir said, taking Brunhild’s wrist and smiling reassuringly.

He was standing in the forest, no more than four hundred paces from the main road that led to Uppsala, five or so miles away. It was as close as the group of thirty warriors who had escorted him dared get to the Christian settlement. He was wearing a simple, worn and tattered tunic and an equally poor cloak, barefoot and bereft of anything else except a simple blood-stained eating knife and a husk of stale bread.

He had not washed or eaten for several days, just to ensure he seemed as haggard and miserable as possible.

The blood on his small knife was from a deer, but he would tell the story that it was the blood of his dead owner, killed to make good his escape.

Gjaldir was now about to be a slave again. He would call himself Herman, and say that he was captured shortly before the Crusade and held as a farm hand and labourer in the North, on the edges of Christian control, where the Norse still lived un-conquered by the Crusade. He had killed his master and walked south, walking to reach his freedom in Uppsala.

Brunhild gave him a last fond look and then embraced him, a rare act for her, and he gathered her into his arms in delight and kissed the top of her head.

‘Be careful in there, Gjaldir. And don’t forget who you are. They were your people once, but not anymore.’

Gjaldir’s smile deepened. ‘I won’t forget who I belong with, Brunhild,’ he whispered into her hair.

She nodded beneath his chin and they separated, Brunhild looking away as she tried to hide her emotions. Gjaldir felt his eyes threaten to water, unbidden, and he angrily forced the feeling aside.

Leif walked over, and he looked awkwardly down at the sword he carried in his left hand, the bright blade in its dragon-mouthed scabbard.

‘Don’t leave me with this,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘It’s heavier than I expected.’

They both understood he wasn’t talking about the weight of the sword itself.

‘I won’t. Leave someone here watching every day. I will come out when I can, and let you know what is happening. But don’t be seen.’

‘We won’t.’

‘Then I have to go,’ Gjaldir said, feeling a harsh pang of fear to be leaving his friends and comrades.

Leif pulled him into a tight embrace, thumping him on the back. Bjorn and Vidar did the same. He looked around for Brunhild, but she had already gone. It saddened him, but he understood. She had seen enough tragedy not to need to watch him walk out of her life, perhaps never to return.

‘Gods be with you, brother,’ Leif said, and Gjaldir smiled.

Gjaldir walked openly along the road to the city, passing several groups on the road who looked at him with curiosity but no concern. Finally he was stopped by a quartet of soldiers half a mile from the new city, just outside the ruins of the old.

‘What is this?’ one of the soldiers said in low German, putting a hand on his chest to stop him and giving him a hostile look up and down.

‘Dirty Norse, look at the state of him.’

Gjaldir did not have to feign his fearful expression too much. These soldiers might kill him without a second thought. ‘I am not Norse,’ he babbled, causing the soldier to look up in surprise. ‘I am a slave, well, I was a slave of theirs. I escaped.’

‘What?’ said the soldier, without a trace of the empathy Gjaldir had been hoping for.

‘My name is Herman, I am from Hamburg, I was on a ship that was captured six years ago and I have been a slave on a farm north of here. I escaped!’ He pulled the bloodied knife from his belt. ‘I killed my master and escaped to come here.’

He put on an earnest look, but the soldier looked unimpressed. Things were not going as he had expected. He had hoped to be welcomed immediately.

‘A slave, eh. From Hamburg?’ said the first soldier.

‘He certainly sounds like he is Saxon,’ said the other, and Gjaldir heard with relief the man’s accent was also of Saxony.

‘So? What do we want with a coward who let himself become a slave? Off with you, boy. This city is for good Christians, not dirty slaves.’

Gjaldir did not have to fake his astonishment. He had worried about being found out somehow, but not being rejected.

‘Why won’t you let me be saved? I am a Christian like you!’

‘You ain’t nothing like us, boy, we wouldn’t be captured and used as slaves.’

‘Not a chance,’ added the second soldier.

‘But I was not a soldier.’

‘What use have we got for you then? We need fighting men, not farm hands. Got plenty of locals to haul shit and push carts.’

Gjaldir’s mouth flapped like a landed fish in protest.

‘Off with you,’ said the first soldier, pushing Gjaldir back with his spear. ‘Find somewhere else.’

‘Where else?’

‘I don’t care.’

There was the sound of horses approaching behind on the road and the soldier shoved Gjaldir again, hard, and Gjaldir stumbled and a voice cursed behind him as a horse whinnied.

‘Get out of the road!’ an angry voice rumbled.

Gjaldir scampered to the side and turned to see a dozen horsemen of the Order pulling to a stop, the leader, a massive knight in full armour, sawing at his reins.

‘What is this?’ the knight growled at the soldiers, who snapped sharply to a standstill.

‘Apologies, m’lord. We will remove him.’

‘Who is he?’

‘Claims to be an escaped slave, sir.’

The knight looked at Gjaldir again, his eyes boring into his head. ‘Who are you, boy?’

‘I am Herman,’ Gjaldir stammered, his heart pounding and his muscles twitching with the deep desire to run or to fight. The last ten times he had been this close to a soldier of the Order, they had been trying to kill each other. But now he was unarmed and helpless.

‘Stay out of the way of my men, Herman,’ the knight said in a tone that brooked no dissent. He turned to the soldiers. ‘What are you doing with him?’

‘We were just driving him away sir,’ said the first soldier hesitantly.

‘Why?’

‘Didn’t think we wanted his like here, sir.’

The big knight snorted. ‘Fine, I agree, clear the road,’ and then without looking at Gjaldir again, he gave his horse a gentle nudge with his heels.

‘But I’m a blacksmith, sir!’ Gjaldir called desperately.

The knight pulled his reins and turned in his saddle, looking Gjaldir up and down again and then looking at the soldier. ‘Why didn’t you tell me he was a smith?’

The soldier cast Gjaldir a reproachful look. ‘He didn’t tell us that. Said he escaped from a farm.’

The knight looked at Gjaldir again and nodded. ‘We need smiths. Get out of the way of my men and then follow us to the city. Keep up.’ Then he kicked his horse into a walk again, and Gjaldir, breathing a heavy sigh of relief, waited for the last horse to pass and set off at a jog behind them.

They reached the city gates quickly, and they were opened for the knight and his horsemen. Once inside, Gjaldir marvelled at the neat rows of newly built houses, stables, workshops and barracks. It was already a bigger city than the old Norse one, and better built.

He followed the horsemen through to the centre of the city, where a sprawling walled compound sat, two- and three-storey buildings and a wooden chapel looming over the rest of the buildings.

‘Sir Sighard!’ a soldier in the Order’s surcoat called out, opening the compound’s double gates.

The big knight acknowledged the soldier with a nod of his head and rode through. Gjaldir hesitantly followed, shrinking inside when the doors closed behind him. He had not intended to get anywhere near the Order. He was in extreme danger.

The knight called Sir Sighard dismounted and handed his horse off to one of the gaggle of stableboys and pages who sprang from the stables and buildings around the large yard.

‘You,’ the knight said, pointing his finger at Gjaldir. ‘Herman, is it?’

Gjaldir hurried forwards. ‘Uh, yes, sir.’

‘Tell me exactly who you are, and where you came from to be here.’

Gjaldir swallowed and nodded meekly. ‘I’m Herman, sir. A blacksmith from Hamburg. I was on a ship when we were attacked by Norsemen and the ship was captured. Most of the crew were killed, but they took me as a slave.’

‘Why? Didn’t you fight?’

‘I did, but I didn’t have a weapon other than my hammer. They knocked me down and tied me.’ He looked at the ground in real shame, because his true capture had been a similar tale and it still hurt him.

‘And then?’

‘I was taken by one of the Norsemen to his farm, and that is where I have been since. They put me to work in the fields and with the animals. When I heard from one of the other slaves that Christians had captured Uppsala, I decided to escape and come here.’

‘How did you escape?’

‘I killed my master and ran, sir.’

The knight looked at him intently, and then nodded. ‘Do you speak Norse? We need translators.’

Gjaldir thought quickly. If he said yes, they might take him out of the city, and he didn’t want that. He shrugged apologetically. ‘Only a little, they didn’t speak to me much. Just commands.’

‘Hmm, shame. But you are a blacksmith?’

‘Yes.’

‘And the Norse didn’t use you as one?’

‘I didn’t know how to tell them, and they didn’t ask.’

Sir Sighard looked away, losing interest. ‘I see. We can use a smith, even one who has not used a hammer for years. Wait here, someone will come for you.’

‘Yes, sir.’

And then Sir Sighard simply walked off, with his men following him, leaving Gjaldir alone in the very heart of his enemy’s lair.

Gjaldir was left alone in the yard for some time. Other men came and went, going about their duties, but none of them paid Gjaldir any attention. He sat down at the side against a post, his tiredness and hunger making him weak and sleepy.

He was dozing off when a voice called out to him. ‘Herman?’

He didn’t respond for a moment to the unfamiliar name, but then snapped awake as he realised it meant him. He looked up and saw a man in a leather smith’s apron looking at him dubiously.

‘Uh, yes, I am Herman, sir,’ Gjaldir said, levering himself to his feet.

‘Good, and don’t call me sir, boy, are you simple? Do I look like a knight?’

‘No, sorry.’

The man didn’t, indeed, look like a knight at all. He was older than Gjaldir, quite a bit older, maybe in his fortieth year or so. He had trim brown hair and a solid beard below a ruddy, sun-browned face. He stood awkwardly, favouring his right leg, and his arms were weathered and burly. He was a working man, that was clear.

‘I’m Rudolf, a blacksmith. I’m told you are too.’

‘Yes.’

‘What sort of smithing have you done?’

Gjaldir’s mind raced. He had mostly made swords, but he didn’t want to let them know that. He had learned the hard way swordsmiths were too valuable, he might be sent to another settlement, or even taken back to Germany in the employ of some lord of the Crusade.

‘Nails, hinges, horseshoes, arrowheads. Things like that. I only did it for a few years before I was captured.’

Rudolf looked disappointed. ‘Ah, shame. I could have used a proper Hamburg guild smith, but someone to make nails will be useful nonetheless. Come on, I’ll show you to the forge.’

Rudolf limped off and Gjaldir followed him, out of the main gate and along a side road behind the compound, where more stables and various workshops lay around a big yard.

‘You’ll be wondering why I limp,’ said Rudolf.

‘Yes, I suppose I was.’

‘I used to be a soldier, but then I took an arrow in the knee. I was with the first Crusade, back in ’16.’ Rudolf half-turned and gave a proud smile. ‘I was there at the great victory at Blood River Ridge, where we smashed the Danish army to mud and splinters.’ He stopped by the entrance to a half-open forge building and slapped his left thigh. ‘But it cost me the best use of this leg. You’ve heard of Blood River Ridge? The nobles call it the battle outside Aarhus, but we common soldiers know it different.’

Gjaldir had been there with the baggage train for the battle, and seen its aftermath, but he couldn’t admit to it. ‘No, I was captured in ’15, before the Crusade began.’

‘Fifteen, eh? That is a long time to be a slave.’ He peered at Gjaldir. ‘How old were you, must have still been a boy?’

‘I was sixteen, I think.’

‘You think?’

Gjaldir shrugged. ‘Don’t know my parents, but I think I was born in the last year of last century. So my forge master told me, anyway.’

‘Ah, you grew up on the streets in Hamburg then, eh?’

Gjaldir nodded.

‘Tough boy, then. Good, must be why you survived slavery for so long with those disgusting heathens.’

Gjaldir felt a spark of anger at that, but he just nodded dumbly.

Rudolf smiled sympathetically. ‘Well, you are free now, and if you work well, you have a safe place here. Always need more smiths. Wasn’t what I wanted, mind you. But if I can’t march, I can’t fight!’ Rudolf laughed and shook his head. ‘Anyway, here is the forge, have a look round. I’m sure everything will be familiar to you.’

Gjaldir did, indeed, recognise everything in the forge. Enough to see that it was quite basic, some of the tools looked crudely made.

‘What do you make?’

‘Whatever I am told. Lots of nails, few horseshoes, although there is a proper farrier with the Order, he is overworked so I help him. Sometimes I make ironwork for doors and gates, things like that.’

‘Any weapons?’

‘No. All the weapons get brought in on ships. There is a swordsmith down the street who does repairs and sharpening, and he has two apprentices who make arrowheads for the fletchers. No, nothing exciting here, but you will be used to that.’

Gjaldir pointed at the rack of tools.

‘Who made your tools?’

‘I did. Why, what’s wrong?’ Rudolf asked with a defensive air.

Gjaldir shrugged. ‘Nothing, just wondered.’

‘Well, I’ve got work to do, get yourself familiar, and then make some nails. Charcoal is over there under that shelter, iron rod for nails is over there. When it runs out, take a billet from the stock and more some more. You know how to do that, right?’

Gjaldir nodded.

‘Good. I’ll leave you to get on with it then. I have to go and talk to a carpenter. They are remaking a gate in the wall down the way and need new fittings.’

Then Rudolf hobbled off and left a slightly surprised Gjaldir alone in the forge. He had not known what to expect, and all his fears of discovery seemed ridiculous now. No one seemed to distrust or suspect him in the slightest. Why would they? None of them had cause to suspect a freed Saxon slave.

He smiled to himself and shook his head, then walked over to inspect the tools available to him. He had started his smithing by making nails and such things, as all apprentices do, even in swordsmiths’ forges, so he was sure he would pick it up again quickly.

He looked over the paltry collection of hammers. A couple were rough and clearly made by Rudolf, whose skills Gjaldir was seriously starting to doubt, but two were fine hammers, no doubt brought with the Crusaders, or passed down from another smith.

He selected one and picked it up gingerly. It had been years since he last held a smithing hammer, but it instantly felt at home in his palm. He had expected to hate it, reject it even, for that part of his life brought him so much pain and anger, but the smooth wood of the handle settled in his palm like an old lover, and the weight of the squared iron head was comforting, potent… alluring.

He sighed and looked at the simple forge. It was in the Saxon style, an open brick square with air introduced from underneath, not the narrow clay-walled trench of Dengir’s forge that he had preferred.

He put the hammer down and set his eyes on the charcoal store. There was nothing to do but begin.

Chapter 23

The Hammer or The Cross

Bishop Reinhard was in the chapel when he heard the heavy, deliberate footsteps behind him. There was only one man who would walk so confidently and ponderously to disturb his prayer, or could get to him without Bertrand stopping them and asking for a meeting first.

‘Sir Sighard,’ Reinhard said, crossing himself and rising from the cushion facing the altar.

‘Grandmaster.’

‘What brings you here in the middle of the day?’

‘Trouble.’

Reinhard sighed. It was always trouble. The fact that trouble was what he needed did not make it less tiresome to listen to, especially from the intensely earnest Sir Sighard. I really should think about replacing him.

‘What troubles us now, brother?’ Reinhard said, placing his hands together at his waist and looking at the knight with a friendly smile.

‘Everything. Grandmaster, I am concerned that the province is on the verge of rebellion. The harvest tax you introduced, while righteous and fair, is driving the locals to acts of criminality and rebellion.’

‘Well, they should get control of their violent elements. The food we take from them is to feed our men, men who are only needed in order to control the rebels and bandits. If they want us to take less food, they need to control this trouble themselves!’

‘I know that, Grandmaster, your reasons are true, and I do not dispute it. But the locals are simple, godless people, and do not have the understanding or wisdom to submit to our God-given authority.’

Reinhard nodded sympathetically. ‘It is hard to save the entire flock.’

‘At the moment, I am concerned about saving any of it.’

‘What do you suggest? I know you are not a man who simply complains.’

‘We need to find this rebel leader Gjaldir and the sword, Grandmaster. Him escaping from our grasp twice has emboldened the heathens, made us look weak.’

‘Brother Hartung is still pursuing them, is he not?’

‘Yes, but he is young, inexperienced, he has let them fall through his grasp twice now.’

‘Do you not have confidence he will learn from his errors, as we all must, and find his quarry?’

‘Perhaps, but I believe I could achieve it faster, and I have more men available to do so. And speed is essential, for the longer he remains free and fighting us, the more his influence spreads. The Norse are starting to believe they can defy us, fight us even. I received news this morning that the commander of one of our garrisons was murdered, killed in the night in his bed by some foul assassins.’

Reinhard’s smile soured. ‘And the culprits?’

‘The garrison do not know who committed the atrocity, and the locals in the village there claim ignorance, despite our efforts to extract the truth.’

Reinhard shook his head sternly. ‘That will not do. If the locals will not give up the criminals, we must assume the entire village knows and thus are complicit. An example must be made,’ he said, decisively.

Sighard looked unsure. ‘Grandmaster, such examples have been made before, all they have done is inflamed the situation.’

‘Then the examples were not clear, nor decisive enough.’

Sighard stared at Reinhard in silence. ‘What do you wish be done?’

Reinhard straightened his back and looked at the tall German knight with as much fortitude as he could. ‘Elimination of the entire problem.’

Sighard’s jaw worked a little. ‘All of them?’

‘All of them. Does this trouble you, Sir Sighard? No, that is not a fair question, of course it troubles you, as it should. It is a sad thing when an entire flock is lost, but sometimes necessary.’

‘I understand, Grandmaster.’

‘But you are still troubled?’

‘I think it will not help. What matters is finding Gjaldir and capturing his sword. That will show the rebels that their resistance is hopeless. I request permission to take my men and go and deal with it.’

Reinhard flashed with anger, it was the closest Sir Sighard had come to open argument. He spent a moment deciding what his response to this unexpected argument would be. He eventually chose stamping it out. The risk of enraging Sir Sighard was less than of him learning he could defy his master.

‘I have given you orders, Brother Sighard. Clearly and without qualification. Do you defy them?’ He tapped one hand on the other, his mouth twisting into a scowl of disapproval.

Sighard lowered his head slightly. ‘I understand, Grandmaster, and I do not defy you. I am simply trying to explain the military situation, because I am not sure you fully understand it. We are on the verge of seeing rebellion, and destroying this one village while the rebel army roams free will do nothing to halt it.’

Reinhard was shocked. Sighard had never dared stand up to him like this, no one had. He was almost speechless, furious with the knight and furious with himself for not replacing the man sooner with a newer, more cowed brother of the Order. But his position was perilous. He had tried to force Sighard to back down with suggestion. If he tried to enforce his will and Sighard refused, Reinhard had no one else to turn to, no ally to help him, no group of advisors to rely on. He had made sure all power in the city rested with him, and with Sighard.

But if he backed down… The thought of losing that power clawed at his soul, filled his guts with water and his head with fog and panic. I will have to have him killed. But by who? He had dreadfully miscalculated in ignoring the potential of Sighard’s own rebellion.

He decided to resort to appeal, to flattery and showing a chink of weakness to sway the knight.

‘I am not so blind to the situation as you think. I know it is serious and that is why I need you here, Sir Sighard, in case Uppsala itself is threatened. I am the instrument of God’s will in this land, and if I am destroyed, the entire Order will collapse, and our task with it. You understand that, do you not?’

Sighard looked a little alarmed. ‘I do, Grandmaster.’

‘You wish to go chasing after the rebels, but that might take weeks and lead you far from here, leaving me vulnerable to the rebellion you warn me of. Would you really allow that?’

Sighard’s resolution cracked a little and he bowed his head in shame. ‘I would not. I apologise, Grandmaster, I only seek to further our aims here, and destroy those who would oppose them.’

Reinhard, flush with relief and desperate not to show it, checked his hand was not shaking before putting it gently on Sighard’s shoulder. ‘We must always be wary against losing faith ourselves, Brother Sighard. The fear and distrust it causes is the devil’s whisper.’

‘I understand,’ Sighard muttered.

Reinhard felt the man’s capitulation and the rush of it racked his body, an almost primal, sensuous rush that reminded him of the few times he had laid his hands on a woman, when he was a young man. He pushed that dark memory aside, for he knew the sin and indiscipline such things would lead to.

‘I do hear your concerns, Sir Sighard. I will allow you to send an extra two hundred men to search for the rebels. Any more would be an unacceptable weakening of our garrison here. Do not forget, we are preparing for Duke Henry’s arrival in just two weeks, he must be suitably protected also. We rely on his patronage and support.’

Sighard bent his knee. ‘Thank you, Grandmaster. Thank you. I apologise for my words, I speak only from passion.’

‘I know you do, Sighard. Your loyalty and faith are beyond question. Go now, and attend to this criminal village.’

Sighard rose to his feet, waiting a moment to see if Reinhard would offer his ring to kiss. Reinhard smiled politely, but withheld the gesture of favour. Sighard bowed his head swiftly and left the room, almost running.

Once he was gone, Reinhard turned to Bertrand, who was standing in the entrance. ‘Start quietly drawing up a list of men who could replace Sir Sighard,’ he said, tapping one finger on his lips. ‘Someone I can rely on to do whatever I require.’

Bertrand nodded. ‘And what of Sir Sighard? Shall I arrange to have him discredited, or found to be an apostate?’

Reinhard thought about it for a moment, delighted and slightly appalled by his assistant’s ruthless and unquestioning loyalty.

‘No, no, I think he is too respected by the men. I will simply have him sent south to manage a large garrison, somewhere out of the way. But not yet, I need everything to be well organised and above reproach when Duke Henry gets here. Dismissing Sighard just before the duke arrives might draw uncomfortable scrutiny and questions.’

‘As you wish, Grandmaster,’ said Bertrand.

Was that a hint of disappointment on his face? Reinhard studied the priest’s expression, but whatever he thought he had seen was gone, to be replaced with the blank, serene mask of a slightly portly middle-aged man again.

‘You may go now. I have many things I need to pray on.’

Bertrand nodded, and silently closed the doors behind him, leaving Reinhard alone in the small chapel in utter silence.

Reinhard sighed and knelt again in front of the altar. He would need to take some time and consider everything that had just happened and clear his mind. And to do that, he needed silence, for only in the silence between words was the true wisdom of the Lord heard.

‘Have you altered these?’ Rudolf peered at the tongs he had just picked up from the table next to the forge.

Gjaldir shifted uncomfortably. He had, in fact, re-worked the rather rough and poorly made tongs to make their grip closer and easier to use, and to make the bit grip better around the rod he was using. He had done it while Rudolf was out, and was not sure if the smith would be angry. ‘Yes.’

‘Why?’ Rudolf looked over and found a piece of the rod, picking it up with the tongs and laying it on the anvil. His eyebrows went up and then he smiled broadly. ‘It is better!’

Gjaldir relaxed a little and smiled too, pointing at the tongs excitedly. ‘I changed the angle they bite at, so that you can grip the rod in two places without having to close your hand too far. It makes it easier to rotate and grip.’

Rudolf reached for a hammer and tested the tongs, turning and hammering on the cold iron. ‘By hell, it does.’ Then he looked at Gjaldir with a new, appraising eye. ‘I thought you only had a little time as a blacksmith, years ago.’

‘Making tools was one of our first proper jobs,’ Gjaldir said, without a word of a lie.

‘Well.’ Rudolf looked around the forge. ‘What else can you do?’

Gjaldir nodded with childish excitement and started pointing. ‘Well, the forge needs rebuilding. It’s too hot in the centre for blacksmithing work and the heat doesn’t spread well enough. The bed is too flat, I have to rake the coals far too much to control the fire and their power is wasted.’

‘Really, rebuild the forge? Just that then,’ said Rudolf with a sarcastic tone that Gjaldir completely missed.

‘Yes. And these hammers, we need a lighter one for fine work, and a heavier one for large billets. I’m wasting colour in the iron hammering them into rod with this.’ He indicated the largest hammer they had.

‘New hammers too?’ said Rudolf with a nod.

‘Exactly.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Well, the nail heading tool is good, but the anvil isn’t really ideal for it.’

‘A new anvil then?’ Rudolf said, his bushy eyebrows climbing his forehead.

Gjaldir finally saw the smith’s amused grin, and realised how much he was asking.

‘Well, I’m only speaking of what could be better.’ Then he shrugged. ‘But I can work with what we have.’

Rudolf cast a glance at the burgeoning pile of nails Gjaldir had forged and stacked. ‘I see that. Well, let me tell you iron is scarce and expensive. I might be able to let you make a new hammer, but a new anvil?’ Rudolf shook his head. ‘Not in this lifetime.’

Gjaldir had a thought, one that tickled at him. ‘What if I could find you one?’

‘Find one?’

‘Yes, I know where we might get one.’

Rudolf’s amusement only grew. ‘How?’

Gjaldir thought about it, wondering if he had gone too far, the knowledge of exactly where he might find a new anvil was upsetting and conflicting.

‘When I was captured, I was taken first to Uppsala, the old Norse city just outside the walls. I saw a smithy there, they might have anvils.’

Rudolf pursed his lips and whistled. ‘Maybe, but those ruins might have been picked clean by now.’

Gjaldir shrugged. ‘Would you let me look?’

‘I don’t mind, and I can’t really stop you.’

‘You can’t stop me? Do you mean I can just leave the city alone?’

Rudolf looked at him in confusion and then laughed. ‘Herman, you are not a slave anymore. You are free to come and go as you like.’

Gjaldir was so surprised he almost looked guilty. ‘Uh, then I’ll go and look this afternoon?’

‘Fine. I’ll be no use to you helping to retrieve one if you find it, but I can find some lads if you do.’

Gjaldir shook his head. ‘It’s not far, I should be able to carry it back.’

Rudolf looked the huge man up and down. ‘Yeah, I suppose I don’t doubt that.’

Gjaldir walked down the side road away from the Order compound and approached the small gatehouse where Rudolf had said they were remaking a gate. The door was only big enough for two men to pass through at a time. The gate was very roughly hewn, its hinges mismatched and it was locked with a big locking bar, held in place with two iron hoops that fed into a finely made lock that must have been brought in with the Crusaders. The fine work of the heavy lock was in stark contrast to the rough and ready gate and its fittings.

Four very bored-looking soldiers were at the gate, and they looked up as he approached. Gjaldir felt a rush of nerves, but they just looked at him with passive interest. He stopped in front of them, unsure what to do.

‘I’m just going out to the ruined town,’ he said with horrible uncertainty.

‘Who are you?’ asked the soldier, looking him up and down.

‘I’m a blacksmith, with Rudolf. He sent me to go and look for some tools in the ruins.’

‘Fine.’

‘Will you let me back in when I return?’

‘As long as you come back before dark,’ said another man, unbarring and opening the small gate.

Then they just stood aside and let Gjaldir leave. He was almost too nervous to go through, like it was a trick, but the soldiers were barely paying attention to him, the one who had questioned him turning away to talk to one of his comrades.

Gjaldir hesitantly went through the gate, looking around as it closed behind him, the ruins of the Norse city and the new church on the hill beside it clearly visible across the freshly harvested fields.

He set off along a track that led along the field margin towards the remains with its ghostly, blackened half-buildings, and charred timbers pointing towards the sky like broken stalks. He found a gap in the walls where a section had been torn down for building materials and went inside Uppsala for the first time since he had fled it after the battle three years before. Nothing moved in the ruins other than a stray dog that barked and then fled upon his arrival. He could see from the tracks in the mud between buildings, and the scars of axes and areas of exposed unburned ground, that many of the buildings had been combed over and looted for valuables or building materials.

He walked through the mess, trying to find something he recognised, following a road that led towards the centre. Finally, he came across a ruined stone building he remembered, and knew it was on the same street as Jarl Ragnvald’s compound. He followed the street, heart in his mouth, and found himself facing an open area of beaten earth, almost untouched by the fire, starting to be overtaken with weeds and a couple of saplings.

On his left the stone lower wall of Ragnvald’s huge hall stood, beside it the stores and animal sheds. On his right, marked only by stumps of charred timbers in a rectangle on the ground, was the building he had once called home.

He felt a wave of sadness, shock and revulsion. He walked over to where the door had been, putting his hand on the blackened doorpost that still remained. Little inside remained of the place where he had met Brunhild, whose memory flooded unbidden into his mind. The ragged remnant of the central hearth was there, around which they had laid their furs and blankets and slept, summer or winter.

He found the memory overwhelming, and he backed away from it, taking a last look around. But there was nothing left for him there except the pain of his early captivity, and of a better time when he and Brunhild had laughed and lain together, with only the now-small concerns of a slave who is warm and fed and safe.

He looked away towards the side-street that led away from the compound that he had followed every day to go to Dengir’s forge. He retraced his steps, his feet leading him straight and true to the forge despite the devastation of the city around him.

He went into the yard and took in the scale of the damage. Dengir’s smithy had been well built from clay, stone and wattle, because a wooden smithy was about as safe as a cooking pot made of wax. Despite that, all the roofs had burned and collapsed, and the storage sheds were little more than piles of charcoaled timber.

He went over to the main forge building and found the forge itself half buried under a collapsed roof. Remembering the moment he had left the place, he breathlessly approached the brick forge and, hesitantly, started clearing away the debris from the clay trench where he had headed Ljós a Norðan in the white heat of the coals to forge it.

His hands carefully sifted around in the old coals and broken timber until his fingers found what he sought, a cold, solid lump. His hammer.

He gripped it in his fingers and lifted it from the detritus. The handle was gone, burned to ashes in the heat of the forge where he had cast it on the day he left the city, the day he had left his life as a slave smith behind. He had sworn he would never forge a weapon again, and he had kept that promise. Throwing the hammer into the flames had been his commitment to that promise, but now, turning the blackened, rusty lump of iron around in his hand, he felt enormous comfort from its weight and feel.

He had forged that hammer in Minden under the careful eye of Herman the smith, his first master, whose name he now hid behind. That hammer was the last thing left from his old life. All his possessions were gone, his friends… even his name.

But the hammer remained, cold and real, its weight tugging at his hand as its meaning tugged at his soul.

I could return.

The thought rose unbidden in his breast.

I could take this hammer and go home. I would find work there with Herman, if he still lives, or with the guild in Hamburg.

His knees weakened at the absurdity of his life, at the pretence of being Gjaldir the Norse warrior and war leader. He wasn’t Gjaldir, he was just Ordulf, the journeyman smith from Minden, destined to work in the forges of Saxony making weapons for knights and better men, weapons that would be used to go and visit terrible devastation on the people of the North, the wild, beautiful North with its hard, resolute people.

The people he loved. The people who loved him.

The temptation left him, the thought of making weapons until he was no longer useful, to then be discarded to die in some quiet town, irrelevant and unknown, unseen by the lords and the people of station who had taken him on Crusade and abandoned him there to slavery or death without a backwards glance. Maybe that had been the life he had been destined for, but it was not the one he chose.

He let his fingers relax, and the hammer fell from them, thunking into the dirt. He had abandoned it once already and he felt peace at doing so once again. The seer Tormund had told him, years ago, that he would have to choose between the hammer and the sword. He had made his choice.

He looked away from the fallen idol of his old life and saw the heavy stump where Dengir’s anvil had once sat. The charred log bore an unburned mark where the anvil had lain. Someone had found it and taken it, too valuable a lump of iron to leave behind.

But that didn’t bother him too deeply, the old Norse smith had kept a second spare anvil in the storeroom, perhaps it had been missed by the looters who had combed over the ruins.

He worked his way round to where the storeroom lay, and found it covered by a half-burned, collapsed section of roof. He smiled, it looked undisturbed. He pulled at the debris with his hands, piling it all to one side as he gradually exposed the contents of the store where Dengir had kept his iron, steel and bronze.

Finally he got to the end of the debris and stopped, a grin spreading across his face.

‘Ah, you are back, and you have an anvil!’ said Rudolf, smiling, as Gjaldir walked back into the yard, red-faced and puffing, an anvil the weight of a large dog held against his chest with his burly arms.

Gjaldir lowered the lump of iron to the ground with a sigh and straightened, stretching his back and nodding. ‘I was lucky no one had found it.’

‘Good, good. Yes, this is much better. Odd looking, though.’

‘Norse anvils are different to ours, I’m sure we will get used to it.’

Rudolf looked at him. ‘You know a lot about Norse anvils for a slave who was kept on a farm. And you seem far too practised making nails for a man who hasn’t held a hammer for nearly ten years.’

Gjaldir froze, horrified that he had become too confident and his lie had been discovered. Rudolf saw his reaction and nodded. ‘Aye, I thought as much. How would you know where to find this in a ruined city you weren’t held in, unless this was your anvil?’

Gjaldir swallowed, shaking his head in a piteously unconvincing manner, wondering if he should run. He looked around, considering knocking the smith out to keep him silent, but there were half a dozen other men in the outer yard.

Rudolf started laughing softly, and clapped Gjaldir on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, Herman, I’m sure you had good reasons for hiding your past from the Order, they can be harsh masters. I won’t tell them.’

Gjaldir’s face fell in relief and surprise. ‘Why?’

‘It’s none of my business, and besides, you are far too useful to let them take you.’ The ruddy-cheeked smith shook his head. ‘I’m not much of a smith, you can see that. I only started learning after I was injured, and I can see plain as sunlight that you are better than I will ever be. Why would I let anyone take someone so useful away! You do the hard work, I’ll keep you safe and keep your secret, and the credit!’

Gjaldir smiled nervously and nodded. ‘Thank you.’

‘Don’t worry, just be a little more careful who you show your skills to, eh?’

Gjaldir nodded vigorously.

‘Come on then, let’s get this in place.’

Gjaldir picked up the anvil again, straining his tired arms against its weight, and carried it into the smithy, putting it next to the heavy stump that was half buried in the ground.

He looked up at Rudolf as they worked the old anvil off and put the new one in place. ‘Rudolf, why did you come here to be a smith, after you were injured?’

‘Well, there was nothing for a crippled soldier at home, nothing but a life of poverty, begging and then an early grave. I wouldn’t have been accepted as a smith there, too old to learn, too crippled to be a farm hand.’ He shrugged and smiled. ‘They were offering land and work to men willing to come here and make a life, so I took the chance.’ He laughed. ‘I haven’t regretted it.’

‘And your family?’

‘My family? I don’t have much of a family, Herman. I have a sister somewhere, but she married a long time ago and went away with her husband, I don’t know where.’

‘No wife?’

‘Died in childbirth, before I left on Crusade.’

Gjaldir withered as Rudolf’s normally genial expression faded and he stared at the floor.

‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.’

Rudolf shook his head and smiled sadly. ‘No matter. I was given the chance for a new life here, and a new life I intend to make.’

He stood, satisfied that the anvil was secure in the log.

‘Good, well, we need to make the ironwork for the new gates soon. We are short of charcoal, I’ve only enough to run the forge for another few days. Do you mind going out to get some from the charcoal burners? They haven’t sent any for a while, you might need to hurry them up. Useless bastards half the time. They are all Norse workers, you see.’

Gjaldir tried to hide his delight at an excuse to go out into the forest. ‘Of course.’

‘Right you are. I’d go myself, but, you know.’ He pointed at his leg. ‘Well, that will do for today. I’ll point you to the burners in the morning. A couple of days with them and you will have what we need, I’m sure.’

Chapter 24

The Burners

Rudolf took him as far as the main gate and pointed him at the track that led to the forest where the charcoal kilns were built. He realised it was not far from where he had left his people near the road to watch. Perhaps three miles.

Gjaldir headed down the path towards the forest, pushing the forge’s handcart, and soon found the wide, soot-stained clearing in the trees where two active earth-covered kilns were working, grey smoke seeping from the earth and streaming from the small opening at the top.

There were four men working on building a new stack of timber, shirtless in the late summer warmth. They barely looked up as he approached, and only one of them paid him any attention at all, stretching and standing up from a mound of fresh-cut turf he was building in preparation to cover the completed stack.

Gjaldir felt the man’s indifference, verging on hostility, and he was suddenly unsure. Another of the men idly kept watch, absent-mindedly fondling the haft of a woodcutting axe.

Gjaldir expected the first man to speak, but the charcoal burner just stared at him.

‘I need some charcoal,’ Gjaldir finally managed, sounding foolish even to himself, because that much was evident.

The first man just turned and looked at his fellows and they shared a laugh, before getting on with their work.

‘Rudolf sent me,’ Gjaldir added, perplexed.

The man gestured at a half-dismantled kiln where charcoal was still gently smoking. ‘I think someone already claimed that pile, come back tomorrow and see if they collected.’

‘What about that? Can’t I take some now and they have that when it is ready?’ Gjaldir said, pointing at the two smoking kilns.

The man shrugged and replied in faltering German. ‘Won’t be ready for two days, the smoke isn’t blue yet.’

‘So can I have some in two days?’

‘Depends if someone else comes to claim it, I don’t care who does.’

Gjaldir tried to control the anger at the charcoal burners’ attitude, but remembered where he was. This man was practically a slave, and Gjaldir appearing as one of his conquerors and masters. He thought about it, tried to imagine what would make him do as he wanted if the roles were reversed.

‘What if I stay today and help you cut more wood for the kiln you are building, will you let me leave with some charcoal now?’

The man looked at him with mirth. ‘You know anything about our wood? I think not. It must be right, Christian. Cut well, right trees, good size.’

Gjaldir smiled in return. ‘I was once a woodcutter. I know all these trees and how to prepare them, both for the fire and for building.’

The man raised an eyebrow in surprise. ‘Really?’

‘Really.’

The man gave him a dubious look and pointed at the log pile. ‘What tree is that from?’

Gjaldir walked over and picked up a log the length of his arm and the thickness of his wrist. He smiled, the feel and look of it was so familiar to him. ‘It’s alder.’ He put it down and pointed at another pile. ‘And that is birch and beech, I think.’

The man looked where he was pointing. ‘And what trees do we avoid?’

‘For charcoal? Pine and spruce are no use. The sticky sap gives terrible smoke. And limewood, it is too soft and the coal crumbles.’

The man smiled softly and nodded. ‘You do know a little of wood. Fine, if you help us build this kiln, we will give you charcoal from that one.’ He offered a filthy, black-stained arm to Gjaldir to seal the deal, which Gjaldir reluctantly took. ‘I was going to give it to you anyway, but we will be glad of the help, Christian.’ And then he smiled, white teeth beaming against his soot-covered face.

The man laughed to himself and went over to take the axe his companion was holding, handing it to Gjaldir. ‘We will bring back alder and birch. Beech too, if you can find any. Not ash though, it makes good coal but they use that for weapons and furniture. We will be beaten if we burn it.’

Gjaldir nodded, hefting the axe and finding it looked good and had a keen edge. These men were good at what they did.

The man who had given him the axe grabbed his own, and also gestured to one of his companions to follow, and they set off into the woods.

The two men ahead of him chatted to each other in Norse, mostly complaining about the work and their food, but he did not let on that he understood them, it might raise too many questions.

‘This stand of alder, this will be a good start. Let’s see your axe skills for ourselves, Christian,’ said the first man eventually, pointing at some solid-looking trees. The man set his axe down and leant against an old oak, smiling softly, trying to goad Gjaldir a little.

‘Why should I work for you while you watch?’

The man stared at him, not backing down. ‘Why should I work for you while you don’t watch?’

That silenced Gjaldir. He suddenly hated himself for how easily he had slipped into using these men, men who he was here to free, for their labour like he was their master.

‘This Christian pup, he is a servant of Rudolf’s but he thinks he is a master of us?’ the second man said with a chuckle in Norse, and it was all Gjaldir could do not to react.

‘They are a race of servants, not men. Look at him, if he was one of us he would be a warrior, instead he is a fetcher of charcoal,’ said the first man.

Gjaldir turned to him, interrupting. ‘What is your name?’

The man thought about it for a moment, weighing whether to answer. ‘Halfbjorn,’ he finally said.

‘Halfbjorn, I am… Herman.’ Gjaldir slurred the word, almost saying Gjaldir before catching himself.

The second man laughed. ‘Perhaps he is a servant because he is simple.’

Gjaldir turned away to hide his face as he felt it turning red, and selected an alder tree of a good size to fell and set his feet for his first cut at the base.

‘He swings well,’ said Halfbjorn as Gjaldir took the first bites out of the base of the tree, alternating flat and angled cuts to carve out an open wedge.

‘He is fine, uses too much in his arms, not enough hips,’ said the second man dismissively.

‘True.’

Gjaldir grimaced at the critique, subtly changing his grip and trying to use his body more instead of angrily relying on the strength in his arms.

‘Ah, see, he knows better,’ said Halfbjorn.

‘He has scars on his arm. That is the bite of a blade, I am sure of it.’

Gjaldir listened intently, trying not to look round.

‘You are right,’ said Halfbjorn with a snort. ‘He must have been a soldier with the Crusaders.’

‘Our enemy, right here, alone, under our axes… We could kill him and leave his body for the ravens,’ said the second man, almost nonchalantly, and Gjaldir suddenly felt exposed and alone.

‘Quiet, Toke. Do not say such things. If he is missed they will know who likely did it, and our families will be the ones who suffer their questions to find the truth from us. You know this. Patience, the day will come. One day we will laugh over their corpses, but for now, let our enemy think we serve them if it keeps our children safe.’

Gjaldir took another bite out of the tree, his mind racing, suddenly aware of the possibilities.

‘We are cowards for doing nothing while we could do harm to our enemy, and I am tired of it,’ Toke said with a sigh.

Gjaldir turned and stood up, axe in both hands. ‘Perhaps I am not the enemy you believe me to be,’ he said in their tongue.

Halfbjorn’s eyes went wide with shock, Toke straightened like he had been slapped, and then in panic reached for his axe.

‘Don’t!’ said Gjaldir, pointing his own weapon at the man. ‘I am not your enemy but if you raise that axe you will make me one.’

Toke froze in indecision, looking between Gjaldir and Halfbjorn.

Halfbjorn slowly put his hand out towards his fellow to calm him, never taking his eyes off Gjaldir.

‘You are a Christian. Speaking our words does not mean we are not enemies. Tell me why we should not kill you to keep what we said a secret.’

‘Do Christians normally speak your words so well?’ asked Gjaldir, still holding his axe up, ready to react if one of them did anything foolish, wondering if he was the stupid one for revealing himself to them while they were all alone in the woods and armed.

Halfbjorn looked confused. ‘Then who are you?’

Gjaldir took a deep breath, considering his options. He decided the whole truth was too unlikely to believe.

‘I used to be a slave, and yes, I was a Christian. But now I am a man of the North, an ulfdrengr, and a warrior in the warband of Gjaldir.’

Toke snorted. ‘He lies, he is a spy taught to use our words to trick us into revealing ourselves.’ He picked up his axe and stepped forwards, shaking off Halfbjorn’s attempt to grab at the weapon.

But the grab at his weapon distracted him and put him off balance for a moment, and Gjaldir stepped in quickly, bringing his axe up and hooking it under the blade of his opponent’s, twisting and yanking back as Gunnar had taught him, stripping the weapon from Toke’s hands before he even realised what was happening.

Toke looked at Gjaldir with shock as he brought the axe around again in a scything cut, stopping it a handspan from the burner’s chest.

Toke stared, wide eyed, at the blade hovering near his exposed ribs.

‘As I said, a warrior in Gjaldir’s warband,’ Gjaldir said calmly. ‘Now stand back, and do not test my words again.’

Toke stood back with Halfbjorn’s hand firmly on his shoulder and Gjaldir relaxed slightly.

‘What are you doing here serving the Christians then?’ said Halfbjorn, looking nervous and curious in equal measure.

Gjaldir breathed in hard. He was risking everything, but he felt the opportunity was too good to miss. ‘I need your help, but if I tell you why, you are already committed. The secret is too great and too dangerous for you to walk away. For now, we hold each other’s secrets. You do not tell anyone who I am, and I will not let the Order know you are planning to kill Christians.’

In fact, he had already decided he must kill these two men if they refused to help him. It was far too dangerous to let them go back to the city.

Halfbjorn thought about it carefully and nodded. ‘That seems true, but you have heard us, you know our feelings about our captivity. If you are truly with Gjaldir? Then I will help you.’

Gjaldir looked to Toke, who nodded enthusiastically.

‘I am here to open the city for our people to recapture it.’

Halfbjorn’s eyes widened. ‘Uppsala? I had heard of Gjaldir’s raids on other places, but here? Do you know how strong the Christians are here?’

‘I know a little, and that is why I need help.’

‘From two men?’

‘Not just two men. Were you warriors before the Christians took the city?’

‘Yes,’ said Halfbjorn sadly. ‘I was with King Sigurd’s army at the battle, and I was captured afterwards. Toke was taken later, in his village.’

‘How many other men the Christians hold here were once warriors?’

‘Quite a few. Hundreds.’

Gjaldir nodded. ‘Good. Do you know others who would fight, when the time is right?’

Halfbjorn looked at Toke and they shared a quiet nod. ‘Yes, I think we could find a few dozen.’

‘Dozens is too many, too dangerous. We need just a few good men, ones you can trust.’

‘You are asking me to risk not just their lives, but the lives of their families. Do you understand that?’

‘They have all your families?’

‘Only men with families are held here for work, it is how they ensure our compliance. We can work and leave the city freely, bear axes and tools, because if we turn on them our women and children will be punished. If we leave, they die. If we kill a Christian, they die. It has been done before.’

Gjaldir felt the old anger rise in him. ‘They have killed families for men escaping?’

‘Yes,’ Halfbjorn said with a dejected look. ‘It is the only thing keeping us in check now. So now you understand what you are asking us to risk, how can we believe you are with Gjaldir and not some liar who will lead us to the death of our kin?’

Gjaldir nodded, considering the problem. Then he came to the solution. ‘How long can we be away before we are noticed?’

Halfbjorn looked confused. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Other men of the warband are watching, just a few miles from here. I can take you to them.’

Halfbjorn scratched his chin. ‘No one comes to check on us, so as long as we are back inside the city before sundown it is safe. Unless we are caught by a patrol out there, then how will we explain it?’

‘I will say we are looking for a special type of wood, for the forge tools.’

Halfbjorn looked hesitant but nodded. ‘That should work.’ He looked at Toke again but the man looked far less worried about the prospect.

‘Let’s go and see the truth in his words.’

Gjaldir picked up Toke’s fallen axe and proffered it. ‘The path you are taking with me, there is no turning back. Do you understand that?’

Toke took the axe.

They walked through the woods for several miles before having to cross the main road that led to the city. Gjaldir waited, hidden in the foliage, until he could see nothing in either direction before they hurried across. Then they made their way towards where he had left his men.

They got close to the spot, Gjaldir stopping and looking around uncertainly, not seeing any trace of his people. He motioned for them to move deeper into the trees past the small clearing he had thought was the place.

‘Be careful, we are close. They are expecting me alone, and might think you have captured me, so don’t do anything foolish. We don’t want to surprise them.’

‘We were hardly going to be surprised,’ called a voice from the bushes to their left, and Vidar’s head popped up, causing a grin to spread across Gjaldir’s features. ‘You are still very poor at scouting, we have been watching you for five hundred paces, and hearing you for half of that.’

‘Vidar!’ Gjaldir said, pushing through the leaves to greet his friend with a thumping embrace. A dozen more of his men were revealed in cover behind the bushes, and he clasped arms with all of them enthusiastically.

‘Do not tell them who I am, I do not fully trust these men yet,’ he whispered in Vidar’s ear, and he felt his friend nod once in acknowledgement.

‘Good to see you alive, who have you brought with you?’ Vidar said when they separated, looking at the two soot-stained men who followed through into the gathering.

‘This is Halfbjorn and Toke. They are going to help us.’

‘Are they? Did you find them in a fire?’

Gjaldir laughed. ‘They are charcoal burners.’

Vidar gave him an odd look. ‘And that helps us how?’

Gjaldir chuckled. ‘They were warriors in Sigurd’s army.’

‘Ah, I see. That is better! You should have started with that.’

Vidar went over and greeted the two men. ‘I am Vidar, I was in the hird of King Sigurd since the siege of Jönköping.’

Halfbjorn’s eyes widened. ‘You are Vidar who defeated Gunnar in single combat?’

Vidar beamed. ‘I am, were you there?’

‘No, no, I only joined the army in Svealand.’

Halfbjorn looked at them. ‘So you are really Gjaldir’s men? He talks of taking the city, but there are so few of you, and all you have is a plan to use me and my friends to take on the Christians with some seaxes? Where is Gjaldir and his other famed companions? Gunnar, Bjorn, Leif? Half of the people aren’t sure he is even real. Where is the rest of his warband?’

‘Gjaldir and the rest of the men are several miles away, staying hidden,’ said Vidar. ‘Too dangerous to be here.’

Halfbjorn made a sour face.

‘Then we could go to him?’ Toke asked.

Vidar looked at Gjaldir, unsure.

‘No, it would take too long. We would not make it back to the kilns before dark,’ Gjaldir said.

‘So we must just trust your word then, that you are who you say.’

‘Yes,’ said Gjaldir with a smile. ‘Isn’t that what separates us from the Christians? You were once a warrior of the king, fighting for our people. The only question that matters is: are you still? We are going to try and take this city, and with your help we are more likely to succeed. You will meet Gjaldir when he takes the city, I will make sure of it.’

Halfbjorn looked at the ground, conflicted, but Toke put a hand on his shoulder and leaned in to remonstrate with him. ‘What else are we waiting for? I am tired of being a slave for our conquerors. Let’s join with these men who still walk free in the lands of our fathers, with weapons in their hands, as it should be.’

Halfbjorn gave Gjaldir a critical eye and grimaced. ‘As you said, Herman. We are too far down this path to turn back. But know that if you have betrayed me, put my family in danger for nothing, my hands will end your life.’

‘I understand.’

Vidar grinned and turned to Gjaldir. ‘So, what have you found in the city, and what is your plan?’

‘So, their force there is not as formidable as we feared,’ said Vidar, after Gjaldir and Halfbjorn had finished describing the city’s defences and the troops within, including the Order’s compound.

‘It is still large, perhaps we could draw some away at the right time?’ Gjaldir said.

Vidar nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yes, we could try and arrange that, but we have to be careful not to just alert them to our presence. Perhaps the distraction could come from within?’

‘I am sure you will think of something.’

‘Do you have any weapons hidden in the city?’ Vidar asked Halfbjorn.

The burner shook his head. ‘No, everything bigger than an eating knife is banned for us on pain of death.’

‘What of your axes?’ Gjaldir asked.

‘Those are collected inside the gate when we return, and only given to us again in the morning. We cannot carry them inside the city.’

Gjaldir turned to Vidar. ‘Fine, well, we will need weapons. Seaxes and knives. Whatever you have here, we will take.’

‘How will you get them into the city?’

Gjaldir looked at Halfbjorn and Toke. ‘Do the Christians ever search your cargos of charcoal?’

Halfbjorn laughed. ‘You think they would blacken their arms and pretty white coats rummaging through sacks of charcoal?’

‘I thought not. Good, then we can get them into the city that way.’

Vidar smiled. ‘So what are we going to do?’

Gjaldir scratched at his freshly trimmed beard, unaccustomed to the itch of it.

‘Well, they are working on a new gate in the east side of the city wall. It is only a small gate, it does not seem to be heavily used. Maybe we can subdue the guards and open it from the inside for you.’

‘I don’t think we can capture the gate with a half-dozen men with seaxes,’ said Halfbjorn. ‘It is well guarded, and they have more men ready to respond to any attack, even at night. Besides, it is locked after the sun sets.’

‘I’ve seen the lock, it is a good lock but the way they have fitted it to the door is crude. It could be broken in a short time.’

‘You would still have to kill the guards, and prevent more from coming.’

‘Yes, we would need something to distract them, draw the rest away. I will have to come up with a plan.’

‘How will we know when you are ready?’ asked Vidar.

‘I will find another time to come back and tell you.’

‘Don’t take too long,’ said Vidar nervously.

‘Why?’

‘Our supplies are short. We have only what we carried and what we can forage or hunt. We dare not trade with the local villages in case we are discovered, and raiding for food is out of the question.’

Gjaldir nodded thoughtfully. ‘I think it will be a while before we are ready. A week at least. Can you last that long?’

‘There will be empty bellies, but yes.’

‘Then we will be as quick as we can. Expect me back in a few days to tell you the plan.’ Gjaldir looked at Halfbjorn and Toke. ‘We should go, before it gets too late.’

‘We are going to explain to the others why we disappeared for a quarter of the day and are coming back with so little,’ Halfbjorn said to Gjaldir as they walked back to the kilns, collecting the wood from the single tree they had felled on the way.

‘Do you trust them?’

‘I suppose I do, but I do not know how they will react if we try and recruit them.’

‘Then we lie to them.’

‘They will know we are lying, which will make them more curious.’

Gjaldir thought about it. ‘Then what do you suggest?’

Halfbjorn gave Gjaldir a hard look. ‘That we take their bodies back to the city, and say they were killed in a fight, or by a falling tree.’

Gjaldir recoiled.

‘What, are you serious about success in this or not?’ Halfbjorn asked.

‘I did not come here to murder our people, but to save them.’

‘Not all can be saved, nor have the courage to try and save themselves.’

‘Can we not just say they died but let my men take them?’

‘The Christians will want to see the bodies. This has happened before. A man fell into the river and drowned while fishing. The Christians didn’t believe it because his body could not be found. They assumed he had escaped, so his family were killed.’

‘Gods, truly?’

Halfbjorn nodded solemnly.

Gjaldir chewed it over. He saw little choice but to ask the men to help, although he worried this was already getting out of control. If only one of the four burners turned on him, he was going to be captured and suffer a fate he did not wish to consider.

‘We have to give them the chance,’ he finally said.

‘Good, that is the answer I hoped for. Every one of us should have the choice, and live with the consequences.’

Gjaldir smiled ruefully. Everyone loved to test him.

They soon reached the kilns, and the two men monitoring and adjusting the two smoking kilns looked at them in annoyance. ‘Where in Hel have you been?’ one of them asked in Norse.

‘And you return with half a dozen logs? Have you been fondling each other’s balls all this time? Or did the Christian make you his women for a bit of silver?’

‘Calm, friends, we must talk,’ said Halfbjorn, holding his hands out placatingly.

‘Talk? We are going to be late with this kiln because of you, go get some wood! Curse this Christian and whatever he made you do, we have work to complete and I don’t want to have my food ration withheld.’

‘We will, but hear me first,’ Halfbjorn said, looking at Gjaldir and then explaining what had happened.

‘I don’t believe you,’ said one of the men.

‘You should,’ said Gjaldir, approaching them. ‘It is the truth.’

‘You wish us to help you capture the city? Are you insane? We could be killed for even hearing this.’

‘The Christians will never release us, you know that. Do you not wish to be free?’ said Halfbjorn.

‘And this Christian claims he will free us from the others? You believe him?’

‘I had my doubts too, the same as you. But he is with Gjaldir, we met some of his warband and they are our people, warriors and free men. This is real, and it might be the only chance we ever get. We need to help them and then perhaps our children will not grow up as slaves.’

‘What is your plan?’ said the second burner, showing no emotion.

‘I will tell you the plan when I know you can be trusted.’

‘And you expect us to agree when we don’t even know what we are agreeing to?’

‘You are agreeing to fight for your freedom, the how is a secret until later. The only thing you need to consider is whether you wish to live free, or die as a slave. What will it be?’ Halfbjorn asked, and Gjaldir felt a surge of relief at how completely the idea had taken hold of the man. He needed that kind of fire.

The two other burners looked at each other grimly, and then the first one nodded. ‘You’re right. I’m done with being their slave. Let’s earn our freedom.’

The second one nodded, and Gjaldir smiled. ‘So, this is what I need.’

Chapter 25

A Master’s Return

‘Duke Henry, welcome,’ Reinhard said, giving the duke a subtle nod of his head. Generally, bishops did not bow before mortal men, it being seen as a level of respect reserved only for God and his appointed representatives on earth, anointed kings and higher members of the clergy, especially the Holy Father.

But Reinhard was not about to risk upsetting his benefactor, not at such a sensitive time, not when the duke was already so clearly upset already.

‘Grandmaster,’ Henry said coldly, eyeing the massed ranks of the Order’s men at arms on either side of the yard, and the gaggle of far less organised clergy gathered around the steps to the main building. He looked at Baron Hugues, who was standing beside Reinhard, having arrived from the south just for Henry’s visit. ‘Grandsteward.’

‘Your grace, it is an honour to receive you here,’ said the nobleman from Lorraine, with a gracious and perfectly executed bow.

‘I hope the formalities will be over swiftly, we have much to discuss and my journey was uncomfortable and long.’

Reinhard smiled. ‘I anticipated such, and nothing further is planned until after you have had time in your quarters to recover. This evening I will hold a mass in the cathedral, which you are of course invited to, and then a modest feast to celebrate your arrival in the Order’s hall, after which we can retire for a private meeting, of course.’

It was not really an invitation, it would be unseemly for the duke not to attend, and they both knew it. Henry nodded cautiously. ‘Good.’ He looked up at the building he had himself ordered constructed to house himself and his staff during the end of the Third Crusade, now the centrepiece of the Order’s compound. ‘I see you have been busy. When I said you could make use of my accommodations after I left, I perhaps did not expect you to stretch my meaning so far. Have you somewhere else for me?’

Reinhard looked taken aback. ‘Your grace, I have vacated your chambers and offices in advance of your arrival, of course. They are completely at your disposal, along with the staff and brothers of the Order.’

Henry actually looked pleased, which Reinhard allowed himself a small spark of triumph over.

‘Good, I will go to my chambers immediately.’ He turned to the half-dozen attendants and officers behind him. ‘Have my baggage brought up at once.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘I shall leave you to your repose, I am available whenever you require.’

‘I require you now, Grandmaster, come up with me,’ said Henry, all trace of his previous goodwill evaporated, as he headed through the grand doors and for the stairs that led to the upper floor with its suite of personal chambers and offices. ‘Grandsteward, if you would be so kind, I will see you before mass this evening.’

‘Certainly, your grace. I will await your summons.’ If Hugues was annoyed that Reinhard was being called to a private audience first, he did not show a hint of it.

Reinhard, surprised and annoyed that his preparations had not included the possibility of having to meet with the duke alone and immediately, forced another small bow and followed, snapping his fingers at Bertrand to accompany him.

He hurried up the stairs behind the duke as the man surefootedly navigated to the rooms Reinhard had so recently, and quite reluctantly, vacated. He opened the door and looked around the reception room where Reinhard had put his writing desk and shelves. Those were all cleared to one side, and the comfortable furniture taken out of storage and replaced around the fireplace.

‘It’s barely changed,’ said Henry with a dose of sarcasm, noting the prodigious stacks of records on shelves and bookcases along one wall.

‘I apologise, we have been very busy here.’

‘So I hear,’ replied Henry in a tone that reeked of his disapproval. He walked to the door at the back of the room that led to the private bedchamber and opened it, looking around and grunting to himself. ‘It will do.’ He turned to his chamberlain, who had followed him up and was standing in the doorway.

‘Bring me a change of clothes, quick as you can. And something to eat.’

It was unclear who that instruction was aimed at, and Reinhard started a mild panic about the meal that was planned for after mass in the Order’s hall. Perhaps I should have told him about that first.

The feeling of not being in charge of proceedings was making him very anxious, but there was nothing he could do.

‘Sit,’ said Henry, pointing at one of the chairs as he flopped down in the other. Reinhard complied silently, perching on the edge of the upholstered German chair as if feeling its full comfort would somehow dirty him.

Henry gave the attendants around the door a pointed glare, and most of them scurried from sight, leaving Bertrand alone there. ‘And you, out,’ Henry said, making a flicking gesture at the priest.

Bertrand looked to Reinhard for confirmation, which drew a sharp intake of annoyance from Henry.

‘Apologies, your grace, he is used to attending all of my meetings. He keeps my records,’ Reinhard interjected.

‘Well, he isn’t attending this one, and there will be no record of it.’

‘Of course.’ Reinhard nodded at the door and the priest bowed and left, closing it behind him.

‘What in five hells have you been doing?’ Henry said, fixing Reinhard with a cold stare.

‘I, uh… following your instructions, your grace.’ Reinhard squirmed in his seat, being talked to like that was unbearable but he had no choice but to endure it.

‘I asked for you to winnow this province of its people and income, ensuring Duke Lothair gained nothing from his position as lord of these lands. Instead, I arrive here to find it practically thriving, despite all the embarrassing reports of rebellion.’

‘I apologise, your grace, the people here have proved to be both stubborn and hardy. Our attempts to reduce their numbers by restricting food, and drive them to rebel against Lothair’s vassals have both proved less… successful than anticipated.’

‘But having failed to make them rise up against Lothair’s men, I hear they have been terrorising yours! Burned churches, massacred men of the Order, is this the control you claimed to have demonstrated to its fullest effect?’

Reinhard’s chin practically vibrated at the tirade, at the questioning of his conduct, such was the tension in his cheek muscles, but there was no empathy in the man opposite him, only the absolute requirement for success.

‘I cannot simply order the death of countless villages and towns that belong to Lothair’s people, and have his troops stationed among them. I must have good cause to take drastic actions. But our efforts have not been without fruit. One in nine of the people in this area have perished or been driven out since you were last here, so my reports suggest.’ He gestured at the shelves with an unsteady hand.

‘One in nine? Is that it? I lost more than that in my own towns in Bavaria in the pox of ’08.’

Reinhard’s hand tensed and relaxed on his knee. He was deeply shaken, he had expected and prepared for a range of possible reactions, and this admonishment had not been within that range. Does he not see how much I have done?

As he sat there writhing, there was a knock at the door and Henry’s chamberlain came in with a page following, carrying a black-lined, gold-trimmed dark red tunic, white silk shirt and dark hose.

‘Ah, good,’ Henry said, standing up and setting off towards the private bedchamber.

‘I will await your pleasure here,’ stammered Reinhard, relieved to have a chance to marshal his arguments.

‘You will damn well follow me in here, we aren’t finished,’ came Henry’s voice from inside the bedchamber as his chamberlain and page went through the door after him.

Reinhard’s face screwed up in futile anger and he bit back a retort, but he had no choice but to comply. Henry had the power to end his tenure with the Order, and his prospects of becoming archbishop, with a single letter.

Feeling a rush of anger and resentment that even his practised discipline could not control, he stood and walked through into the bedchamber. Henry was already being helped out of his cloak, arms then outstretched as his page untied the strings that held his thick, richly embroidered tunic in place.

‘So why have you failed to achieve what I set out for you? Why are the attacks of the rebels being directed against your own Order, and not against my enemies? And why are you incapable of preventing it?’

Brutal, direct. Nothing like what Reinhard was used to. He almost quailed under the assault, but he could not allow himself to show that weakness. Henry despised weakness above all things, had killed his own brother for it. That and for his own ambitions in taking over his elder brother’s position and titles.

He had questioned whether he would tell Henry what had happened, in full, because of the risks involved. But given how angry the duke was, he decided the risks of being seen as incapable outweighed them.

‘There are forces working against us, your grace, from within our ranks.’

Henry looked at him, brows furrowed. ‘Do you mean Hugues? I thought you had him on a leash.’

‘No, well… yes, Hugues is well under control. But no, the problem is not him, it is Lothair’s vassal, Count Conrad.’

Henry was now down to his travel-stained undershirt and his chausses. ‘Your brother?’ he said. His eyes flicked around as he calculated the possibilities and repercussions, ignoring it as his page removed first one riding chausse, then the other, leaving him standing in nothing but his shirt. ‘Has Conrad found out about our plans? How?’

Reinhard swallowed and looked away from the duke in embarrassment. The duke’s parts were hanging out of the bottom of his shirt as he stood there with his arms outstretched, and he seemed completely shameless about it until he saw Reinhard’s averted gaze and discomfort.

The duke sighed. ‘Are you so embarrassed to see this that you cannot even speak, Reinhard? Surely you must see a man’s prized possessions from time to time, even if only your own.’

‘I do not put myself in the presence of others in their natural state, your grace,’ Reinhard said stiffly, trying not to look as the duke’s shirt was removed, leaving him completely nude as his page wiped him down with a damp scented cloth.

‘I hear the King of France conducts council meetings while he is dressed and prepared for the day before his morning meal. It saves wasted time. If it’s good enough for the king and his archbishops and princes of the realm, you should tolerate it from me.’

Reinhard nodded curtly while Henry’s fine undershirt was put on.

The duke sat down while the page helped him into new underclothes and a set of informal hose.

‘So, explain to me how Conrad has been opposing you. If he has determined our plans, he will have told Duke Lothair, and that is a serious problem. How could this secret have escaped you?’

Reinhard shook his head. ‘I do not believe he knows what our plans are.’

‘Then how is he opposing you?’

‘I believe he was pursuing his own ends, perhaps simply to spite and contain me. He fears my success in all things.’

Henry calmed down a bit, thinking it over. ‘A coincidence then?’

‘I believe so.’

‘So, you need my help dealing with it.’

Reinhard smiled thinly. ‘It is already dealt with. I discovered the agents of his actions against the Order, and removed them. But it was recent, so you will not have heard of the effects.’

‘Ah, well that is the first good news. What will you do when he tries again?’

‘He will not.’

‘You are so certain?’

‘We… discussed it.’

‘You discussed it? Reinhard, I hope you did not give anything away,’ Henry said carefully.

‘I did not. I made certain threats I would rather not have made, but I believe they will be sufficient. As far as he knows, this was just a personal dispute between us, now resolved.’

Henry mulled it over, standing while his page put on his beautifully made but simple tunic. ‘Fine, I will have to trust your judgement on that. Intervening myself will only raise questions, questions I don’t want answered.’

Reinhard nodded slowly, closing his eyes in relief. It seemed the matter was resolved.

‘Unfortunately, this does not resolve the problem.’

Reinhard snapped his eyes open again. ‘It doesn’t?’

‘No. The situation has changed. I wanted to destroy this province so Lothair was weakened, in case he is a rival for the emperor’s seat in the future. But that future is perhaps far closer than anticipated.’

Reinhard looked confused, unaccustomedly failing to grasp what was meant. ‘What? I don’t understand.’

‘The emperor is dying, the contest to replace him has already begun, and the disorder in this province and the attacks on the Order, which is known to be under my patronage, is making me look weak at a critical moment. A rebellion and massacre now could possibly ruin my chances of winning over the undecided electors if the emperor was to die.’

Reinhard’s jaw fell. ‘The emperor is dying? I did not know, how could I not know?’

‘No one knows, his court are keeping it a closely guarded secret. I’m not even supposed to know, but his imbecile nephew spilled the truth in a mangled attempt to gain our support.’

‘Oh,’ said Reinhard dumbly, trying to work his way through the ramifications. ‘So what do we do?’

‘Well, of primary importance is ending the attacks on the Order, and making it look like my visit brought peace to this province. That will burnish my credentials as a leader in case the emperor dies.’

‘You want peace here now?’

‘Yes, but, if in enforcing that peace we can still weaken Lothair’s power and income here that would be beneficial, but secondary.’

Reinhard put his forefinger to his lips, tapping it feverishly. ‘So what should be done?’

‘Either force a rebellion against your brother Conrad and Count Otto, immediately, so we can ruthlessly put it down and claim victory, or simply snuff out the unrest and enforce peace. No more winters of starving or slow provocation, we need resolution this year, one way or another. Can that be done?’

Reinhard thought about it. He had no way to provoke a rebellion, he had just had the only direct links to the rebel leader Gjaldir killed, and then driven the rebels into hiding. He cursed Henry for not sending this news and instructions by letter, although he knew why the man could not possibly have risked putting his desires in ink on parchment.

‘I think our only option is peace. I will have the Order focused on finding and eliminating the rebel bands, and try and win over the local leaders.’

‘How?’

‘We will claim the end of the rebellion allowed us to resume full provision of food for the winter, and end the harsh measures of converting the populace.’ That was a bitter draught to swallow. The difficult and unpopular campaign to convert the population was a cornerstone of his future bid to become Pope. He wanted to be the man that turned the North to the light of Christ. Never mind, I can have the story spread that I succeeded, the rumour will be almost as powerful as the truth. The South is widely converted anyway, only the troublesome North resists.

‘That will bring peace to the province?’ Henry asked.

‘I believe it will.’

Henry finally smiled. ‘Good! I knew I had put my trust in the right man, despite your recent setbacks.’

Reinhard inclined his head nervously, his body racked with indecision and angst. He was so far from the control of affairs he normally had, and it hurt him physically, like a needle in his guts.

‘I should empower Hugues to go after the rebels with his full force then?’

Reinhard nodded miserably. He was going to have to share the credit with Hugues, he could see it now.

Henry gave him a calculated and serpentine smile. ‘Excellent. Could you send for him on your way out?’

‘What’s wrong with you, Herman?’ Rudolf said, laying down his hammer and looking at Gjaldir.

Gjaldir was startled out of his thoughts. He had been trying to refine his plan to secure the city. It had been four days since he met Vidar in the woods, and he had not yet been able to make the preparations he needed. He hoped that he would be able to tomorrow.

‘Oh, nothing,’ he mumbled guiltily, getting back to raking the coals in the cooling forge. ‘Just thoughts about my old life, you know. What might have happened.’

‘It’s best not to dwell on that, lad, just make the most of what you have. We can’t know how things might have been.’ Rudolf shrugged, indicating both that such things were unknowable, and that he did not care to know them.

He picked up the final hinge plate he had been working on with the tongs to inspect it. ‘What do you think?’ he asked, showing it to Gjaldir.

Gjaldir nodded. ‘It looks fine.’ It looked very crude to him, the attempt at basic scrollwork near the tip of the arm that would be fixed to the door looked off-centre and ill-formed.

He wasn’t saving Rudolf’s feelings, he simply didn’t care if the work was good. He just wanted them to be done so he could have a chance to go with Rudolf to inspect the gate while the smith was replacing the hinges. He had to work out a way to quickly break the lock from the gate when the time came.

The other part of his plan was for Halfbjorn and some of his comrades to cause a distraction, lure the patrolling guards over, and then for them to overpower the ones left at the gate and let his warband in.

He had an idea for a distraction, but he had not been able to see Toke and Halfbjorn to discuss it. He could not simply walk into the camp of the Norse workers asking for them, nor did he know which days they would be working at the kilns. Halfbjorn had explained there were about a dozen men who worked the kilns, and he just went when he was told.

Halfbjorn had promised he would try and get word to him when he could meet them outside the city, and then there had been silence.

‘I think we are done,’ said Rudolf, inspecting the finished hinge with a smug smile. He cooled the last hinge in water, careful to let it lose all its red colour in the air before dunking it in the bucket, and added it to the pile in the handcart.

They set off out of the yard and Gjaldir trundled the handcart down towards the main street. They had to stop and pull to one side as a column of Order soldiers passed, headed by the big knight who had brought him into the city, and followed by a very wealthy-looking lord walking next to a tall, thin priest with a pinched expression.

He stared at the priest in curiosity, and the man’s eyes briefly snapped to him, giving off an intense air of disapproval before they were past him. Several dozen more of the Order’s knights followed, and then the street was clear for him to continue.

He cut down the road that led to the small eastern gate, Rudolf walking alongside whistling something that might have been a tune but that grated on Gjaldir’s already frayed nerves.

They found the guards sitting around beside the gate with a carpenter talking to them. The carpenter stood when they saw the smiths coming, and shook his head in annoyance. ‘This was supposed to be done this morning, Rudolf.’

‘I’m sorry, friend, it took a little longer than expected to finish. Problems with the charcoal, not as good as I’m used to,’ he lied smoothly.

Gjaldir resisted the urge to react. There was nothing wrong with the charcoal at all.

‘I’ve already propped the gate in place, so get the old hinge off then, and let’s measure up the new holes.’

Gjaldir and Rudolf set to work on the old hinge with hammers and chisels, breaking the hammered heads of the studs off one by one and prizing the shanks out of the wood.

Eventually they got the first hinge off, watched by a half-dozen bored guards.

The carpenter cut a recess for the hinge with a chisel, and then measured and bored holes for the shanks with a very nicely made auger. Gjaldir looked at it appreciatively. It was the work of a good city toolsmith from Germany for sure.

Once the holes were bored, Rudolf got the hinge in place and used some small nails to hold it there by its edges. Then they did the same again on the other hinge, replacing the old one.

It was starting to get dark now, the sun had disappeared from view and only its glow lit the sky.

One by one they heated the tips of the shanks that would hold the hinges in place in a brazier set up by the gate for that purpose until they glowed a dull red. Then they drove them through the gatepost, causing an eruption of smoke and flickers of flame, and placed slotted iron plates over their ends. They hammered the ends over on the far side against the iron plates, pressing them into the wood and holding everything tightly in place. Now the hinge could not be removed or broken without removing the studs or completely destroying the gatepost.

They repeated the process of the studs in the gate itself. The hammering and iron plates secured the studs tightly in place, securing the gate to the gatepost.

The carpenter tested swinging the heavy gate open, and then shut again. The gate had sagged slightly and caught on the far side, so he took a drawknife and trimmed one edge down slightly until it closed sweetly. He stood back with a nod while Rudolf smiled proudly at his hinges.

‘Not bad,’ Rudolf said.

‘A great improvement,’ said the carpenter. He slid the locking bar home and closed the brackets around it, checking they still seated properly in the lock.

‘This could fit better,’ he grumbled.

‘Don’t worry, we can finish that tomorrow, I’ll move it a little,’ said Gjaldir.

Rudolf nodded. ‘Easy.’

The carpenter looked relieved. ‘Good. I want to get back while the food is hot. No stale bread and cold stew for me tonight. It will be fine for tonight. It still closes if you lift the gate a little.’

One of the disinterested guards came over and stared at it, nodded and wandered off again to his comrades.

Rudolf smiled and patted Gjaldir on the back. ‘Have you been to the alehouse yet?’

Gjaldir shook his head. He didn’t even know there was one.

He put his arm across Gjaldir’s shoulders and wagged his finger in rebuke. ‘A problem we shall immediately rectify.’

Gjaldir choked and sputtered as someone barged into him from behind, sending a wave of the watery ale down his throat.

He looked up in annoyance, but saw it was a pair of soldiers pushing past him in the crowded benches, and thought better of making anything of it.

‘Don’t start any trouble, lad. They don’t take kindly to it,’ Rudolf said with a smile from across the table. ‘Soldiers, eh? Put a spear in a man’s hand and he thinks he is the king of the world.’ He patted his lamed leg ruefully. ‘Until something happens to remind you otherwise.’

He stopped to burp as he talked. They had been drinking for a while, but Rudolf had drunk two to three times as much as Gjaldir and his ruddy cheeks were only more flushed in the light of the lamps and the firepit.

‘So, are you going to go home now that you are free?’ Rudolf asked.

Gjaldir swallowed some of his drink nervously. He was still trying to be careful what he gave away. ‘I don’t know. Can I get home? I have no money.’

‘Oh, I still haven’t given you your wages. Remind me tomorrow.’

‘Wages?’

Rudolf looked at him and then creased with laughter. ‘Yes, wages. Did you think you weren’t being paid? Boy, being a slave all these years has really broken you, hasn’t it? Well, you haven’t earned enough yet to get on a ship home, but it won’t take long. You are a good lad, you work hard. No, won’t take long at all.’ Rudolf slurped his ale happily and then leant across the table, speaking conspiratorially. ‘You know, being such a good smith in a town like this without many of them, perhaps you should stay? You’re an orphan, right? No one to go back to?’

‘Yes.’

Rudolf leant back and spread his arms with a satisfied nod. ‘So, why not stay here? Wages are good, women are plentiful… if you can stomach the local ones, anyway.’ He giggled. ‘And I hear we will all be getting parcels of land soon, to everyone who served the Crusade and the building of the province. Enough land for any man to raise a family. So I hear. This whole province will become like Saxony, only colder. But it could be a good life, you should consider it.’

Gjaldir frowned. ‘How will we all get land? There must be thousands of men eligible.’

‘Oh, tens of thousands. More are being brought from home.’

Gjaldir’s stomach churned. ‘What of the people who already live here?’

‘The locals?’ Rudolf shrugged. ‘Half of them have already died or fled, and the rest will have to convert or face the same.’

‘What?’

‘You are surprised? Boy, you lived with the heathens, we can’t just leave them out there, living around us. Have you heard what is happening outside these walls? Probably not, well, raids, war, rebellion… murder. Good Christian men being slaughtered. No, we can’t allow them to stay here. Some will convert and join us, but not many. They are too backwards, too stubborn.’ He nodded into his ale. ‘I’ve heard they are soon to be dealt with, all of them. So my friend in the Order tells me.’

‘Dealt with?’ Gjaldir said, his voice hushed.

‘Yes,’ said Rudolf with a harder gaze, and his meaning could not have been clearer. ‘You look surprised, boy, why? You don’t think there is any other way, do you?’

Gjaldir struggled with his expression, and his foot was drumming on the floor underneath. He felt sick. ‘Do they deserve that? Why can’t we just live with them?’

‘Ha!’ Rudolf laughed and shook his head. ‘Oh, Herman, you of all people should know. Has captivity addled your mind? Remember what they did to you, killed your mates, took you as a slave! That is who these people are. They have been killing and stealing as long as they had the ability to cross the sea. They are little more than animals, and you can’t train a wolf to be a dog, can you? Sure, we will keep a few for work, the more docile ones. But the rest?’ He shook his head with a little regret. ‘Really there is no saving them from their own nature. They brought this upon themselves with their raids. They should have left us in peace, or submitted when we defeated them. No, nothing else to be done, and it will happen soon. So I hear anyway.’

Gjaldir gripped his mug, staring into it, feeling nauseous. Dealt with. The words were so final, so stripped of meaning but so clear in their intent. The Christians were going to clear the Norse from these lands and keep them for themselves, except for those who completely submitted to a life of labour and servitude.

‘I can see it troubles you, you’re a good, kind-hearted lad.’

Gjaldir looked up to see Rudolf looking at him with a sympathetic expression.

‘They don’t need to die. Maybe they aren’t what you think of them.’

‘We can’t live together, Herman, or there will just be a thousand more boys like you, killed or taken to slavery. What sort of men would we be if we allowed it?’ Rudolf drained the last of his ale, shaking his head. ‘I’m for bed, while I can still walk. Need to fix that locking bar in the morning.’

Gjaldir tensed and looked up. ‘Why don’t I do that, earn some of those wages you are talking about?’ He held up his ale sheepishly. ‘I’ve barely drunk anything anyway. I’ll not have a sore head in the morning.’

Rudolf gazed at Gjaldir with semi-focused eyes and then a slow smile spread across his face. ‘Good lad, I’d appreciate that. Easy work anyway, you’ll do fine without me.’ He gestured vaguely at the door. ‘Besides, I’ve other things to do.’

Gjaldir nodded, standing from his bench. ‘Goodnight then. I’ll come and find you when I’m done at the gate.’

Rudolf was already swaying off towards the door, and he just waved a hand above his head to acknowledge that he had heard, and went out into the street.

Gjaldir set off to go after him, to go towards the barracks where he slept, his stomach churning and his mind racing as he considered his options, when a voice stopped him in his tracks.

‘Ordulf?’

Gjaldir’s stomach seized with fear. He was almost too afraid to look up and see who had recognised him. He tried to keep the terror from his face as he slowly turned his eyes on the man who had spoken, and found Otto standing there, squinting at him.

‘It is you! Ordulf, what are you doing here? I thought you had gone with Ragnvald’s people!’

Otto looked stunned, perhaps almost happy to see him, and Gjaldir tried to look the same even as the fear swept through him in waves. He let Otto slap him on the shoulder in joy and then smiled. ‘I did, but bandits attacked us and I was taken as a slave again, in the north. I escaped just a few days ago and came south to find our people.’ He kept the explanation short and shrugged as if it did not matter.

Otto’s eyes went wide. ‘Really, captured again?’ Then his eyes narrowed. ‘Didn’t you get a new name, what was it? And how did they enslave you if you were a free man?’

Gjaldir hurriedly waved it away. ‘Oh, they didn’t believe me. Why would they? They cared even less for a new name than I did. I never used it. What about you?’ Gjaldir asked, trying to forestall Otto prying further.

‘Oh, I escaped before the fall of the city. Some soldiers found me after the battle and I’ve been here ever since. I’m working until I can afford to go home. I want to be done with this place!’

‘I thought you were content with your life in the North, that is what you told me.’ Gjaldir said dubiously.

‘Ah.’ Otto looked at the ground, conflicted. ‘We convince ourselves of what we need to to survive. I didn’t realise how much I needed to be free of them until I was.’ Otto smiled again. ‘No matter, I’m glad we survived.’ Then his smile faded. ‘What about the others…Brunhild?’

Gjaldir swallowed hard and shook his head.

Otto’s expression fell. ‘Ah. I’m sorry.’

Gjaldir thought of Aeske. Otto had abandoned the boy, but he was still the boy’s father even if Brunhild had rejected him as such. The thought almost brought tears to his eye, and Otto gave him a sympathetic nod. ‘I’m glad you made it, Ordulf. That’s what matters. What will you do now? Do you need work?’

Gjaldir shook his head. ‘I am working.’

He kept it vague, the last thing he needed was for Otto to talk to Rudolf. Not least since he had used a false name. Questions could kill him, he needed to get away from Otto without causing suspicion.

He raised a hand to fend off Otto’s next words. ‘I am glad to see you, Otto, but I need to sleep. It has been a very hard few days.’

Otto backed up a little and nodded. ‘Of course, of course. Well, if you need anything ask for me, I work at the storehouses.’

‘I will, thank you.’ Gjaldir nodded at Otto and moved past him, finally breathing again as he went out into the street. He didn’t dare look back to see if Otto was watching him. He could only hope his fellow ex-slave did not start asking questions the next day.

He turned down the street towards his barracks, and it was all he could do not to break into a run.

Chapter 26

False Iron

Gjaldir took his tools and a small bag of large nails down to the gate the next morning. The guards saw him, and one who he recognised as having been there the previous day nodded. ‘You come to fix the lock?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good, it’s a pain in the arse to close.’

Gjaldir nodded. ‘I’ll adjust it, it won’t take long.’

‘Well, we aren’t likely to need to open the gate until later, but if someone important comes you need to be ready to open it and get out of the way.’

‘It’s not a problem, I won’t need to keep it closed.’

The guard nodded. ‘Good.’ And then he went back to the table where he and his fellows sat, while two men stood by the gate and another two leant on the parapet on the wall above.

Gjaldir put his tools down by the gatepost and examined the locking mechanism again. It was attached with nails hammered in at angles with their heads hidden by the clasps when the lock was closed, meaning you could only remove the nails when the lock was open. A simple but effective system. He used a tool to prise the nails out one by one by their heads, hammering and levering, until the whole half of the system holding the bar was loose.

Then he measured it up so it would fit smoothly into the large iron bracket on the gatepost and marked out new holes for the big, forged iron nails that held it all in place.

He was so nervous he was worried the guards would see his hands shake, but he looked around and saw none of them were paying him any attention. Some were playing dice, others were staring out over the open countryside. Their worries came from outside, not from within.

He opened the bag of nails and took out a few, hammering them in to fix the locking mechanism in place. Then, with another surreptitious look around, took another nail from the bag, one he had made that morning.

It was shorter, much shorter, and he had sawn through the shank under the head until it was almost cut through, before blackening it in the fire to hide the bright metal. It would look right, it would hold the weight of the locking bar and the lock, but it would not stand up to any force.

He quickly put the locking hoop in place and hammered the nail home, before doing the same three more times with other weakened nails. No one so much as looked at him and by the end he could not remember having taken a breath.

Appalled by how terrified he must look, he tried to calm himself and checked the locking clasp worked, flipping it down and fitting it into the mechanism.

‘That fixed? Let me look at it.’

He almost jumped as the voice spoke from behind him, and he turned to see the guard standing beside him.

He mumbled something noncommittal, and the guard opened the clasp, slid the locking bar back into place, where it sank home into the gatepost with a clean thunk, then withdrew it before putting it home again.

The guard then made Gjaldir’s heart stop in his chest by grabbing hold of all the parts of the locking mechanism one by one and wrenching on them with his hands. He even opened the clasp and stared at the sabotaged nails, but all that was visible was their heads.

Then he flipped the clasp down again and nodded. ‘Seems good, slips home like a well-oiled blade.’

Gjaldir finally breathed again. ‘Don’t you want to check the lock works?’

‘No, we don’t have the key, guard serjeant has it. Looks like it all lines up though, no reason it wouldn’t lock. Good work, I’ll let Rudolf know it’s complete.’ And then he just walked off again to his friends.

Gjaldir carefully and quickly collected all his tools and the remaining nails and hurried back to the forge, desperate to get as far away from the evidence of his treachery as possible, even though it would not help if the weakened nails were discovered.

He made it back to the forge and found Rudolf had just arrived, looking significantly displeased to be in the daylight.

Rudolf squinted at him with a sour expression. ‘You done then?’

Gjaldir nodded.

‘Good. Well, two burners came round to find you.’

Gjaldir’s heart stopped in his chest again.

‘They said they have another load of the charcoal you want and to go get some.’ Rudolf looked at the charcoal store, which was still half full, in mild disinterest. ‘I don’t think we need any more yet but if you think so, feel free to get some.’ He waved at the forge building. ‘I’m going to do some work in there.’

‘Sure, I’ll go and get some charcoal. I might be a while, I need some wood too.’

‘We have wood.’

‘Not the wood we need,’ Gjaldir said, thinking on his feet. ‘I need some special ash for a tool handle, going to go and look for it.’

He was ready to explain further, but Rudolf just waved him away. ‘Whatever you need,’ he said and then disappeared into the shadows of the forge with an unsteady gait.

Gjaldir hurried out of the city with the handcart, headed to the burners’ kilns. He needed to talk to them, and to Vidar, and get back before sundown.

He soon saw the pale smoke rising from the kilns and found Halfbjorn and Toke standing around a kiln with four other men. He slowed his pace as he saw how many of them there were, wondering how he could get them alone.

Halfbjorn saw him coming and waved him over to join the group. Gjaldir tried to remain calm and nonchalant, but the past few days had ground his nerves down to fine points.

‘These are all with us, Herman.’

Gjaldir looked around the group, surprised. He didn’t recognise most of them. ‘All of them. You have told them everything?’

Halfbjorn held up a hand to forestall him. ‘Don’t worry, I trust them. These are all good men, willing to do what needs doing.’

Gjaldir’s shoulders slumped slightly in relief and he put the cart’s handles down. ‘How many do you have, in total?’

‘Eleven men.’

Gjaldir nodded. It might be enough.

‘You have a plan? The longer we wait, the more dangerous it gets.’

‘Yes. We need to go and see my people, now. We’ll go over the plan there, and get more weapons.’

‘Are the other ones safely hidden?’

Gjaldir nodded. ‘They are at the forge, under all the charcoal.’

‘Good, well, let’s go.’ Halfbjorn turned to the others. ‘Keep everything going until we come back.’

Then they set off through the forest.

The walk to where his warband were keeping watch was uneventful, and a whistle from the bushes let him know he was spotted before Vidar and Leif stepped into view.

‘We were starting to worry,’ said Vidar, and Gjaldir could see he looked drawn, tired. ‘We were hoping you would open the city, not start a new life there.’

‘I’m sorry, my friend, it has been difficult.’

‘Are you ready now?’

Gjaldir nodded. ‘I think so.’

‘Good. The enemy has become more active, troops have been moving around, it is getting dangerous for us to even be here, and the men are hungry. Hungry and tired.’ He looked exhausted. ‘Some are starting to lose faith.’

Gjaldir blanched. ‘I understand, but it’s done now. We have the men ready, and I have weakened the eastern gate. We just need a few more weapons and to prepare the attack inside the city.’

‘So, when?’

‘Tonight, if you can be ready,’ Gjaldir said.

Vidar smiled for the first time. ‘Tonight is good news indeed.’

‘So what is the plan?’ asked Leif.

Gjaldir looked back towards the city. ‘The gate is locked at night. The key is with an officer somewhere else. I have weakened the lock so it can be broken quickly, but only from the inside. So I need to get to the gate and hold it long enough to open it. Halfbjorn and his men will help me overwhelm the guards and do that.’

‘But the alarm will quickly be raised, and more will come. There are patrols everywhere.’

‘I know, so we need to give them something else to worry about.’

‘What?’

‘We start a fire, somewhere over the other side of the city. Something important they can’t ignore. Any ideas?’

Halfbjorn thought about it. ‘The stables on the west side. Straw everywhere, wooden buildings, not heavily guarded. They will do anything to save the horses.’

Gjaldir nodded. ‘That should work. Have a few of your men start fires there. Once all the spare men are sent that way, we move on the gate, and you, Vidar, bring the men out of hiding and rush to the wall outside.’

‘We will be spotted then.’

‘Maybe, but the guards might be watching the fire, and if they are, they will be half blind in the darkness.’

Vidar smiled. ‘Yes, you are right. Even if they raise the alarm, the city will already be full of shouting and panic.’

‘Exactly.’

‘So once we are in?’

Gjaldir shrugged. ‘We take the city quickly, storm the Order’s compound in the centre and the main barracks area. We will lead you there. That should be enough.’

‘There will be a massacre, we need to make sure our own people are not victims of an invading army of their kin.’

‘Good point, we will need men ready at every entrance to the workers quarter, ready to shout out that only Norse are within. Vidar, tell all of the men to look out for that, and respect that area. None of our people are to be harmed.’

Vidar nodded. ‘And the Christians?’

Gjaldir paused. He had been considering that for a while, he thought back to Rudolf’s words from the night before and his mouth tensed into a thin line as he stared at Vidar.

‘None of the invaders can be allowed to stay in the city. We can’t feed them through the winter. Kill those that don’t have the sense to flee, but don’t prevent those that are fleeing from doing so. Let them go and be a burden on our enemy for the winter.’

Vidar smiled and nodded, and several of the men voiced their agreement.

‘We are clear then. When will we attack?’

‘We will give you plenty of time after sunset to get into position under cover of darkness. You only need to go a couple of miles east and then around. You can hide in the ruins of the old city while you wait. Attack when you see the fires.’

‘And if there are no fires?’

Gjaldir thought about it. ‘Leave and run for safety in the hills, save everyone you can, because we and any left behind are already dead.’

Leif stepped forwards and clasped arms with Gjaldir. ‘That will not happen, brother. The gods will not allow it.’

‘We cannot rely on the gods to do this, Leif. This we must do ourselves.’

Leif looked at him oddly. ‘What is troubling you?’

Gjaldir stared into Leif’s blue eyes. ‘Something has changed. I heard the Christians are planning to kill us all, everyone who does not convert and submit and even some of them. This is the final fight. We win or we die.’

‘Perhaps that explains all the extra activity we have seen,’ said Vidar. ‘Soldiers and messengers moving everywhere.’

‘We have heard a rumour too, but we have heard such rumours before,’ said Halfbjorn with a troubled expression. ‘Why did you not tell us before?’

‘I only learned it last night, and I cannot be certain it is true, but I believe it is.’

Halfbjorn blew out through his teeth. ‘Bastards. After all their promises.’

‘The Christians are not men of their word like us, expect nothing more from them,’ said Leif with a growl. He picked up a wrapped bundle of cloth that rattled slightly as it moved. ‘Take these. It sounds like you will need them.’

Gjaldir nodded his thanks and took the bundle. ‘We have to go.’ He took Vidar’s hand with his left. ‘When you see the fires, come for the eastern gate.’

‘We will. Good luck, brother.’

Gjaldir embraced them both, and then he and the burners set off through the forest again, clutching the wrapped parcel of seaxes to his chest.

‘Those men, both famed companions of Gjaldir, they look up to you like you are their superior,’ said Toke as they walked back. ‘How did a Christian gain such a position? Gjaldir must trust and respect you deeply.’

Gjaldir smiled. ‘Many years of fighting together. I have known them longer than almost any other in the warband. Since before the Crusades.’

‘I see. Why?’

Gjaldir laughed freely, unburdening felt good. ‘It was Leif who took me as a slave.’

Tokes eyes widened. ‘You were Leif’s slave? And now you command him?’

Gjaldir gave him a cheeky grin. ‘Both are not quite true.’

Toke shook his head. ‘I would not have thought it possible, but if they respect you, so I will too.’

‘You trust the judgement of a man you know only from stories?’ Gjaldir asked, fascinated.

‘Of course! He is the last Norse leader fighting for us, he is blessed by the gods and cursed by the Christians. All they do is speak of him in hate and fear. What is not to love? Besides,’ he added, ‘the best way to judge a leader is seeing those who choose to follow him. And I can see that you are all brave and honourable men. So Gjaldir also must be.’

Gjaldir smiled, almost choking on the emotion that flooded him. ‘He would be pleased to hear that, that people respect him.’

‘I will reserve my judgement until I meet the man,’ said Halfbjorn drily. ‘I had such great hopes for King Sigurd, and he disappointed us all.’

‘He died for his people, for you and me,’ Gjaldir said.

‘I wanted him to live for us, not die for us, lead us to victory. Instead he led us into vanity and defeat. Fighting a battle that could not be won after forcing his own nation to abandon him.’ Halfbjorn gave him a hard shrug to show he did not care if he was giving offence. ‘They say Gjaldir is different, that he knows when to fight and when to flee. I hope for all our sakes that is true, or we will die tomorrow, disappointed once again.’

‘Better to die fighting than waiting to be slaughtered,’ said Toke.

‘That is true, which is why I am here. I’m just not letting my hopes, and your stories, rule my head.’

Gjaldir nodded. ‘You are a wise man, Halfbjorn. I pray you will not be disappointed again.’

‘We Norse don’t pray to avoid things, Herman, you should learn that if you wish to truly be one of us. The gods mock such weakness. We ask the gods for strong enemies, and the chance to show our courage and strength by defeating them. If we fail, we can only blame ourselves.’

‘You think too much, Halfbjorn,’ said Toke with a grunt.

‘And I fear you do not think at all,’ said Halfbjorn with a small smile.

They soon reached the kilns, and the other men were still working there. They piled sacks of charcoal into the cart, carefully hiding the weapons in the lowest ones.

‘So, when do we meet tonight?’ asked Halfbjorn.

Gjaldir looked up, the sun was only just past its zenith, there was plenty of the day left before it set. Too long for the burners to come and wait at the forge without arousing suspicion.

‘Come to the forge shortly after dark with six men, before your presence in the streets would cause suspicion, leave the rest to set fires halfway through the night.’

Halfbjorn nodded. ‘You know the five setting fires will most likely die? The streets will be crawling with soldiers when the alarm is raised, and any Norseman caught out after darkness will be killed.’

Gjaldir swallowed. He had not considered it. ‘Do you have another way?’

‘No, I just want you to understand you are sending five men to their deaths today.’

Gjaldir pressed his lips together in annoyance and nodded. ‘I understand. Send four or even three if you think it will be enough.’

‘I will send five as you say. Success is more important than their lives, is it not?’ Halfbjorn searched Gjaldir’s face for something, and Gjaldir felt his anger rise.

‘We both know that it is, so why are you testing me this way? What do you want me to say, that I don’t want your friends to die? Halfbjorn, I have seen so many friends and comrades die that I could not possibly remember their names. But that does not mean I want more to share their fate, we fight for freedom, and we know it cannot be achieved without sacrifice, so stop prickling me. Hundreds, maybe thousands will die tonight, all at my command. Are you with us or not?’

Halfbjorn did not back down, taking his time with his answer. ‘I am with you, Herman, I just need to be sure you understand what we are doing, and what it costs.’

‘I understand better than anyone. You have only lost your home once, Svearman,’ Gjaldir said, poking Halfbjorn hard in the chest. ‘And your family lives, so you know nothing of the cost of war that I have borne.’

‘So I have more cause for care than a man with nothing to lose.’

Gjaldir took a deep breath and stared down the Norseman. Halfbjorn didn’t flinch from it. ‘I will choose five men, they will understand their tasks, and how important it is,’ he said, finally.

‘Thank you. If you can think of some way of preparing them so they have a chance to escape, do it.’

Halfbjorn nodded. ‘I will. You should go now. We will meet you tonight in the forge, before the streets are closed to us. Make sure you are alone there.’

Gjaldir nodded, he had not thought about that. He would need to ensure Rudolf had gone home by then. ‘I’ll be there, alone. Good luck.’

Gjaldir got back to the forge while the sun was still just slowly descending in its great arc, not yet reaching the lows when people would leave the fields and the streams and go back to their homes. It was a bustling and pleasant afternoon in the city, everyone going about their tasks and duties without knowing the storm that was coming.

Rudolf was there, bent over a bench with a shaving tool, fussing over the handle of an adze. Gjaldir thought it looked finished, but then he understood why Rudolf would not be in the mood for hammering at the anvil in the heat of the forge.

He looked up blearily, and eyed the cart full of charcoal sacks. ‘Herman, you have what you need?’

Gjaldir nodded with a smile. ‘This should keep us going for several weeks.’

‘Good,’ said Rudolf with a bright smile, then waved vaguely at the forge. ‘I wasn’t sure when you would be back so I didn’t build up the fire. I will light the forge tomorrow morning, no sense starting now.’

Gjaldir raised an eyebrow and Rudolf’s smile broadened. ‘Oh, fine, yes, it is a poor excuse. I just don’t wish to use a hammer today. The ringing in my head is bad enough already.’

Gjaldir nodded thoughtfully. ‘That handle looks finished, why don’t you go home now and rest, be ready for the morning? I’ll light the forge and get on with some jobs, but I can do it all alone for one evening.’

Rudolf didn’t try and hide his pleasure at the idea. ‘You sure? I don’t want you thinking I’m workshy. I just don’t usually drink so much, not since I was a young man anyway. I swear the ale up here is far stronger than back home.’

‘It is,’ said Gjaldir with a nod, for it was true. Taverns and drinking halls in Saxony tended to make leaner, weaker ale than he had become used to in the North.

Rudolf sighed and looked at the handle, laying his spokeshave down. ‘Yes, tomorrow then.’

Gjaldir felt a sudden rise of bile in his throat, as he considered how Rudolf was likely to wake, to chaos and death. He considered trying to warn the man somehow, to get him to be ready to flee. Rudolf had been nothing but kind to him, generous even. But there was nothing he could say that would not arouse suspicion. He just hoped Rudolf had the sense and speed to flee.

Rudolf came over and clapped him on the back as he limped past. ‘Thanks, lad, you are a godsend. I wish I had three of you!’

Gjaldir smiled awkwardly and mumbled a response as Rudolf went to gather his things and leave. The boy who sometimes helped them was nowhere to be seen, and the forge yard was now quiet, although he could hear voices from the other workshops down the street. They should not be a problem, they would likely have left for the day soon enough, only smiths could really work in the hours of evening when the sun faded from view. In fact, when he had been a swordsmith that had been his favourite time to forge, using the light of the coals to see by, and able to more carefully discern the subtle changes in colour in the hot metal he was hammering.

He carefully recovered the weapons from the bottom sacks in his cart, hiding them all at the base of the charcoal store and stacking the sacks on top, then he cleaned his hands and arms and cleared away the tools that were scattered around the workspace, for Rudolf was not a tidy man. Only as he put the last hammer in the rack did he realise the sheer pointlessness of what he had just done and sighed deeply. It was so easy to fall back into his old, comfortable routines.

How simple it would be to merely be a smith again.

The sun was still peeking above the rooflines as afternoon turned to evening, and he had nothing left to occupy himself, so he sat alone, in peace and solitude, and planned the death of a city.

Chapter 27

Fire in the Morning

Gjaldir looked up from his thoughts as the sound of footsteps softly padding across the dry earth came from just outside the yard. Then Halfbjorn appeared, looking around nervously, followed by half a dozen other men and finally Toke.

He stood up from the post-sunset shadows and held up a hand to get Halfbjorn’s attention. Most of them walked over to him, leaving Toke to quietly watch the street outside.

‘What of the others?’ Gjaldir asked.

‘They are ready. They will fire the stables halfway through the night.’

‘Will your absence be noticed before then?’

‘No, men sometimes stay out late drinking, they don’t come and count us at night. We would only be noted as missing in the morning when duties are handed out.’ He smiled nervously. ‘I don’t think that is something to worry about regardless.’

‘And your families?’

Halfbjorn swallowed hard. ‘We have left others with instructions to guard them as best they can, and flee the city if they have to.’

‘There will be nowhere to flee if this goes wrong.’

‘I know that, Southman, but I had to leave them with hope.’

Halfbjorn’s voice almost broke as he said it, and Gjaldir could only imagine the pain of him having to leave his family, knowing there was a good chance they would never meet again.

‘I am sorry for the pain this is bringing you, Halfbjorn. I truly believe it is the only way.’

‘I know, and I believe it too, otherwise I would not be here and you would be dead in the forest.’

Gjaldir took the man’s hand and shook it. ‘What happens is in our hands now.’

‘And in the hands of the gods,’ Halfbjorn chided him.

‘Of course,’ Gjaldir replied awkwardly. ‘Come, let’s get your weapons and prepare. We must be ready the moment the fires start.’

He took them all to the charcoal store and started heaving sacks out of the way, uncovering the trove of weapons at the base. He pulled filthy, blackened seaxes from the pile, wiped them down with a rag, and started handing them out. ‘Keep yourselves and the weapons out of sight in case someone passes the yard.’

They all went into the dark recesses of the forge building, and the men sat down on boxes and sacks or against the wall in the cramped, dirty space as Gjaldir and Halfbjorn went over the plan for taking and holding the gate.

‘Someone’s coming,’ said Toke in a hushed voice, hurrying into the forge.

Gjaldir looked up in alarm. ‘Hide,’ he hissed, standing up and tucking his seax into the back of his belt, moving towards the entrance to see who was passing the yard.

He didn’t make it to the entrance before a figure came around the corner in the dim light and got in Gjaldir’s way.

Gjaldir stopped in shock, as did the dark figure.

‘Herman?’ the man asked.

‘Rudolf…’ Gjaldir replied breathlessly. ‘What are you doing here?’

Rudolf’s smile was barely visible in the darkness but his soft friendly laugh was clear. ‘Oh, I slept all afternoon and could sleep no more. Thought I would come and join you in some evening forging.’ He peered into the darkened space. ‘Why didn’t you light the fire?’

He moved to get past Gjaldir in the broad entranceway.

‘I told you not to come back this evening,’ Gjaldir said.

‘Ah, well, I was restless… who’s that?’ Rudolf suddenly caught sight of several men huddled into the far corner as his eyes adjusted to the darkness.

‘You shouldn’t have come back, Rudolf,’ Gjaldir said, his voice heavy and cold like a stone.

Rudolf seemed to sense something was wrong, and he turned towards Gjaldir, uncertain and confused.

Gjaldir plunged the seax into Rudolf’s chest, to the hilt, reaching forwards and yanking the smith’s head down by his curly hair and smothering his gasp of pain and horror in his shoulder, clasping him tightly as Rudolf tried to breathe one last time through the shock and pain even as his ruptured heart gave out.

Then the German’s legs gave out and he slumped, Gjaldir leaning down to go with him as he collapsed to the floor, a last ragged wheeze escaping his lips, the passing of his life from his body.

Gjaldir waited a moment to be sure the man was silent, before pulling the seax free and wiping it on the dead man’s tunic.

Halfbjorn appeared from the darkness to stand over them. ‘I’m sorry, Herman. I know he was good to you.’

‘Don’t be,’ said Gjaldir emotionlessly, standing and putting his seax back in his belt. ‘He wanted to kill or drive away all of you, all of us. It was his life or ours.’

Halfbjorn nodded slowly. ‘I’m sorry nonetheless.’

‘Take his body to the storeroom in the back, just in case anyone else comes.’

‘Will anyone be looking for him?’

Gjaldir shook his head. ‘No, no one will miss him. Not tonight or on any other.’

He pushed the last twinge of guilt and regret away as they carried his body into the building, it was no use to him anymore.

‘We still have a long time to wait, let’s get some rest.’

‘Fire!’ said a voice from the yard, and Toke came rushing into the building.

Gjaldir’s eyes snapped up, confused, and he realised he had been dozing. He jumped to his feet and rushed out into the yard. The night was almost black, with only a faint moon behind the clouds. There was a glow from a few torches around the walls, and in the Order compound, but most of the night was dark.

Apart from one glow above the city to the west, a glow too big to be a torch, a glow that flickered and moved behind the rooftops.

‘Yes! That’s it!’ said Halfbjorn.

‘We go now,’ said Gjaldir to the building behind, but he did not need to chivvy them, all of Halfbjorn’s men came out into the yard in moments, as eager to get the attack over with as he was.

Gjaldir led them out into the street, which was completely unlit and discernible only by a deeper shadow between the buildings, and they headed for the eastern gate. The first sounds of alarm came from behind them, shouting in the night, and then a small, high-pitched bell started frantically ringing.

‘Quickly!’ said Gjaldir, pushing himself into a jog.

He did not take the main route, which might have had soldiers rushing down. Instead they fumbled their way through a side passage which Gjaldir was familiar with, but was far harder than he anticipated to navigate at night. Once, he became so unsure where they were he had to cut across to the main road, and narrowly missed a patrol of half a dozen guards running west into the city.

He peered down the road behind them and saw the gate a few buildings away, bathed in the glow of torches. He could see four guards standing nervously around its base, looking his way.

‘Come!’ he said, ducking back into the side-street and making his way towards the wall with his co-conspirators hot on his heels. They went as far as the buildings reached, but then there was a twenty-pace gap before the wall itself. They would have to cross that in the full view of the guards.

He turned back to the men gathered closely behind him. ‘Four at the gate, one up on the wall each side. Two of you go to the wall each side, the rest of us for the gate. Go quickly, don’t hesitate, and don’t show them steel until the last moment.’

No one spoke, there was nothing left to do but act.

Gjaldir stepped out into the light, not hurrying, and trusted his men would be behind him. The guards spotted him immediately, and turned to look, startled.

‘It’s Herman,’ Gjaldir called, holding his left hand up and smiling.

‘The smith?’ the first guard said, peering at him, frozen in indecision as they crossed the ground towards them.

‘Yes, I realised there was a problem with the gate, I’m here to fix it,’ he said, trying to keep the guard focused on him as he closed the distance, almost into striking range.

‘Why are there so many of you?’ the guard asked dumbly.

‘Weapons!’ shouted one of the guards beside him, stepping forwards and levelling his spear.

Shit. Gjaldir didn’t know what had given them away, perhaps it was just their numbers, but the guards belatedly burst into action around their confounded leader as Gjaldir ripped his seax from his belt and charged.

He reached the leader who had been talking to him before the man could get his sword from his scabbard with panicked fingers, and he put his seax through the guard’s throat and ripped it free, shoulder barging the dying man into the one behind, fouling his spear, as Halfbjorn leapt past him and fell on the second man with a flurry of blows.

To his left the alert guard spitted one of the Norsemen with his spear, but buried it so deep he could not withdraw it, and the other three butchered him and his companion who tried to flee.

Gjaldir pulled the hammer and chisel from his toolbelt, only looking up in alarm as there was a scream from above and one of Halfbjorn’s men fell from the wall and crunched to the ground head-first.

He saw Toke kill the culprit and with that, the last of the enemy was dead.

He went to the lock and tried it, hoping the Christians had been too lazy to lock it, but there was no such luck. It was firmly shut.

Without hesitating, he got the chisel behind the locking hoop and started hammering at it, the sound horribly loud in the darkness.

Behind him he could hear the city in uproar, and even the glow of the rising fires on the wall beyond him.

He hammered at the chisel carefully, working it between the iron and the wood, splintering and moving it, but the weakened nails refused to part. They were stronger than he had expected, even when he had weakened them.

‘I see them! They are coming!’ called Toke in excitement from the wall, and Gjaldir smiled fiercely. Vidar and the others had not let him down. He kept hammering at the locking hoop, working the chisel deeper and deeper behind it as the resistance to his blows increased.

Suddenly the door rocked, and Gjaldir cursed as his chisel slipped. Norse voices called out from outside.

‘Leave the fucking door alone!’ he shouted in anger, re-positioning the chisel.

‘Herman!’ said Halfbjorn in alarm. And Gjaldir looked around to see that a pool of light was bobbing down the main road, a pool of light cast by a torch, that revealed a body of soldiers rushing towards them.

‘Get it open, Herman!’

Gjaldir ignored him, hammering at the chisel again, harder, perplexed as the iron groaned and the wood splintered, but the nails still resolutely held on, defying him.

‘Herman!’ came the shout again, rising in panic.

‘Slow them down!’ shouted Gjaldir frantically, hammering at the chisel with all his strength.

‘Fuck, grab the spears!’ shouted Halfbjorn behind him, organising their tiny force to defend the gate. It would be futile with only spears and no armour, but Gjaldir needed every moment he could get.

There was a twang as a nail finally gave, and the iron plate peeled a bit away from the wood. He roared, hammering at the chisel with all his strength, ignoring the pain in his left hand from the blows.

Another nail gave as Halfbjorn shouted a warcry of fear and anger behind him and Gjaldir dared not turn and look to see how many moments he had left.

Then the last nail gave, the hoop flew off the wood and the lock with it. Gjaldir dropped the tools and frantically fumbled at the locking bar, drawing it back from its seat with a shout of relief and throwing himself out of the way as he opened the gate.

There was a glorious, hearty roar as the men of his warband saw the gate open, and the first warrior, Vidar, helmet on his head and maille on his chest, burst through and into the street. Men streamed through the gap behind him and Gjaldir saw the Christian patrol, who had almost reached Halfbjorn’s tiny line, shudder to a halt in horror.

‘Get them!’ shouted Gjaldir in triumph at Vidar and the first dozen men through the gate, and they charged, ploughing into the terrified guards and shattering them in an instant, killing half and forcing the others to flee.

Vidar barked orders for his men not to pursue, and they formed up across the street, making space as the rest of the band poured through and past Gjaldir and his wide-eyed helpers.

Halfbjorn came over to him, mouth agape. ‘I think I did not believe you. Until the last moments I did not truly believe you.’

Gjaldir grinned. ‘I was not sure myself.’

‘Gjaldir!’ Bjorn appeared, and in his left hand was Ljós a Norðan in its scabbard, wrapped in its belt. Leif was with him, grinning ear to ear and clutching Gjaldir’s helmet.

Gjaldir took his sword with a mischievous smile and sighed to have the comforting weight of it in his hand again.

‘Good to see you, brothers,’ he said, strapping the sword on.

‘There is no time for your armour, just your helmet and shield, so you stay behind me and don’t so anything stupid,’ Bjorn said with a stern look as he jammed Gjaldir’s helmet on his head.

Gjaldir nodded as he looked at the mass of his men that had made it through the gate and were forming up into a block, waiting for orders.

His eyes suddenly met Halfbjorn’s. The man was standing statue still, staring at him in shock, mouth open. ‘You’re Gjaldir?’ he said, disbelieving.

Gjaldir laughed. ‘I am.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Would you have believed me?’

Halfbjorn just stared at him. ‘No, I suppose not, you’re not even a Norseman.’

Gjaldir clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Come with me and free your city, and then we can see if that matters.’

Reinhard eyes peeled open in confusion at the heavy knock at the door. He looked up to see if he had been dreaming or imagining it, but the heavy knock came again.

‘Grandmaster!’

‘What, what is it?’ he replied, irritably.

The door opened and a fully armoured solder of the Order came in and bowed his head solemnly. ‘Grandmaster, there is a fire in the city.’

Reinhard’s brows clamped together in fury. ‘A fire? You wake me for a fire, what am I to do, come with a bucket?’

‘My apologies, Grandmaster, Brother Sighard ordered me to wake you, he is concerned the fire is suspicious. He asks that you make yourself ready to leave at a moment’s notice if required.’

As the man finished speaking, a very flustered-looking Bertrand hurried into the room, still tying the rope belt that held his tunic in place.

‘Grandmaster, what should you wear, travelling clothes?’ Bertrand asked as the soldier scurried from the room.

‘What?’ Reinhard tried to clear his fuzzy mind. Sighard was not a fool, even if he was over-cautious. If he thought it was worth dressing, it would be petulant and foolish not to. Better to prove the man had disturbed him unnecessarily and have an excuse to discipline him than resist his request.

‘Travelling clothes.’

‘At once,’ Bertrand mumbled, putting the lamp down, finding the appropriate attire from the clothing hangers tucked into one corner of his temporary room.

Reinhard got up and looked out of the small window, seeing that it was still completely dark outside.

‘What hour of the night is this?’

‘I am not sure, I believe it might be close to dawn, but lauds has not been called in the chapel yet. I could ask the brothers maintaining watch.’

‘No, no. It doesn’t matter.’ Reinhard quickly got into the simple riding clothes as they were proffered, adding his chain of office and ring.

‘I need to find Sighard, immediately.’

‘I was told he is in the yard, assembling the men.’

‘He has called out the garrison?’

Bertrand looked lost. ‘I don’t know. My apologies, Grandmaster, I was just awoken.’

Reinhard wrinkled his nose. He had not really considered when Bertrand slept. His assistant was dismissed when he retired to his bed, and was present when he arose. What happened to him in between those two times had never troubled his thoughts.

He walked out of the room and down the hall with Bertrand scurrying behind, headed past the various offices and chambers of the senior members of the Order’s clergy and staff, and out of the door that led into the courtyard. On his right, the duke’s residence sat, looming in the dark with its second storey.

He noted with rising alarm that the second storey was highlighted against the dark sky behind with an orange glow.

‘Grandmaster,’ Sighard said, jogging over, dressed only in his surcoat with no maille or helmet.

‘What is happening, a fire?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why have you woken me, why do you find a fire suspicious?’

‘Because it started in three different places at once.’

That took the heat out of Reinhard’s anger. In three places at once? That is no accident.

‘So what do we do?’ Reinhard said, feeling suddenly helpless. Soldiers and knights of the Order were streaming out into the courtyard from their barracks, armed and armoured, looking around and at the glowing sky nervously.

‘I’ve ordered the garrison out, and we are ready to respond to anything. The workers are being brought out to fight the fires.’

‘Brother Sighard!’ a voice shouted, and a man sprinted into the yard in the uniform of the city’s guards, made up from men in Otto’s forces.

Sighard turned to look at him. ‘Report?’

‘The guards on the eastern wall report we are under attack, a large force is rushing the gate. It might be an escalade.’

Reinhard’s eyes went wide. ‘An escalade?’

Sighard ignored him. ‘Send everyone you have to reinforce the eastern wall!’

‘Yes, sir, I have, I had only a dozen men, the rest went to the fire.’

Sighard cursed, loudly and fluently. ‘The fire is a distraction. Recall all your men, get everyone that can be spared to the eastern wall. I will send everyone I can spare there immediately.’

‘Yes, sir, but… what about the fire?’

‘Damn the fire, we can fight it if we survive the attack.’

As he was saying that, Hugues and Duke Henry came out of his residence and, seeing Reinhard, hurried over.

The man nodded and ran off again, and Sighard turned to Reinhard and the two lords. ‘Your grace, eminence, my lord. You must be prepared to evacuate, immediately.’

‘You think the city will fall?’ said Henry in horror.

‘I don’t know, I hope not, but I must know you are safe.’

‘I will take command of the escort, you command the defence of the city,’ said Hugues with a decisive nod.

Sighard cast a glance to Reinhard for his acceptance, but Reinhard was too flustered and out of his depth to argue.

‘As you command, my lord. I will leave you with a hundred men.’

‘Sir Sighard!’ the voice called again, and Sighard turned to see the guard captain running back into the yard, out of breath and heaving.

‘The gate has fallen, the enemy is inside the walls!’ he shouted, loudly enough for the entire yard to hear.

Everyone froze for a second, everyone except Sighard. He turned to Hugues. ‘Take most of the men, get out of the city, south gate, make for the fort at the lake’s entrance. It is strong and they have ships there.’

‘We need horses,’ said Hugues.

‘There is no time to saddle them, go now! I will cover your escape and retreat behind you!’

‘We will be overtaken without horses, get as many as we can. Not everyone cannot march like you. If there isn’t time, make time,’ snapped Hugues.

Sighard muttered under his breath, but nodded and shouted at the men and stablehands around the stables, some of whom, smarter or with their wits about them, were already preparing horses.

Sighard turned to the assembling men of the Order. ‘You men, and you, form up outside the gate, secure the streets in every direction, move!’

The massed ranks of the Order’s soldiers sprang into action, with most of them hurrying out of the broad gates of the compound and into the centre of the city.

‘You men will escort us, you go and secure the south gate, stop for nothing and no one. Go!’

Half of the Order’s remaining soldiers filed out of the gate at a run, leaving only about fifty of Sighard’s men, and Duke Henry’s small personal guard, standing there, ready to leave.

‘We just leave and abandon the city?’ said Duke Henry in horror.

‘If the enemy is inside the walls and the garrison is still gathering, the city is already lost,’ said Hugues. ‘We do as Sighard commands, he is the true soldier here.’

Reinhard looked around, bewildered, unable to comprehend. The city was lost?

‘Surely there is some mistake,’ he muttered. ‘We must save the records, the treasury!’

Reinhard looked around to find Bertrand, panic fully consuming him, and saw the priest hurrying out of the building behind them with a large sack in his arms.

‘What is that?’ Reinhard said.

‘Some of your personal letters, records, and my notes, Grandmaster. What I could get in a hurry. I’m sorry, it’s not all of it.’

Reinhard nodded gratefully. The assistant had his wits about him, it jolted him into sense. He wasn’t going to be shown up by a priest.

‘Duke Henry, we should do as my commander says.’

Henry looked at him, face still outraged. ‘How could you allow this to happen?’

‘Your grace, we must go. Now!’ Hugues said, physically leading Henry towards one of only two horses that someone had managed to saddle and bring out of the stables. Reinhard was firmly led towards the other one by one of the Order’s knights.

He was half pushed up into the saddle, and Bertrand waddled over under his awkward load. ‘Grandmaster, do you mind?’ The priest held up the heavy-looking sack, and Reinhard just stared at it dumbly.

‘What?’

‘Can I tie it to your saddlehorn?’

‘Uh, oh. Yes.’ Reinhard fumbled for the reins as his sweating assistant tied the strings of the sack to his saddle, leaving the heavy bundle uncomfortably resting against his leg, threatening to unbalance him.

There were shouts and whinnying of horses as four knights rode over the yard from the stables, which were still a flurry of activity.

Suddenly there was a clatter of metal and screams beyond the compound walls to the east, and all of them looked around.

‘They are here!’ someone shouted from near the gate, and Sighard ran over to Hugues, who was just mounting a borrowed horse.

‘Go now, before it is too late. Ride south and get them to safety.’

‘And what of you?’ Hugues asked.

‘I will do my duty,’ said Sighard coldly, and then got out of the way for Hugues to move his horse on.

‘Brothers of Christ, protect the duke and the Grandmaster with your lives!’ Sighard roared as the few mounted knights formed up around them, and the men on foot fell in behind. ‘Deus le vult!’

‘Deus le vult!’ the white-surcoated men shouted back, and then they were moving, out of the gate.

Reinhard gasped and bucked as his horse moved under him, terrified of falling and wild eyed at the scene around them. On their right, Reinhard turned to see fierce fighting no more than twenty paces away, a wall of white-coated Order soldiers was holding off twice their number of attackers, the desperate fighting flickering in the odd lighting, and the sight of it punched Reinhard in the gut.

‘Come, Grandmaster!’ shouted a knight, grabbing his reins and forcing his horse to turn away. He saw that it was Hartung. The young count looked calm and determined, and Reinhard found it comforting. He let the youth lead him away without resistance.

Sighard shouted orders and drew his sword, shoving men towards the fighting.

Reinhard felt a sudden wave of fear again as he looked at Sighard heading the other way. ‘Sighard!’ he shouted, a high-pitched, fevered cry.

The knight looked at him, his unhelmeted face rigid in the flickering shadows.

‘I command you to survive, we need you and your men! Follow us!’ Reinhard shouted.

Sighard looked reluctant, and Reinhard realised in that moment that the knight intended to die fighting to cover the retreat, to extinguish his shame in allowing the city to fall, just as he had promised he would have at Ekeby. Despite his reservations about Sighard, the thought of being without his most loyal protector was horrifying.

Sighard looked back at the fighting behind him and then nodded, but anything he said was lost in the fighting as Reinhard’s horse trotted away with his escorts.

He looked left and right, seeing the city he had built passing by in the shadows, and, unseen by the men around him, tears rolled down his cheeks.

Gjaldir scowled as he saw the line of horsemen leaving the compound. The Order’s soldiers were far quicker to respond than he had hoped or expected. They had not been able to surround the buildings before the enemy came pouring out of them, the armoured, disciplined men putting a wall of wood and iron across the road, behind which the great men of the Christian army were escaping.

‘Find a way around!’ he shouted to Leif on his right, and Leif nodded and dragged away several dozen men to go down the side-street.

Elsewhere resistance did not seem to be so fierce. Vidar had taken two hundred men to the garrison’s main barracks just down the street, and Gjaldir could hear the whoops of joy and the screams of the hunted as his warband wrought havoc on the unprepared soldiers there.

‘They are retreating!’ someone shouted, and he looked back to see the white-coated men of the Order retreating under the pressure of the attack, shields up and weapons out, while his warband threw themselves at the wall in their frenzied attempts to break through.

They pushed the enemy past the entrance to the compound, and as some of his men poured through the gate, he saw stragglers, servants and terrified clergy trying to run back into the buildings in terror as his killers set after them. A stray horse ran across the yard, panicked, its half-tied saddle falling from its back. Bodies were lying in the dancing light of the distant fires.

The enemy in front of them increased the speed of their retreat, but then more of them arrived as they approached the southern gate, and the risk of them being overwhelmed seemed to diminish. He could hear fighting off to his right, where Leif had gone.

He looked at his men in annoyance as, up ahead, the enemy on horseback escaped through the gate. He had no one out there to stop them.

‘Pull back!’ Gjaldir shouted as he saw several of his men get taken down in the attacks on the retreating enemy wall. He could see it was futile. ‘Let them leave. The city is ours!’ He wasn’t going to waste his men’s lives breaking that formation, it wasn’t worth it now that their leaders had escaped.

Some of his men pulled back gratefully, huffing and panting, or nursing wounds, but others looked annoyed to have been thwarted. They all hated the Order soldiers more than any other Christians.

Finally the lines completely disengaged, and the enemy contracted and increased their pace, heading towards the gate. More of them appeared from the side-streets, forming up with their comrades and joining those at the gate, before heading out of the city.

‘Gods, there are a lot of them,’ said Bjorn.

Gjaldir nodded. ‘We are lucky they do not realise how few of us there are. If they had fought to the end, they might have won.’

‘Not once we armed the captives,’ said Bjorn.

‘Perhaps. We are yet to see if they are willing to fight.’

Halfbjorn had gone with some men to secure the workers’ quarter, and arm any willing to help clean the city of its garrison and the Christian settlers. Gjaldir had not told him what to do with any who resisted, but he knew what the erstwhile warrior would do with such traitors and cowards.

‘Close and lock the gates, and guard all of them, then finish off whoever is left in the city and resists us,’ Gjaldir said to Bjorn.

‘And those that do not fight?’

‘We will gather their women and children and let them leave alive. We are not our enemy, and must be better than them.’

‘And men who do not fight us?’

Gjaldir thought about it. They had already talked about the answer, and he found it did not bother him as much as he expected. ‘Gather them up in the Order’s compound. We cannot allow them to take up arms another day.’

Bjorn nodded slowly. ‘Halfbjorn was wrong, you know.’

‘Hmm?’

Bjorn smiled, all teeth in the firelight. ‘There is a Norseman in you for sure.’

Gjaldir looked away awkwardly. He wasn’t sure if he found the compliment comforting or not.

‘Gjaldir!’ He turned from Bjorn and saw Vidar coming, with half a dozen men behind. ‘The barracks are ours, the enemy are scattered and we are sweeping them from the streets. Halfbjorn is arming hundreds of the workers, taking weapons from the dead enemy and the armoury. The city will be ours before dawn.’

Gjaldir nodded, glancing down at his sword, which he had not even used. He had captured Uppsala, it was… indescribable. He started to sheathe his sword, but Vidar grabbed his hand.

‘Don’t. Let them see it, let them all see it. The sword that was forged in this city, that was promised to save them, has returned at the head of an army of vengeance. Let them see it in your hands, and know that you are their new ruler.’

Gjaldir shook his head. ‘I didn’t come here to rule them.’

‘It’s too late for that, my friend. The conqueror will rule, or no one will. Uppsala is yours, Gjaldir.’

Gjaldir looked down numbly. He had been so focused on taking Uppsala to give them somewhere to live that he had not really dared think what it meant.

Another hand was placed on his arm, smaller, lighter – blood-stained. His golden armring was pressed back over his bicep, cold against his flesh, but comforting in its familiar weight.

He looked up to see Brunhild’s face and he grinned like a child, a grin that collapsed when he saw how much blood was on her. ‘Brunhild. Are you hurt?’ He put a hand on her shoulder.

‘It is Christian blood.’ She smiled and embraced him. ‘I congratulate you, conqueror of Uppsala.’ She couldn’t resist a sly grin, verging on gentle mockery.

‘Can you believe it?’ he said. ‘We left this city as slaves, and we return as its rulers.’

‘Enough of this self-congratulating, the fight is not over. You can celebrate when the last spear falls from an invader’s hand,’ said Bjorn, swatting Brunhild’s hand away and shooing Vidar.

Gjaldir nodded and sighed, looking up, hearing the sound of screaming and shouting all around him in the city. The sun was not yet threatening to rise, but many of those still in the city would not live to see it. All the warmth Vidar and Brunhild had brought to him drained.

‘You’re right. Spread out, search every building. Let’s finish this.’

Chapter 28

The Weight of Victory

The sun was still just peeking over the rooftops when the last fighting ended inside the city. Gjaldir had set up in a fine two-storey building in the Order’s compound, walking around it in wonder at the richness of the furnishings and possessions that had been abandoned in the Christians’ hasty flight.

He found a large bedroom, fine clothes still abandoned on the bed, a gold ring bearing the mark of an eagle lying on the table beside it. He picked it up and stared at it, wondering who its owner was, or if he had survived the fall of the city.

‘A good trophy, for your victory,’ said a voice behind him. And he turned to see Brunhild had followed him into the room. She had found some water to wash the worst of the blood from her face, but it still stained her clothes and arms.

‘All the plunder will be shared among the men, and the people we freed,’ said Gjaldir, putting the ring down again where he had found it.

‘A good gesture, one they will appreciate. But no one will begrudge you that symbol of your victory. It is the way of our leaders, to take what they win in battle and show it to the world.’

Gjaldir nodded thoughtfully, picking the ring up again. It was exquisite and heavy, the sort of thing he had seen Count Adolf wearing. He tried it on, and found the narrow band would not fit on any but his smallest finger, where it was terribly oversized and awkward.

He laughed. ‘If this is the ring of my enemy, he had never done a day’s work with his hands.’ He looked at it again and tossed it to Brunhild. ‘Perhaps it will fit you better.’

Brunhild caught the ring awkwardly, and raised an eyebrow at him. ‘Are you trying to mark your conquest for the world?’

Gjaldir froze, cursing his thoughtlessness, but Brunhild laughed. ‘Oh, my brave Christian, you are so easily prickled. Besides,’ she added, slipping the ring on and looking at it with a smile, ‘I rather like it.’

She walked over towards the bed, poking at it dubiously with a hand. ‘I’ve never slept in such a soft thing.’

‘Neither have I.’

‘Maybe we should try it?’ She looked at him over her shoulder, her smile of amusement softening, filling with a different intent. ‘If you can’t have the ring as your prize, maybe the wearer?’

Gjaldir couldn’t help but laugh as she stood there in maille armour, blood-stained tunic underneath, sleeves covered in grime and hair caked and knotted with it.

‘What’s funny?’ she asked, looking a little annoyed. ‘I don’t offer it lightly, if you mock me it will never be offered again.’

‘Don’t take offence,’ Gjaldir said, holding out a placating hand. ‘It’s just that even now, fresh from battle, in the middle of the sack of a city and covered in filthy wargear, I am still completely bound by you. And I can’t help but laugh at my helplessness.’

Brunhild smiled again and looked down at herself. ‘It would be a shame to ruin such a nice bed.’

There were footsteps coming through the room outside, and Vidar appeared, stopping as he saw them standing together, hips almost touching and looking guilty. He gave Gjaldir an apologetic look. ‘We need you outside. It can’t wait for…’ He waved a hand at the odd scenario. ‘Whatever this was.’

‘Later then,’ said Brunhild with a sigh of regret, walking out of the room in front of Gjaldir, who followed her and Vidar.

‘What is it?’ Gjaldir asked.

‘The workers who we freed have chosen some representatives to speak to you. They are worried.’

‘About what?’

Vidar looked amused. ‘That you will execute them all as traitors.’

‘That’s ridiculous.’

‘I know, but some of them are traitors. We also have prisoners, and there is the matter of food, housing and law in the city. Decisions must be made that only you can make.’

Gjaldir swallowed hard. He just wanted to go back to the soft bed with the hard woman in her wargear. ‘I am not ready for this. I didn’t come to be jarl here.’

‘You are ready, and you are the ruler, whatever you choose to call yourself, and we will advise you.’

They went downstairs and out into the courtyard and Gjaldir saw that it was half full of men, many from his warband, others not in armour, including a huddle of what were obviously prisoners being held against one wall.

There was a chorus of cheering as he appeared, warriors hammering their fists and spears against shields, and Gjaldir was taken aback, frozen for a moment in shock at the joy and passion on hundreds of faces in front of him.

He stood there, mute and still, and Brunhild stretched up to half-shout in his ear. ‘Do not fear it, be who they need you to be.’

Gjaldir looked at her, and nodded curtly, understanding. He pulled Ljós a Norðan from his scabbard, holding it up in the dawn sunlight, the sun catching on the bright steel core. The cheers and pounding of shields only intensified, and he walked down the steps, sword aloft, saying nothing because nothing would be heard in that cacophony.

Instead he walked to the front of the mass of warriors and brought the sword down, reversing it and holding it out, pommel first, walking along the front rank so that everyone could reach out and kiss or touch the hilt.

He made most of the way around the yard before he reached a group of unarmoured men, flanked on both sides by some of his own, with Halfbjorn at their side. He did not recognise them and they looked nervous and defiant.

He held up a hand and Leif and Vidar behind him called for silence, which took a while to fall.

‘Who are you?’ Gjaldir asked.

‘These are the leaders of our people here,’ said Halfbjorn. ‘They have come to ask for your judgement.’

Gjaldir nodded and looked at them. ‘Traitors!’ someone shouted from nearby, and there was a murmur of agreement.

Gjaldir’s brows furrowed and he looked around, seeing the feeling matched in the dark or furious expressions of his warband. The mood of celebration had passed like the setting of the sun.

‘You worked for the Christians, built this city for them?’

‘We had no choice,’ one of them said.

‘We all had choices,’ Gjaldir said. ‘If you seek fair judgement, it must be based on the truth.’

Another of the men nodded sadly. ‘We surrendered to the Christians, and we let ourselves be made their slaves. We are dishonoured by it.’

The first man glared at him furiously, but remained silent.

Gjaldir’s mind raced. ‘How many of you are there?’

‘About two thousand men of all ages, and our families.’

Gjaldir nodded. ‘Did any of you take up arms to fight against our people?’

‘No,’ said the second man. ‘We were kept as workers.’ He spat on the ground. ‘Others of our kin stood beside the Christians. Mostly Danes.’

Gjaldir nodded. ‘We saw them too. So, you surrendered, defeated, and were offered safety in exchange for work?’

The words bit hard, and heads and eyes drooped, but the second man nodded sullenly. ‘That is true.’

Gjaldir turned to Leif. ‘Is that not normal in wars in these lands? The defeated people who have lost their leaders agree to live under the conquerors?’

Leif gave him a guarded nod. ‘You could say that. But only in wars between our own people, not with outsiders.’

‘Have outsiders ever conquered lands here before?’

‘Never,’ said Leif vehemently.

Gjaldir nodded and stepped back into the open, turning and looking around to make sure he had the attention of everyone in the yard.

‘Too many Northmen have died already. There will be no retribution against our people who were captives of the Christians. We came here to save them, and the strength and future of our people does not lie in killing them out of fear of dishonour. Only those who took up arms to fight alongside the Christians are our enemy and must die for it, the rest are welcomed back into freedom and we embrace them.’

Some of the faces that looked back at him were shocked, some angry, and he looked at the first of the leaders of the freed workers and offered his arm.

The man looked shocked, staring at the arm and then at Gjaldir, perhaps fearing a trick. But he stepped forwards and, with a last hesitation, grasped Gjaldir’s arm. Gjaldir pulled him close and clapped him on the back hard, taking the opportunity to whisper in his ear.

‘If you or your people cause me any trouble or show me defiance, you become my enemy.’

The head beside his nodded, and he clapped him on the back again and let go. The crowd of his warriors looked sullen, but he could not let the silence drag. ‘No harm will come to these men or their families. Vidar, find who among them is willing and suitable to stand in the wall with us and arm them. We will begin training them tomorrow.’

‘Yes, Gjaldir. And what of the Christian prisoners?’

Gjaldir turned to the large group of prisoners huddled against the wall. Some of them were men still in the armour or clothes of the Christians, battered and bloodied. The rest were women or children, or men in normal clothes. He could not know which ones were soldiers who had not had time to arm themselves, and which were simply settlers. It did not matter, he remembered Rudolf’s words. They were all here to stay, and to drive the Norse out of their lands.

‘Spare the old, the women, and the children. Drive them from the city and send them south. Let the Christians feed and look after their own as they see fit.’ He looked around his warriors, knowing he needed to appease their anger. ‘Every Christian man of age to wield a weapon came here as our enemy, slaughtered and abused our people, and death will be their reward. Take them outside the city and kill them all.’

There was a chorus of jeers and snarls and the warriors surged forwards, pulling at the mass of terrified people, ripping soldiers and men away from the arms of the others, dragging them away towards the gates.

Gjaldir watched with a fixed scowl, feeling anger and regret. Suddenly he saw a figure he recognised being dragged away, he was completely shocked for a moment.

‘Not him!’ he shouted, pointing, elbowing his way forwards to the two warriors who were dragging a screaming Christian away.

They looked at him in confusion.

‘Not him,’ Gjaldir said with a forceful shake of his head. ‘This one lives.’

The man was Otto.

Otto looked at him in shock, mouth open. And Gjaldir gave him a guilty look. ‘You saved my life once, Otto. And now my debt is settled, in the eyes of gods and men. You didn’t come here to conquer or oppress so go, return home if the Crusaders let you.’

Otto looked at him, confusion writ large on his face. ‘Who have you become, Ordulf?’

Gjaldir huffed. ‘Ordulf is gone, free of both Christian and Norse masters. I don’t have time to explain. Now go.’ He turned to a warrior he recognised. ‘Take this man to the city gates, make sure he leaves alive with the women and children. You let no one touch him or violate my word, do you understand?’

The warrior looked confused, but he nodded. ‘As you command, Gjaldir.’

‘Gjaldir…’ said Otto, staring at him with furrowed brows. ‘That’s you? That’s the name Ragnvald gave you?’ Then he shook his head slowly in disbelief. ‘I…Thank you.’

‘I’m sorry about Aeske,’ Gjaldir blurted. ‘I should have saved him.’

‘He died?’

Gjaldir nodded curtly.

Otto nodded nervously. ‘I’m sorry too.’

‘Now go before Brunhild sees you. She would kill you.’

‘Brunhild lives?’

‘Yes, and she is short of forgiveness. Take him.’ He said

The warrior took Otto’s arm and led him away, the German slave staring at Gjaldir with a troubled expression until he was swallowed up by the crowd.

Gjaldir put the man from his mind and turned back to gather his companions from around the yard, apart from Vidar who had gone with Halfbjorn.

‘We need to prepare the city to withstand any counterattack. Is the fire put out?’

‘Yes. A large number of buildings were burned, but we were lucky, the wind was blowing outwards from the city and the wood was green, otherwise it would all be ashes around us.’

‘And the walls and gates?’

‘Intact.’

‘And our men?’

‘We had losses, but less than I feared. Our men are ready to fight again when needed, especially once Vidar has given weapons to those we freed who are fit and ready to fight.’

‘The city’s food supplies?’

‘Vast, and captured intact,’ said Bjorn with a smile. ‘They are far larger than the city itself needed. It seems they fed the entire region from here.’

‘Or kept the food here as a method of control, to prevent disobedience,’ said Brunhild.

Gjaldir grinned. ‘Either way, it is good news for us. We will not go hungry this winter.’ He looked around and nodded. ‘So, what else should we prepare for?’

‘The Christians still have significant garrisons to the west, at Tuna and Arbugæ. And the men who escaped, many hundreds of them, could join those and be a threat to us.’

‘Could they come and besiege us before winter?’

Leif shrugged. ‘It is possible, but unlikely. The great danger is all the other garrisons in the South. If they combine, it is still a force far larger than ours, and more dangerous.’

‘So we cannot just stay here and wait for them to do that.’

‘No, we will need to try and face them alone, before they gather together as one army.’

‘So, we will march west before winter, and deal with Tuna at least.’

‘I think that would be wise. Perhaps with Tuna under our control, the enemy at Arbugæ, Västerås and the smaller towns would be forced to surrender or flee in the spring, and then the heart of Svealand will be ours again,’ Leif said with a smile.

‘It will be hard, but hopefully we will find enough support in those towns from our own people to sustain us. Perhaps it will take years, but victory is possible now, thanks to you,’ Bjorn added with a sincere nod.

Gjaldir flushed. ‘It is not my doing alone.’

‘No, but it is your actions have led us there.’

Gjaldir smiled shyly, and held up his arm with the golden ring. ‘All of us together did this.’

He felt a prickle behind his eyes as he thought of Gunnar, and shook his head. ‘Enough with this, we will secure the city and make ready to march west. Let’s confront the enemy at Tuna before they have time to recover.’ He looked around, suddenly confused. ‘Has anyone seen Tormund?’

They all shook their heads, and Leif looked confused. ‘Why do you want him?’

Gjaldir shrugged as if it was not important. ‘I just wondered why he wasn’t here gloating about our victory.’

Bjorn laughed. ‘That shows his falsity. He was finally right about something, and he isn’t even here to bore us about it.’

Gjaldir nodded awkwardly, not wanting to argue over it but feeling a surge of protectiveness of the seer’s reputation. He has been right about more things than we care to admit.

‘Grandmaster!’

Reinhard looked up wearily from his seat as he heard the call. They were packed into the fort at the crossing guarding the entrance to the great lake. They had marched all night and all day, having no food and no equipment to make camp.

Well, most of them had marched, he had merely ridden, but he hated riding and his entire body ached, and open sores on his thighs were red and angry.

Even now the small garrison was rushing to prepare accommodation for the Order’s officers, and for Henry and his staff. The men meanwhile made a makeshift camp on the island outside the walls.

He saw the familiar figure of Sighard walking towards him, bedraggled and filthy, his white surcoat stained black with two-day-old blood and mud.

‘You live, Brother Sighard,’ Reinhard croaked through a mouth that wished only to be silent.

‘I do, Grandmaster, as you ordered.’ The knight came forwards and knelt before him, untying his swordbelt and proffering it to Reinhard. ‘I come to receive your instructions for my penance. I have failed you, and our Lord. I deserve nothing but punishment.’

Reinhard was too tired to play with the man, and too horrified at his own failings in allowing the situation to have gone this far. He just shook his head and swatted the sword away. ‘Nonsense, Sir Sighard. You are not solely responsible for whatever treachery opened the city. That is the work of the enemy and his agents, and our desire for Christian charity.’

He had already convinced himself what must have happened. He was sure the Norse they had allowed to live within the city, a convenient workforce admittedly, had turned against them and opened the city to the enemy.

‘Christian charity?’ Sighard said, confused.

‘Yes. We should not have suffered the unrepentant heathens to live. They betrayed us, turned against us, as is their nature. Our only failure was in our kindness, our goodness.’

Sighard looked uncertain, but hope kindled in the man’s eyes.

Reinhard realised with a profound rumble of irritation that he had let the knight off far too easily, and that it had been a perfect opportunity to stamp his authority on the increasingly independent-minded commander, but it was too late to dramatically change course and he had been too exhausted to properly consider it.

‘It would be appropriate, of course, that some reprimand be given to you. At least to assuage the concerns of other members of the brotherhood,’ he added hastily, and Sighard’s face fell a little but he nodded.

‘I understand.’

‘Good,’ said Reinhard, too tired to do more than wave the knight away. ‘Go and see to your men.’

He was not granted peace, however, as more footsteps approached, and he looked up to see Duke Henry storming over. The nobleman had suffered far less from a day and a night of riding, being used to the saddle. He still looked furious.

‘I have found a ship that can take me to Lund, and then to Saxony,’ he said, curtly.

Reinhard levered himself to his feet. He needed to try and salvage his relationship with the duke, if it was even possible after his men nearly let the man be killed.

‘You are leaving the North? Do we not fight back?’

‘You fight back, Grandmaster. I go back to Germany to try and fix this disaster myself. I can’t even seal a letter to send to the emperor,’ he hissed, gesturing angrily with his hand. ‘I’ve lost my damned ring!’

‘Of course, your grace. My men and I will work to end this rebellion immediately. I give you my word we will not rest.’

‘No.’

‘No?’

‘The damage is done, Reinhard,’ Henry said bitterly. ‘The news of this catastrophe will make its way to my enemies and be used against me. Simply squashing one rebellious town will not change that.’

Reinhard stammered. ‘I don’t understand, do you mean we give up? Abandon the province?’

Henry gave him the look Reinhard often gave his inferiors when they asked something particularly stupid, and it hurt him deeply, clawing at his soul.

‘No, have you lost your wits? No. We turn this to our favour. We will crush these people utterly and secure a real victory, wash away the memory of one small defeat with complete victory. Let the rebellion run amok, let them commit foul crimes against our people, or we can claim they did even if they do not. I will write to the Pope immediately and request his blessing for a new Crusade in the spring. I will return at the head of an army of Bavaria, with whoever else will come at my side, and cleanse this land utterly, as we should have the first time.’

‘You are sure the Holy Father will agree?’

‘Yes, I can offer him something that will ensure it.’ He glared at Reinhard. ‘It will be costly but it must be done.’

Reinhard’s eyes widened, and he looked at the ground, his mind racing. ‘If you move your army here, and the emperor dies while you are gone?’

‘Then Duke Lothair will take the crown and we will have failed, and you know what failure will mean for both of us.’

Reinhard gulped and nodded. For both of them it meant the end of their ambitions, relegation to irrelevance, possibly even death.

‘So we must not fail. The Crusade must be swift and decisive, and to achieve that, I need you to ensure the survival of our most important strongholds here. Don’t waste your men fighting over Uppsala. Let the rebels go and fight Conrad and whatever remains of Otto’s men, contain them here for the winter. Ensure you are strong and ready for the spring for when I return to Lund. I will give Hugues the same instructions, with different reasons. You will work together with him to achieve them.’ Henry pointed at Reinhard’s face, face dark as thunder, to emphasise his point.

Reinhard nodded submissively. ‘We will do that.’

Henry scowled. ‘This is a desperate gamble you have forced me into, Bishop. You will not fail me again.’

Reinhard felt a cold hand on his heart. Henry no longer trusted him, and was bringing Hugues in as a potential replacement. It might as well have been a threat of a death sentence.

He bowed, perhaps the most genuine bow he had ever given anyone. ‘Your grace, I am your humble servant.’

The words burned on the way out, and inside his mind there was only anguish and hatred.

Chapter 29

The Fire Spreads

Tuna

October AD 1122

‘Skoglar!’ The voice was an urgent whisper and Skoglar saw the man come through the door of his home, eyes adjusting to the relative darkness.

‘Eygarr, come. The others will be here soon.’

‘They must be careful, the Christians are closing the city, increasing their wall guard and patrols. They heard the news just as we did.’

‘They are watching outwards, not inwards. We will be safe here as long as we are calm.’

Eygarr nodded nervously, but took a seat in the gloomy longhouse as they waited. Skoglar had told them all to stagger their arrivals. They didn’t need the Christians to see a large group of men moving in the streets, heading towards one building.

The others trickled in until there were a dozen or so of them in there. Skoglar closed the door behind them. The mood inside the building was fraught. The whole city was on edge, but these men, trusted members of his old warband and hird, were particularly tense. For three years, since the defeat of King Sigurd in the east and the end of the war, they had been waiting for an opportunity to strike back and reclaim their lands.

‘I have called you all here, my oathmen, to ask what we should do now that we hear Uppsala has been taken back,’ Jarl Skoglar said quietly, looking at them all.

‘We should also rise up, and free our people,’ Eygarr said, and there was a deep rumble of agreement around the small group.

Skoglar nodded. ‘Yes, we should. We must only decide how.’

‘We should go and join Gjaldir and his warband,’ one man said, and Skoglar looked at him.

‘Do you know this Gjaldir, have you met him?’

The man paused. ‘I have not. But he fights for our people, he has the backing of the gods!’

‘So they say, but I have heard all the same rumours as you; that he is eight feet tall, cannot be harmed by Christian weapons, and wields a burning blade blessed by Thor himself!’ Skoglar chuckled softly. ‘Let us not talk of rumours and obvious exaggerations spread by the man himself.’

‘Lord, do you doubt him? We have not met him but we have heard of what he has done. Of the Christians he has killed, the people he has saved. Countless villages surviving the winters because he and his men feed them.’

Skoglar nodded, undeterred. ‘And the villages that have been burned to ash because of him?’

His warrior looked perplexed, angry even. ‘That was the Christians’ doing.’

‘In retribution for Gjaldir’s actions.’

‘Yes.’

‘So, if we leave the city to go to him and join him, what will the Christians do to our people here?’

The angry man looked crestfallen, and stared at the ground. ‘I had not considered that,’ he mumbled.

Skoglar grunted his acknowledgement, knowing that he had the argument now, and was ready to steer these men, who had been so downtrodden for so long, to what he needed.

‘We could wait here, until he arrives, and join him then,’ said another.

‘We could,’ Skoglar said, nodding affably. ‘Unless he chooses not to come here before winter, or until after the Christians decide we are too much of a risk and massacre us all.’

‘Then what do you suggest, lord?’ Eygarr asked.

‘That we do not leave our fate to mighty Gjaldir, whose mind we do not know. That we do not leave to follow a man the rumours say was once a slave, and may not have the same goals.’ He rose to his full height, staring down at his men, daring them to resist. ‘I say we remember who we are, the mighty warband who fought the Christians, was undefeated in battle and only cast down into this servitude when others failed. I say we don’t wait for others to come here and free us, relegating us to another master. I say we rise, now, with our own hands and own steel, and take our lands back so that we can meet this Gjaldir eye to eye as equals in our own lands.’

He paced back and forth in front of his men as he spoke, fist shaking in front of his face as if he were fighting the very air, eyes blazing, spittle flecking his beard as he said the words.

‘Aye!’ said one of his men, punching one palm with his fist.

‘We regain our honour!’ hissed Skoglar, trying to keep his voice low but intense. ‘We purge the stain of three years of these outsiders ruling us, and let no man say we needed to be rescued.’ He spread his arms wide and turned on the spot. ‘Are we not men of Tuna, warriors worthy of the Aesir?’

‘Yes!’ said one of his men, a little too loudly, and Skoglar gave him a grateful nod but waved at him to calm himself.

He let them all fall to silence, hanging on his every word. ‘Then we shall forge our own fate.’ He turned to Eygarr. ‘How many of our men can we raise?’

Eygarr looked nervous. ‘Maybe two hundred within the city, more scattered in villages around. But lord, there are a thousand Christian soldiers here, more capable of carrying arms in a militia.’

‘Yes, we are not enough to defeat them alone. We will need to raise the rest of the people. There are thousands of them here still.’

Eygarr’s eyes widened. ‘Raise the cityfolk? Which ones?’

Skoglar’s grin widened and hardened. ‘All of them.’

There was silence as they all took it in.

‘All of them? Armed with what?’

‘Knives, clubs, broken pots. It doesn’t matter,’ said Skoglar, pointing at each man in turn to emphasise his points. ‘We buried our weapons, hid our steel for this day. We will recover every blade we can, arm ourselves, and rouse the people to attack. They have all heard of the fall of Uppsala, of the stories that say it was taken from within. They are ready to do the same, all they need is us to inspire them. How many of them concealed weapons like we did? Look.’ He moved a man aside and stood on a box, reaching up into the smoke-stained thatch of the roof above. He rummaged through the thick woven strands before grabbing hold of something and pulling it out in a shower of debris. He tore the weapon from its crusted leather sheath.

It was a seax. Rust spotted and dark, but a long war seax nonetheless. ‘How many of us have prepared for this day?’ He pointed the illicit weapon around the room. ‘I wager more than just our warband. This is Svealand, every man and boy had weapons, the Christians took many but did they take all?’

‘No, I have three spearheads buried in my kitchen midden, and the spearshafts are holding up my fish-rack,’ said one man with a laugh. ‘The Christians pass them every day and never see them for what they are.’

‘I buried two swords in my son’s grave,’ said another.

More men chorused out the weapons they had hidden.

Skoglar nodded, teeth bared in the soft light. ‘Good, good. We have enough steel to free ourselves, all we needed was for the people to believe in it, and now they do. The time is upon us, let us not wait for rescue, let us decide our own fate!’

The men let out guttural growls and whoops of agreement, so loud he had to frantically gesture them all to quiet.

When silence finally fell again, he nodded. ‘Two nights from now, we will rise. Every man, woman and boy capable of holding steel, all at once. No army, no shieldwall, just blades and murder in the darkness. We will cleanse these foreign scum from our streets.’

There were only nods and smiles. The argument was won. He did not need to tell them why he could not wait for Gjaldir to rescue them, they did not need to know his plans. Not yet.

He smiled at his men and held the seax up, feeling alive at the touch of a weapon again after all the years.

‘Two nights from now, we rise!’

‘Brunhild, come, walk with me,’ Gjaldir said, pulling on his tunic.

‘No,’ she mumbled without moving.

Brunhild lay languidly across the soft bed they had captured, naked and face down, her rump in the air. Gjaldir could not resist the temptation and gave the fleshy double mound a firm slap, eliciting a squeal of protest and a flurry of curses.

He laughed. He knew he would pay for that later, but he felt so good he did not care. He walked out into the large second room that had once been arrayed with tables and chairs that he had no use for, and now was the room Bjorn and Leif slept in. Vidar slept in another room across the hall with Astrid, because he said she benefited from the quiet and peace of it.

Bjorn and Leif were long gone, of course. They had risen with the dawn and gone out to get on with the day’s tasks, but he was sure they would forgive his laziness for just a couple of mornings. He felt calmer and happier than at any time in his life, and just wished for it to continue forever, for the war to be over and to be able to finally have a home he could live in without fear.

He sighed, because he knew it was still a far-off dream.

It was two weeks since they had captured Uppsala. They had cleared the dead and burned them outside the city. The Christians merely in great piles, the fallen warriors of the warband with all the honours and ceremony they could afford to give.

A few dozen men of the warband had gleefully burnt the huge Christian church that had been erected on-top of one of the grave-mounds outside the old city, and then started pulling it’s blackened stones down until their rage was satiated and they left it as a half-torn ruin.

Then they had tended their wounds, organised the defence of the city, sent messengers out to every settlement within a hundred miles promising food for the winter, help liberating them if possible, and had sent scouts looking for the whereabouts of the rest of the Christian forces.

To their surprise, the Order’s men had holed up in the fort at Stadsholmen, and then most of them had left on ships a few days ago, headed out into the cold sea, leaving no clue what their destination was.

With the last real threat to Uppsala removed, Gjaldir had called his companions in to decide what to do before winter. Their warband had grown dramatically with hundreds of the freed men in Uppsala having been former warriors, ready to return immediately to the shieldwall. Gjaldir now had well over a thousand good men under his command, and another thousand men training. It was now perhaps the biggest single force left in Svealand. The scattered Christian garrisons were more numerous in total, but spread all over the land and, according to the scouts, largely immobile.

His companions’ advice had been unanimous: they should march on the remaining Christian garrisons and capture as many of them as possible before winter came, or before they united into a single force capable of defeating the new rebellion.

Gjaldir had agreed, grudgingly, and they were due to march in two days’ time. The thought hurt him physically; leaving behind his soft bed and his hard woman to go once again to war, but there was no choice.

He took a drink from the water jug that sat beside the door. He turned back and considered taking it to Brunhild, but suspected he would end up doused in it as revenge for his assault on her pride and her posterior, so decided against it, instead retreating out of the room and down the stairs to the yard.

There were some men sparring in the open space, and others being taught the rudiments of riding by warriors who already knew how. They had acquired quite a few horses in the fall of the city, despite those that had died in the fires at the big stables, and the others that had fled with the Christians or escaped the inferno. Gjaldir wanted to have a small party of warriors who could ride instead of march, to act as scouts and to move quickly around the vast land. But not enough of his people knew how to ride so now, more were learning.

It would take a year to train proficient riders who could traverse the rough paths and woods of the land around the lake, let alone fight from the saddle, so he was told, but he had felt it was worth starting.

He watched Bjorn training a pair of young men who were fighting with spear and shield, jabbing and probing, ducking and bouncing out of the way as Bjorn watched them and barked out critique. He smiled. He had been a victim of Bjorn’s training before, and knew the huskarl was a harsh master on the practice ground.

There was a flurry of movement as a mounted scout came through the gate, leaning back and pulling his horse to a stop before leaping from the saddle and looking around keenly. He saw Gjaldir and came running over. Gjaldir’s stomach fell. When people ran to him like that it was rarely good news.

Bjorn saw it too, and looked up from his trainees.

‘What?’ said Gjaldir impatiently as the scout ran over to him. ‘Have the Christians been spotted?’

The man shook his head gleefully. ‘No, I was sent to scout Västerås. The people there have risen and thrown the Christians out.’

‘What?’ Gjaldir said, surprised and delighted.

Bjorn came trotting over. ‘What is it?’

Gjaldir looked at him with a smile. ‘Västerås has rebelled against its garrison. The Christians are gone.’

Bjorn whistled. ‘That is unexpected.’

He looked at the scout. ‘When?’

‘Yesterday. I saw it myself, spoke to the people there.’

‘Why did they rise now? We were marching there in two days, although they could not have known it.’

The scout looked confused. ‘They thought it was your wish for them to do so.’

Now Gjaldir’s smile faded. ‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. I didn’t think you would be displeased. They are doing it in your name.’

Gjaldir breathed hard. ‘I am not displeased, I am just… surprised. Can you return there?’

The scout looked crestfallen, he had probably just ridden all day without rest, but he nodded.

‘Tell the people there to secure whatever weapons they can and guard the town. We will be there as soon as we can.’ He turned to his friends. ‘Bjorn, go and find Leif. I want to leave tomorrow. We need to get to Västerås before the Christians do. They will be helpless if there is a counterattack.’

As he was finishing, another man came into the yard, dismounted and ran over to Gjaldir, leaving four mounted men behind him. He saw it was Vidar, who was in charge of the scouts and had been out of the city with a party watching south for the Christians.

‘Gjaldir, there has been an uprising,’ he said as he arrived, face flush with excitement.

‘I know, in Västerås. We were just told,’ he said, pointing at the first scout.

Vidar shook his head. ‘No, I’m not speaking of Västerås.’

‘Where then?’ Gjaldir said, feeling numb.

Vidar laughed and shook his head. ‘As far as we can tell, everywhere.’

‘Everywhere?’ Gjaldir repeated dumbly.

‘Yes. Every village and town on the east end of the lake for fifty miles, the whole eastern part of Svealand is rebelling against the Christians. Churches are being burned, garrisons slaughtered or driven out. We have heard rumours from beyond that too, it might be spreading outside our lands.’

‘Thor’s balls,’ Gjaldir said breathlessly, then looked around as if there would be someone there to look to for an answer to the question racing around in his mind: what to do about it.

‘Bjorn, get Leif and come to meet with us. We have to… well, we have to decide what to do. I’ll be inside. Vidar, come.’ He turned towards the building, before stopping. ‘Oh, and someone find Tormund!’ he shouted back, before hurrying towards the building, muttering to himself. ‘He might actually understand what people are thinking.’

When Leif had finally come back with Bjorn from the training field outside the city, Gjaldir, Brunhild and Vidar were already preparing their equipment in the storeroom on the ground floor.

‘Gjaldir,’ Leif said with a grin. ‘I hear you are now the leader of an entire rebellion! Congratulations.’

Gjaldir gave him a thin smile. ‘Leader? I don’t even know what is happening.’

Leif waved the concern away. ‘We can work that out. I am told you want to leave tomorrow?’

‘I would leave tonight if we could be ready,’ said Gjaldir with a frustrated sigh, pointing at the pile of his gear that he was collecting. ‘But we have let ourselves get complacent after taking the city. I wasn’t ready for this. I thought we were going to have to liberate these towns ourselves.’

‘We can leave first thing in the morning. Anyone who isn’t ready isn’t important to us.’

‘Good.’

‘Where are we going?’

Gjaldir nodded thoughtfully. That was the question he had been considering. The rebellion was apparently spreading everywhere, so choosing where to march was not simple. There were only two ways to go around the lake by foot, via Stadsholmen to the south, or Karlsgrind to the west. They had captured a number of ships at the Uppsala docks, and others from nearby villages, but not enough to transport their entire warband, and they were unsure how many Christian vessels still prowled the lake, making crossing it risky.

The Christians at Stadsholmen were still a threat that needed addressing, but their fort there was almost unassailable. They had only taken it from the Norse with the help of siege engines and barges, and had significantly expanded it and strengthened it since then. They were unlikely to be able to capture it quickly, if at all.

The rest of the Christian garrisons were in the far west and south, ranging from Arbugæ to Tuna, and on south to Norrköping. They did not have reliable information what was happening there, nor if the crossing at Karlsgrind was still held by the Christians.

‘I do not think we can go south, the fort at Stadsholmen is too strong,’ Gjaldir said.

‘I agree,’ said Vidar. ‘I watched it for two days, and I have no plan to capture it. It has no real weakness at all unless we can get ships downriver of it, which we cannot.’

‘So we either march to Karlsgrind and capture the crossing there, and then on to Arbugæ, or we cross the lake to the south, to Talje or Strängnäs.’

‘I hear Södertälje south of the lake has rebelled, but I am not sure,’ replied Vidar.

‘We can’t be sure about any of it,’ said Gjaldir. ‘That is the problem. If we sail south and leave Västerås on their own, they are vulnerable to counterattack from the garrisons at Karlsgrind and Arbugæ. If we march to Västerås it means Södertälje, Strängnäs and all the other towns to the south will be on their own.’

‘We don’t have enough ships to all go south,’ said Brunhild dismissively.

‘So we should go to Västerås,’ Gjaldir said.

‘No. We do both.’

There was an uneasy silence. ‘We split our warband?’ said Leif. ‘If we split our force on both sides of the lake, we might be cut off forever, in weakened numbers. It is an absurd risk.’

‘If we do not get to these towns, quickly, we risk losing their people, or even just their belief and support. We must go and help them, now, or we will lose control,’ said Brunhild forcefully.

‘I don’t like it,’ said Bjorn.

‘Who would go where?’ Gjaldir said, looking at Brunhild.

She looked down, thinking about it. ‘We know Västerås is taken, it is the least difficult task. Send Vidar there with some of our men, and he can march onwards to Karlsgrind to capture it. The area south of the lake is larger and more uncertain, with more enemy garrisons. They are the ones who need to see you and have your help. Take as many men as we can fit in the ships and sail south.’

‘We won’t have enough men to fight the Christians if Vidar takes some, and we leave some to guard the city against the Order.’

‘We will get more men from the rebellious towns.’

‘And if we don’t?’

Brunhild smiled. ‘Then it will be as it always was, we will escape or we will die fighting.’

Gjaldir smiled. It was a simple truth. ‘I think that living here in this fine house was making us soft. But you are right. It will just be the same as it was last year, and the year before.’

‘It was making you soft, not me,’ Brunhild said with a smile. ‘I’d be as happy in a tent in the deepwoods as I am in this place. It’s long past time we left and went to the rest of our people. Uppsala is just one city, we have so many more to free.’

Gjaldir nodded. ‘This is what we will do.’

‘Gjaldir!’ Leif protested.

Gjaldir held his hand up. ‘No. We have to go south, but we cannot ignore the threat from Karlsgrind and Stadsholmen. Vidar, I need you to go west. But someone will have to stay and guard the city.’ He rubbed his chin.

‘Not me,’ said Leif with a shake of his head.

‘Nor I,’ said Bjorn.

‘No, no, I need you both.’ Gjaldir nodded. ‘Halfbjorn. He knows many of the people here, and has the respect of the men we recruited. I will leave him in command. Curses,’ Gjaldir said, looking around. ‘I should have invited him to this meeting.’

‘Do you really trust him?’ Leif asked. ‘You are right, he is known and respected here. What is to stop him taking this city for himself?’

Gjaldir looked up. He had not considered it. ‘Do you think he would?’

‘I have no idea if he would, but that is the problem. We don’t know him.’

‘Well, who else could I leave here in charge?’

There was silence.

‘Halfdan, is he ready?’

Leif shook his head. ‘Halfdan is a fine warrior and leader of men, but not a governor of a city. He is more likely to cause another rebellion against you than keep the peace.’

‘Hmm, he is difficult. Well, Rurik certainly isn’t the answer.’

They all laughed. Rurik had grown into a terror on the battlefield, but had no interest in responsibility of any kind.

‘So, leave both Halfdan and Halfbjorn, they will keep each other in check,’ said Vidar with a smile.

‘Both of them? They will do nothing but argue,’ said Leif.

‘Good. I don’t want them to do anything except be ready to fight the Christians if they come, and does anyone doubt they will fail to do that?’ Gjaldir said.

‘That they can be trusted to do.’

‘They will keep each other in check, it is decided. Vidar, take three hundred men and go west in the morning. I will take seven hundred south on the ships with the rest of us, and the local and untrained men will stay here with Halfdan and Halfbjorn to guard the city and this area.’

Gjaldir turned back to his maille, which he had not worn in four weeks and was in a sorry state. One of many things he had neglected in the aftermath of their victory. He peered at it in annoyance. ‘Make sure everyone is ready to leave at sunrise, no excuses.’

‘I’ll clean your armour, since you were too lazy to do it,’ said Brunhild with an irritated expression.

Gjaldir shook his head, embarrassed. ‘No, I care for my own equipment.’

‘Not this time,’ said Brunhild, walking over and firmly taking his hand away from his hauberk. ‘You have an army to organise and half a day to do it. I will do your armour, and you will thank me afterwards.’

Bjorn laughed and Gjaldir felt his face redden. ‘You are right, thank you, Brunhild.’

Brunhild gave him a stern nod and then looked down at the rusty maille in disgust. ‘That is two things you owe me an apology for.’

‘What?’

She gave him a sideways glance. ‘You know what else I speak of. Do not think I have forgotten.’

Gjaldir looked away meekly. He knew exactly what she meant.

Chapter 30

Lord of the North

They encountered no trouble sailing across the lake. Either the Danes who had patrolled it for three years had returned home before the winter storms made travelling the open sea so dangerous, or they were simply lucky. It did not matter.

They landed near Södertälje and advanced cautiously on the large town, only to be greeted by a party of its jubilant Norse citizens.

‘Where are the Christians?’ Gjaldir asked their leader.

‘Dead or gone,’ said the man with a toothy grin. ‘We rose against them, as the seer told us was your wish.’

Gjaldir stared at the man in confusion. ‘As who told you?’

‘The seer, Tormund Five-Bones. He relayed your wishes that we rise in your name, Gjaldir, that the time to cleanse the North had come. So we attacked the garrison at night. It was a hard fight, and bloody, but by morning the town was ours.’

Gjaldir looked at Leif, whose eyes were wide. ‘Well, that explains why Tormund disappeared.’

‘How did he even get here?’

Gjaldir shook his head and turned back to the man, who was perplexed by their reaction. ‘Where is Tormund? I would like to speak to him.’

Now the older man looked confused. ‘He carried on with his task, he went west, to spread your commands to others.’

Gjaldir nodded carefully. He nearly said that he had given no such command, but then realised how bad that would make him look, and that the old man did not need to hear that his people had fought and died for a lie, that they could merely have waited for Gjaldir to come and rescue them.

‘You and your people have done well. We will feed you and protect your town, and any willing and able to join our warband will be welcome.’

The man grinned broadly again, grabbing Gjaldir’s arm and shaking it vigorously. ‘Thank you, Gjaldir. Our time of suffering is over, thank the gods for sending you.’

‘Don’t thank me, you freed yourselves.’

‘Ah, none would have believed it possible without your example, or dared to risk it without knowing you were coming. We remember what you did for our people this year and last.’

His eyes flicked down to Gjaldir’s sword, and Gjaldir smiled and slowly drew it, holding the pommel up so the wide-eyed man could touch it.

He ran his fingers over the runes on the blade with reverence. ‘The stories are true,’ he said, breathlessly.

‘Some of them,’ Gjaldir laughed. ‘It doesn’t actually burn in battle.’

The man nodded as if that was obvious. ‘But it is forged from the heart of a fallen star?’

‘That much is true.’

‘And it was blessed by Thor and Odin while you were lost in the mountains?’

Gjaldir paused, he still did not know what to think about the old man in the mountains. It was a memory that troubled him.

‘It is not for me to speak for the gods’ actions,’ he finally said, with a conspiratorial wink.

‘Of course, of course! Well, come, be welcome in our town. We have cleared the dead and sadly, we have many empty houses. It has been two hard winters. You and your men are welcome to stay for as long as you need. The Christians abandoned their supplies, so for the first time in years, we have food enough for ourselves and to spare. You are welcome to it.’

‘Thank you, we will stay one night.’

‘Only one?’ The man looked crestfallen.

‘We have to march west, following Tormund. There are other towns to secure.’

‘Of course,’ said the man with a wave of his hand. ‘I wasn’t thinking. Come, I will show you the hall. There are many people who will want to greet you.’

Gjaldir forced a smile at the thought and turned to Leif. ‘Get the men into houses, and send out patrols. Make sure the Christians are truly gone and warn if they return.’

‘Yes, Gjaldir,’ Leif said with a relieved smile. He had not wished to come and hold court any more than Gjaldir did.

Brunhild came up to him and leaned in to speak in his ear. ‘This is important, Gjaldir. Be enthusiastic, you will need these people’s respect and support. So show them the same.’

Gjaldir nodded and turned to smile curtly at the man. ‘Let’s go and meet your people.’

The next day they marched west, leaving a small band of warriors with Rurik to organise the armed people of the town into something resembling a force that could defend it if needed. Gjaldir had been shocked by the state of the armed rabble who had greeted him. Old men clutching rusty swords as ancient as themselves, boys with rough spears and makeshift shields, a few real warriors with equipment taken from the slaughtered garrison.

He had been welcomed as a king, feasted with looted food and ale, and regaled by townsfolk with the horrendous tale of the town’s rebellion. Over a hundred of their people had died in the chaotic slaughter when they attacked the garrison. Women and boys had been among those who swarmed over the barracks in the night, stabbing Christians in their beds and hunting them through storerooms and wash houses.

But there was no hint of despair or mourning in their mood, only elation at being freed. Theirs was a town that had suffered greatly at the hands of the Order, being so close to Uppsala. Many of their men had died in the war, been taken as workers, or been killed in reprisals in the years that followed.

Gjaldir had struggled not to show his shock at the state of the town and its people, and at the sheer bravery they had shown in turning on the garrison, who clearly had not believed the townsfolk were a threat, not even sleeping in secured buildings in a central compound, just manning the walls to watch for raiders or Gjaldir’s warband.

The town’s leader told him that Strängnäs, two days’ march to the west, had also risen, and so that was where Gjaldir and his men were headed. On the way they passed a few empty villages, some freshly burned and abandoned, presumably by the retreating Christians, and others that were untouched and where the people gave them a rapturous greeting. Fighting men of all ages, with equipment that varied from nothing but a simple spear to full wargear, appeared from every settlement, adding to his warband’s ranks.

‘They are more of a hindrance than a boon,’ Bjorn had said with distaste, watching a dozen men joining them from one large village. The oldest among them was perhaps fifty years old, and the youngest no more than fourteen. None of them were fully equipped, and few if any properly trained.

‘We cannot turn them all away,’ said Gjaldir nervously. ‘Only the least suitable.’

‘In battle they will break like dry twigs.’

‘We aren’t intending to fight a battle,’ Gjaldir replied.

‘That is when many battles occur,’ Bjorn said with a worried shake of his head. ‘When you don’t want to fight one.’

On the second day they reached Strängnäs, and again were met with joyous citizens, who reported the garrison had fled at the first sign of trouble, headed for Tuna, another day’s march westwards. They spoke of rumours of a battle there, and of another Norse warband routing the Christian forces.

‘Another warband?’ Gjaldir asked, looking at Leif. ‘What other warband?’

‘There were other rebels in this area last year.’

‘Bandits and small groups, but large enough to fight a battle?’

Leif shrugged. ‘Let’s go and find out.’

That was not the only surprise waiting for them; as Gjaldir held court in the great hall and met with the elders of the town, a familiar figure sidled over to him with a beaming smile.

‘Tormund,’ said Gjaldir with a stern glare.

‘You are not pleased to see me?’ Tormund asked, taken aback. ‘I delivered to you two of the greatest towns of Svealand, and a dozen villages besides, without you having to raise a finger, and you are not happy? What warrior in your warband has accomplished such a feat?’

Gjaldir shook his head, careful not to show anger in front of the watching townsfolk, who could see them but not hear his words. ‘You told people that my orders were to rise up. That was a lie. You should not have used my name like that.’

‘But if I didn’t use your name, it would not have worked,’ said Tormund as if it was obvious.

Gjaldir breathed deeply, calming himself. ‘You forced me into splitting my forces to come down here, before I was ready.’

‘I knew that time was limited, and that you could not easily take these towns before winter by force alone. But I thought that I could, so I did.’

‘Why didn’t you suggest this plan to me?’

‘You might have said no.’

‘Yes, I might! And hundreds of these people died on your word, word you claimed was mine. Your uprising might have failed and ruined my plans!’

Tormund nodded smiled. ‘Exactly. That is why I did not ask you. I knew it would work, but that you would not believe it. So I just did it.’

Gjaldir huffed and stared at the infuriating seer. ‘I expect you to obey me, as all my men do, or leave my company.’

‘I am not sworn to obey you, or sworn to you at all. I am sworn to the gods, and they wish me to help the people and remain with you. So I do both.’ He shrugged regretfully to show there was simply no choice in the matter.

Gjaldir’s hand trembled on the arm of the chair as he fought to control his anger and Tormund continued to smile in intense self-satisfaction. He became more aware of the people staring at them, worried at the strange tension between the two men.

‘We will talk about this later,’ he said, forcing his most venomous smile.

‘Perhaps,’ said Tormund brightly, before turning and walking away into the hall, seemingly without a destination. Gjaldir watched in amazement as people stopped the slight seer to thank him, praise him, or simply touch his cloak reverently as he passed.

‘I think that might be the most dangerous man in Svealand,’ said Leif in wonder. ‘I had never considered it.’

‘He isn’t dangerous,’ huffed Gjaldir. ‘Merely annoying.’

‘No, that is what I used to think, but look, look how the people venerate him. You captured a city with subterfuge and steel and four hundred men. He took two in a few days with nothing but his words, and he recognises the authority of none other than the voices in his own head. Gods know what he will do next, or what chaos it will cause.’

‘You think he would turn against us?’ Gjaldir said, suddenly nervous.

Leif shrugged. ‘I would not risk guessing at his intentions. But no, I do not suggest treachery, I just worry his next plan will cause us more trouble than we can manage.’

‘We could have him held here.’

Leif looked out over the crowd again, frowning. ‘If you can find him.’

Gjaldir looked up and he couldn’t see Tormund anymore either. ‘Gods damn him…’ But then two elder men were coming nervously up to meet him, and he had to smile and put the infuriating seer from his mind.

‘Welcome, friends,’ Gjaldir said, gesturing to the bench in front of him. ‘I am Gjaldir.’ His forced smile stretched further. ‘Would you honour me with your names?’

It took two days to leave Strängnäs, Gjaldir was snowed under with requests and visits from men who came from all around the town and the surrounding area. It was in a much better state than Södertälje had been. The locals told him the Christians who had garrisoned the town were far more lenient, and the power of the Order far less strong.

He also heard more news from Tuna, that a man called Jarl Skoglar had raised a rebellion against the Christians there and fought a battle against the Christians. From what he could understand, Jarl Skoglar had been a petty jarl from south of Tuna before the war, an ally of Jarl Gustav, the Raven’s Claw, who had led the warband Gjaldir had been with when they fled to Vatnsborð three years before.

What his plans were, or who he was currently allied with, none could tell them for sure. Worryingly for Gjaldir, the town’s elders said Skoglar had sent messengers asking for them to pledge support to him.

They marched west cautiously, knowing that the Christian garrison had retreated that way and that the enemy force in Tuna had been the largest in the area south of the lake. In the afternoon, some miles outside Tuna, they came across the site of the battle they had been told about.

To call it a battle was a disservice, it was the scene of a massacre. A field of half-naked bodies lay bloated around on both sides of the road. Only the road itself and its immediate surroundings had been cleared. In the field to one side there were the remains of dozens of funeral pyres.

‘Whoever fought here, Norsemen won,’ said Leif, pointing at the pyres. ‘These abandoned bodies are Christians.’ He looked around, wrinkling his nose at the small permeating the entire area. ‘It was an ambush. The enemy deployed from the road to meet it and were overwhelmed.’ He nodded to himself, surveying the pattern of the carnage. ‘It was well done, this was no rabble of farmers and women. This is soldiers’ work.’

‘Skoglar then.’

‘Must be. And they stripped every bit of gear the Christians had, so they are now powerfully equipped.’

As they looked on, three men on horseback appeared at the far end of the field through the trees, and then calmly trotted over to meet them.

Gjaldir and Leif didn’t move, but Leif sent men to check their flanks and the woods around them for any sign of a trap.

The three men reined in ten paces in front of them and looked at the two thousand or so men arrayed behind Gjaldir on the road. The riders were armed with spears and dressed in maille and tunics, helmets on their heads and swords at their sides.

‘You are the warband of Gjaldir?’ the lead man asked.

‘We are,’ replied Gjaldir. ‘And you are Skoglar’s men?’

‘We are!’ said the mounted warrior with a smile. ‘My name is Eygarr. Come, Jarl Skoglar will be pleased to welcome you to Tuna.’

‘He controls the city? What of the Christian garrison?’

Eygarr laughed. ‘He will explain all.’

‘Why do you leave these bodies in the field? Why not burn them?’

‘It’s a message, to any other force who might come seeking to remove us.’

‘You think the Christians will return?’

Eygarr’s smile broadened. ‘I doubt it.’ Then he turned his horse and started walking it back along the road.

Gjaldir looked at Leif. ‘Do we trust him?’

Leif shrugged. ‘With over a thousand men at our back? We don’t need to.’

Gjaldir nodded. ‘Keep the men ready, don’t let them get complacent or divided. I want a hundred of our best warriors to accompany me to meet this Skoglar if I have to.’

‘A hundred?’ Leif whistled. ‘That is a strong message.’

‘I know,’ muttered Gjaldir. ‘That is the point. I don’t like the feel of this, I don’t like it at all, but we cannot retreat from our own people.’

Leif considered him for a moment and nodded. ‘I understand, we will be careful.’

They followed the three riders through the field of bodies and the rest of the five or so miles to Tuna. As they arrived, Gjaldir saw the stone castle the Crusaders had built looming over the bank of the river that ran through the city. He furrowed his eyebrows as he noticed the banner flying from its peak.

‘Why has the Christian banner not been removed?’ he asked Eygarr.

‘If we could get to it, we would,’ the man answered.

‘The Christians are still in the city?’

‘Just the castle. It was guarded far too well to capture, we attacked but they held it against us. Now we own the city, and they are trapped behind their walls.’

Gjaldir pursed his lips and stared at the castle. The part he could see was surrounded with palisade walls twice the height of a man, topped with ramparts reinforced with wooden hoardings. Above it all stood the central tower of stone, twice the height of a normal house. He could see dozens of enemy on the tower and the walls.

Eygarr led them along the other side of the outer town wall, and then looked back. ‘Your army has to stay outside the walls. We are crowded in here already.’

Gjaldir stared at the warrior without emotion. ‘You drove the Christian inhabitants out?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then there is space for us.’

Eygarr smiled. ‘You do not think Jarl Skoglar will allow so many armed men he does not control into his city?’

‘Just as you do not think I will leave my men outside and be at his mercy.’

Eygarr shrugged. ‘If you want to come into the city, you can, but your army stays outside. It’s your choice.’

‘Stop pretending to be a fool, Eygarr. Send Skoglar out. There is a big fucking flag up there on that tower that says he needs my help more than I need him.’

Eygarr looked ruefully up at the flag and then back at him. ‘I will pass on your message.’

‘And bring a response.’

‘If my jarl commands it.’

Gjaldir fumed and looked around them. It had been raining for days, and the ground was wet. They had not brought proper equipment to set up camp, there had not been time, space on the ships, or the need. He had assumed they would be able to stay in the towns they were marching to.

He waved his hands at Leif in frustration. ‘Set up camp as best we can.’

Leif stared at the surroundings in distaste. ‘It’s too late to march back to Strängnäs anyway.’

Their grumbling warband had settled in as best they could, making a few fires from the little dry wood available, when the gates finally opened and a party of warriors appeared with Eygarr at their head alongside a man in fine furs. ‘That’s Skoglar then,’ muttered Leif with undisguised anger.

‘I suppose he is.’

The party walked over towards them and stopped halfway, still in the protection of their own walls. Eygarr motioned towards them, inviting them over.

‘Do you want those hundred men?’ Leif asked, eyeing the other group cautiously. They were close to the gate, close enough that several hundred men could be ready to rush out and make an attempt to take Gjaldir.

Gjaldir chewed it over, then shook his head. ‘No, no need to show cowardice here. Twenty will do.’

Leif nodded and shouted at some of the nearby men, veterans of the warband who had been with them in some cases since Vatnsborð.

They formed up behind Gjaldir and he walked over to Skoglar, who stood impassively in front of his own men. Finally Gjaldir called a halt and he eyed his opponent, not trusting anything about the cold welcome.

Skoglar let him fume for a short time longer, before finally moving away from his men and approaching, meeting Gjaldir halfway. Bjorn was practically seething at Gjaldir’s side.

‘I am Jarl Skoglar, lord of Tuna and west Svealand. You are this Gjaldir we hear of?’

‘I am,’ Gjaldir responded curtly. He knew enough of the formalities to know Skoglar was being deliberately rude.

‘Why have you come here in my lands with your men, armed for war?’

Gjaldir breathed deeply and considered his answer, studying the jarl. He was solidly built, a good head of brown hair tied neatly back, his beard well groomed and his clothes fine. He looked completely at ease and had an air of arrogance and confidence Gjaldir recognised from his time with Jarl Ragnvald. That air had to be worked into a man over years, and Gjaldir knew this man was speaking the truth. There was little doubt he was indeed a jarl from before the war, not an opportunist who had assumed the title.

‘I came here to rid the city of the Christians, as I have the towns and land behind my men. I did not know that you claimed it, and nor would I have cared if I did. My purpose is freeing the people, not playing politics. I have never heard of you, Jarl Skoglar. What were you doing in the years we fought the Christians in the lands you now claim are yours?’

Skoglar smiled. ‘I was waiting for the opportunity to strike.’

‘Doing nothing then,’ Gjaldir spat.

‘I had no choice in the matter,’ Skoglar said, but his comfortable smile had receded.

Gjaldir gestured to his men. ‘We all had the same choice. If we had chosen the same as you, that opportunity would never have come. Yet here you are, forcing my men to squat in the mud outside your walls while warm, empty houses lie within.’

Skoglar looked him up and down for a moment and then smiled. ‘You are the man I have heard of, there is no doubt. Come, bring your men inside the city. Eygarr will show them where they can stay. None of your warriors will spend the night in the damp and the cold.’

Gjaldir was taken aback by the sudden reversal and Skoglar’s warm smile, and he looked to Leif uncertainly. The blond warrior just shrugged, there was little choice but to accept the offer. It would make him look foolish to refuse what he had asked for, and the men would be furious if he did.

‘Come to my hall, we will talk as friends. I am curious to hear more about your war with the Christians, and how we might help each other.’

Gjaldir finally relented. ‘Fine, but my guard comes with me.’

‘Of course. They are welcome.’

Gjaldir turned to Leif. ‘All one hundred are coming with us. I don’t trust this man any more than a snake.’

‘No, I only worry a hundred will not be enough.’

Gjaldir and his hundred warriors marched through the city behind Skoglar, who had given his huge entourage an amused look but had not protested.

Gjaldir knew they made a fine sight, all of them fully equipped for war in the best equipment three years of fighting and looting could provide. Each man with a good spear and shield, wearing maille, most with helmets and swords too. Compared to Skoglar’s relatively ragtag men who were on the walls and visible watching the gates of the castle, they looked like the famous warriors they were.

Skoglar and his much smaller guard stopped in front of a large hall in the town square, just a hundred paces from the castle.

Gjaldir eyed the enemy fortress nervously, and Skoglar laughed. ‘They used to harass us with arrows, but I think they are running short. We stare at them, and they stare at us. Come, some of your men will have to remain outside, it is not such a large hall.’ He laughed and headed inside, waving at Gjaldir to follow.

‘Leif, stay out here. Bjorn, Brunhild, come with me and bring twenty.’

They went inside the hall, and found no trap or army waiting inside, just a few men eating and talking at tables who looked up in surprise to watch twenty armoured warriors walk in behind their jarl. Some edged towards the weapons they had left leaning against the walls.

‘Do not worry, they are friends,’ called out Skoglar with an amused laugh. ‘They just don’t know it yet.’

He went and sat down at the table at the head of the room, and gestured Gjaldir to sit with him also. Not having a reason not to, Gjaldir sat, and gestured at Brunhild to check the door that led out of the back of the hall. She walked over, peering through and looking around, before coming back with a nod of satisfaction.

‘You are quite safe here,’ Jarl Skoglar said. ‘I am surprised at the precautions you take. Are Norsemen frequently your enemy?’

‘Only if they choose to be,’ Gjaldir said.

‘Well, I am not your enemy, Gjaldir.’

‘You treated me very poorly to be called a friend.’

‘I was just testing you. Come on, you arrive at my walls with a large army, half the country already stands behind you and stories are told that scarce can be believed. I don’t know what is true or half true, and what is made up entirely.’

He smiled and passed over a mug of ale from a cluster that one of his men brought over. ‘I was just provoking you a little, to learn who you were. I apologise.’

‘Provoking me?’ Gjaldir said, unsure about how to react.

Skoglar nodded knowingly. ‘You learn more truth from an angry, unbalanced man than from a calm one. And I needed to learn you were not a threat.’

‘And how can you be sure I am not?’

Skoglar laughed and pointed at his armoured men, who were filling the benches in the hall. ‘Because no man planning treachery would be so afraid of it himself.’

Gjaldir bridled, but Skoglar held up his hands placatingly. ‘Please, do not be offended. I am not calling you coward. Your precautions are sensible, forgive me mine.’

‘You have an odd way of behaving, Skoglar.’

The man laughed into his ale. ‘True enough. Now, tell me, is it true that you have driven the Christians from the east?’

Gjaldir nodded. ‘Everywhere except Stadsholmen.’

‘They still hold the fort there? Ah, shame. And the north side of the lake?’

‘My men have Västerås, and are marching on Karlsgrind and then Arbugæ.’

‘Good. Well, they will find Arbugæ is already free. My men are there now.’

‘You captured Arbugæ?’ said Gjaldir, surprised. ‘How, when you still face the Christians here?’

‘Because we did not capture it, the Christians abandoned it. They must have feared being cut off.’

‘Where did they go?’

‘They sailed east along the lake, I suppose to Stadsholmen.’

Gjaldir sat back, thinking hard. ‘So every major town and city around Lǫgrinn is free?’

Skoglar nodded. ‘It seems so.’ Then he paused, grimacing. ‘Well, not everywhere. The people of Talje rose up, but failed. The Christians slaughtered them and burned the city to the ground as they retreated.’

Gjaldir’s stomach sank at the news. ‘The whole town?’

‘It’s gone. But we must worry about those who still wait for freedom. Have you heard from the south, Norrköping and beyond?’

Gjaldir shook his head. ‘Nothing.’

‘Well, that is where we must go next, after the garrison here is finished.’

Gjaldir shifted uncomfortably. ‘So you will join my army?’

Skoglar paused, looking slightly embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry, Gjaldir, you mistake me. I was going to ask you to join mine.’

Brunhild sputtered in outrage and Leif stiffened. Skoglar just looked around them in surprise and then leant in towards Gjaldir, a kindly expression on his face. ‘Gjaldir, I do not contest what you have achieved for our people… but you do not think a Christian slave, however well loved and respected, can be king of the Svear, do you?’

Gjaldir gulped hard, for he had not, indeed, thought that. In fact, he had had no intention of leading the Svear people at all right until the moment Skoglar told him he could not. Now that rejection burned in his chest.

‘King Sigurd said there would be no king again, not until the North was free.’

‘King Sigurd is dead, Gjaldir, and his intention no longer matters. The Svear need a king, and it cannot be you. Is Jarl Gustav alive? You were with his army, so the rumours say.’

‘I was, but no, he is dead,’ Gjaldir said regretfully.

‘I see, a shame. He was a great man and a friend,’ Skoglar replied. ‘Are there any others in your army who could make a claim for the crown?’

Gjaldir shook his head, anger etched into his scowl. ‘It is not something we concern ourselves with, Jarl Skoglar. We are fighting the Christians, not arguing amongst ourselves.’

Skoglar held up his hands defensively. ‘Quite right too, but you have to be realistic, Gjaldir. Svealand is free again, the people need to be led and they expect that leader to be their king.’

‘So why should it be you?’

‘I do not say that it will be me, there will have to be a meeting of the Thing of the Svear to decide. But I will propose myself as a candidate, and I have a large following now, and many towns and villages behind me.’

Gjaldir felt the argument drifting away from him. ‘There must be other jarls left alive, others who might contest your claim. We cannot afford this infighting.’

Skoglar nodded. ‘I agree completely, Gjaldir. Completely. That is why I ask you and your men to join me. With your support, none will contest my claim. We can take this war to the Christians in the spring, and free Götaland and Skania as one united people. Only with a king is such unity possible.’

Gjaldir swallowed hard, looking at Skoglar’s earnest face. He looked at Leif, who seemed deeply troubled, and Brunhild, who merely looked furious.

‘You want me to swear to your service?’ Gjaldir said, and the words grated in his throat.

‘I ask for that honour, yes. I know you are a freedman, and it is completely within the law for you to do so. And with the men you bring, and the respect and love the people have for you, you would be my most senior and trusted commander.’ Skoglar paused, thinking something over. ‘I would have to consult an expert in the law, because usually this would not be allowed, but perhaps I can make you a jarl, and confirm your position of power amongst our people, in recognition of all you have done for us.’

‘I never sought to be a jarl,’ Gjaldir said angrily. ‘I refused to be called one. I care only to rid these lands of our enemies.’

Skoglar smiled. ‘That is completely admirable, Gjaldir, and the people know it and love you for it.’ He pointed at himself. ‘But I have to plan for what happens after your victory. The country will be weakened, in chaos, it needs a strong leader, and that leader needs your support. Tell me, Gjaldir, what is your plan for ruling the country once it is free?’

Gjaldir froze, blinking and trying to cover his humiliation. They had seemed so far from victory that he had not even considered it. Less than a week ago he had simply held one rebellious town and dreamed of freeing more. He had no plan at all for the scale the rebellion had taken on, let alone how to govern the country.

Skoglar’s face fell a little. ‘Ah, I did not mean to embarrass you.’

‘I am not embarrassed.’

‘No, nor should you be. Your victory is wonderous, Gjaldir, but the future of my people, of our people, relies on more than just removing the Christians. You do see that, yes?’

Gjaldir stared at the earnest man, and nodded. ‘You are correct, Skoglar. I had just not…’ Gjaldir looked around helplessly. ‘I had not thought we would defeat the Christians here so easily. I was not ready for it.’

Skoglar nodded. ‘It surprised all of us, but perhaps it should not have. Your attacks on them over the last two years weakened them, and the resistance of the rest of our people to their rule made their life here so difficult. It was only a matter of time before they abandoned this hard land and went home. We are all in your debt for ensuring that was as quick as possible. I promise, it will not be forgotten. The men of the North remember their debts.’

Gjaldir felt calmed by the words of respect, nodding and keeping his carefully neutral tone. There was no hint of mockery in Skoglar’s voice.

‘I understand you, Jarl Skoglar, but I cannot swear to you, not right now. I have to have time to think and talk to my people about what comes next.’

‘Of course, there is time for that. Besides,’ said Skoglar with a glance of his head towards the Christian castle, ‘there is one enemy yet left for you to defeat.’

Gjaldir looked at the door to the hall, beyond which the enemy castle lay unbroken, and he nodded, leaning in over his untouched ale. ‘Tell everything you know about this enemy, and the castle. And we will see how it can be captured.’

Chapter 31

An Empty Crown

‘This is insane,’ Bjorn said, his face drawn and worried.

‘No, assaulting this castle would be insane. How many of our people would die?’

‘If you go there, they will kill you.’

‘I doubt it. If they kill me, you will kill all of them, will you not?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘So I will make sure they know that,’ Gjaldir said confidently.

Bjorn looked at Leif and Brunhild for support, but only found a mixed reaction.

‘Assaulting would be extremely costly,’ Leif said.

‘How do you know their commander will speak to you?’ Brunhild said, staring intently at Gjaldir.

‘Because they have no reason not to, and it is the way the Christian lords do things.’

‘You are not a lord, they will not respect you.’

Gjaldir looked at her and nodded, picking up his sword. ‘I think they will still talk to me and release me, but just in case, they cannot have this.’ He smiled and passed the sheathed sword to Brunhild, who grimaced, but took it from him.

‘Then do what you believe is right, Gjaldir,’ said Brunhild, holding the sword and embracing him. ‘I support you, and I will avenge any treachery, I swear it.’

Gjaldir smiled at her, and pressed his forehead to hers. ‘Thank you.’

‘I do not like this at all, take a day to think,’ Bjorn asked, somewhat desperately.

‘In a day’s time we will only like it less. No, we are doing this now,’ Gjaldir said in a tone that allowed no doubt, separating from Brunhild and turning to face their enemy.

He looked up at the castle, sitting on the rise over the river just a hundred paces away. The guards were watching them, it was deliberate. He had taken off his maille, it would be useless against a flight of arrows at close range anyway, to show he did not mean to attack. Now they had seen him take off his sword, and soon they would report to their masters that two men were approaching the gate, alone, merely with shields to cover themselves.

Not that he thought the shields would be enough, but if some nervous guard let off a single arrow he might stop it before it reached his flesh.

‘Come on, Bjorn, this walk will not get shorter if we wait.’

It was shrivelling his flesh, the thought of walking to that gate, covered with only two shields, under the eyes and weapons of dozens of Christian soldiers. The longer he waited, the more likely he would find an excuse not to go.

From the door of the hall, Skoglar was watching with interest. The jarl had hoped Gjaldir would storm the castle with him, but he had persuaded the man who sought to be king that it was better to try and avoid losing more warriors they could not replace. In the end Skoglar had relented.

Gjaldir set off with Bjorn at his side, shields up, a pathetic protection against the looming fortress. Bjorn held his shield so far over to cover Gjaldir’s right that he himself was half exposed.

‘Cover yourself with your shield,’ Gjaldir said to Bjorn. ‘You are no use to me if they feather you.’

‘If they shoot me first, I have bought you time to run. Run fast, and make my end worthy,’ Bjorn said, without a hint of humour.

Gjaldir just shook his head at the huskarl’s words, because he knew it was not for show. He suddenly felt, deep in his chest, the intense gratitude towards his sworn protector that was so often masked with fear, exhaustion and loss.

‘You would truly be happy to die for me here, on a duty you argued against, wouldn’t you?’

‘Horseshit,’ said Bjorn. ‘No man is happy to die doing something this stupid.’

Gjaldir burst out in loud, nervous laughter, close enough to the gate that the confused guards leant out to look, but still did not loose arrows or spears at them.

‘But I would not live another day in the shame of refusing to honour my oath, so here I am, giving you the cover of my shield, and hating you for it,’ said Bjorn, but he managed an amused giggle at the absurdity of their situation.

Gjaldir nodded. ‘I love you for this, Bjorn. I don’t think I’ve ever made that clear.’

Bjorn grunted uncomfortably.

Gjaldir stopped and looked up at the guards leaning out of the gatehouse. ‘We are here to speak to your master!’ he called out in German.

The guards looked at him intently and then one of them turned, disappearing from view. Moments later another man appeared, helmetless. ‘Who are you?’ he called down.

‘I am an emissary of the Northmen, come to speak to your commander.’

He did not think it was wise to tell them who he really was, and instead borrowed the language of his past feudal masters.

‘An emissary?’ The man looked confounded.

‘I wish to speak to the commander of your forces, to discuss an honourable end to this siege.’

The man looked at him again, and then scanned the town behind past the cleared area, trying to see if there was some trick. But there was nowhere an attacking force could hide to rush the gate, it had been built quite deliberately that way.

Finally, with a thunk of wood, the gate was unbarred and one door opened part way.

‘Be quick,’ snapped the man above, and Gjaldir looked at Bjorn and nodded, lowering his shield.

They trotted in through the gate, and were immediately seized upon by a dozen guards.

‘Don’t resist!’ Gjaldir shouted as Bjorn roared in anger and threw the first guard to the ground.

The warrior looked at him in fury, and then back down at the furious guard he had just downed, then relaxed a little and stepped back as a dozen hands were put on them, holding them in place, taking their shields and searching them for weapons.

They were quickly finished, and the helmetless man motioned at Gjaldir to follow him. He and Bjorn walked after the man in silence, both of them scanning the inside of the fortress, learning as much as they could while they were there.

He was shocked how many soldiers were inside, hundreds. But there were also women and children crammed into tents, stables and outbuildings all around the small fortress, though whether they were Norse or Christian, he could not tell.

‘They must be confident, to let us see this,’ Bjorn whispered.

‘Yes,’ Gjaldir said with a nod. ‘Thank the gods we didn’t assault. They could line the walls two men deep and still have reserves.’

They quickly reached the stone keep, so freshly built that the stones were still free of any moss or blemish, the bright scars of toolwork on them still visible like open wounds.

The helmetless man was saluted by two guards at the heavy iron reinforced door that led inside, and they followed him into the darkness, passing through a small guard house and into a modest hall with a wooden ceiling twice the height of a man.

A number of men were in the room, all gathered around one who was seated at the head of a table in front of a cold hearth. He looked up at them with intense curiosity, and Gjaldir could see at once this was a great lord. The air of arrogance, the fineness of his cloak and the shine of gold at his neck let there be no doubt.

‘So, these are the two men who would speak to me?’

‘Yes, Lord Conrad.’

‘Well, let them sit. Bring one of the translators.’

‘You won’t need them,’ Gjaldir said, with a smile.

Conrad looked irked, glancing up at the interruption. ‘So he has brought his own translator, has he?’ he said, gesturing at Bjorn. ‘What are you, a prisoner of theirs?’

Gjaldir laughed, getting an even more annoyed look. ‘No, I am not a prisoner, I am the emissary.’ He nodded at Bjorn, who was glaring at everyone in the room in turn with equal suspicion and hatred. ‘This is my guard.’

Conrad’s expression faded from annoyance to curiosity, and he nodded and pointed to a chair. ‘Emissaries are usually better dressed.’ He paused and flicked his eyes up at Gjaldir again. ‘And have better manners, since they represent their lord and his honour.’

Gjaldir bowed his head slightly. ‘I apologise, I am not schooled in these things.’

‘No, you are just a commoner using words he does not understand, that is apparent,’ Conrad said with a sigh. ‘So we will avoid wasting time with formalities. I am Count Conrad, the lawful lord of this region. Tell me the message your rebel master has sent you to give, and then be gone.’ His brows furrowed. ‘Who is your master anyway? The rebel called Skoglar, or the unknown heathen who just arrived with an army?’

Gjaldir smiled thinly. ‘They speak through me with one voice.’

Conrad stared at him, then reached for a cup of water, drinking some carefully as he thought. Gjaldir was not offered anything, which he found irked him slightly. He began to speak nonetheless.

‘You are offered the opportunity to leave, with all your people. If we are forced to storm this fortress, the slaughter will be terrible, and none will be safe from it.’

Conrad smiled slightly. ‘You cannot storm this fortress. A well-equipped army twice the size of the forces you so kindly display for me to count would struggle to take it. It was built for that. We will be safe here until we are relieved and your little rebellion is crushed.’

It was Gjaldir’s turn to smile. ‘Relieved by who? Uppsala is ours, the Order fled south. Every town and city between here and there is ours, your allies slaughtered or fled.’

‘Our forces in the west will be sufficient,’ Conrad said, but Gjaldir saw his nerves.

‘The garrison at Arbugæ fled a few days ago, took to ships and sailed east for the open sea.’

Conrad’s face froze. ‘You lie.’

‘I do not need to. This is the last fortress in all the North held by your people, and winter is so close there is no hope of relief before the snows come. Perhaps you are right, and cannot assault this fortress. But do we need to? I saw how many people you have in here. Your stores cannot last six months. I have been under siege all winter before, and I know what it is like. By halfway through the winter you will have eaten every horse, burned every spare bit of wood, and the ground will be too hard to burn the bodies of those who had died from the cold outside your pretty stone walls,’ Gjaldir said, and the men around the table just looked at him in fury.

‘Lies, Count Otto and the Order would not abandon you,’ one of the other men said. Conrad flicked his gaze at the man in anger and silenced him with it, before turning back to Gjaldir.

‘Perhaps you are right, but if it is so easy to let us die in here, why bother negotiating?’

‘Because sitting here for six months while you starve and freeze, guarding against your inevitable and desperate attack, will be miserable and our men, too, will suffer.’

‘And your master’s men are needed elsewhere, I wager,’ Conrad said calmly.

Gjaldir did not react, but it was true and Conrad had instantly seen the main point. He did not want to remain in the city all winter, trapped there with all his men.

Conrad leant back and folded his hands, staring at Gjaldir, considering him like a hawk sizing up a rabbit.

‘So who are you?’ Conrad finally asked. ‘You are not a prisoner? But you are clearly a German.’

‘I was with the first Crusade, I have been here ever since. Now I am a Norseman.’

Conrad’s officers around the room laughed at that, but Conrad did not, and waved at them to stop as Gjaldir felt his hackles raise.

‘Why? Why would you abandon your people to become a servant of the rebels?’

Gjaldir breathed deeply before replying. ‘I am no servant. It was you and men like you who treated me as a servant, my entire life. Now I am a freeman, who is here by my own choice.’

Conrad’s brows only furrowed more steeply. ‘You chose to side with these rebels, against the Crusade, and they did not force you into it?’

‘I chose to oppose the murder and destruction wrought by the Crusade on these people, who are my friends and family. These are their lands, not yours, and you have no place here.’

‘But you do?’

Gjaldir nodded.

‘How strange, that a man can betray his people so willingly.’

Gjaldir’s mouth curled slightly, and he leant in, putting on finger down on the table like a spear.

‘You would not understand, Count Conrad. I knew a man like you: Count Adolf. He used me like a farm animal, enjoyed the fruit of my labour, and discarded me when he was done. I doubt he even knew or cared that he had lost me to the Norse. He would have simply picked another. But here I have risen from slave to warrior, and a leader of men, respected and honoured. I can sit with great lords and speak to them and be heard. Can you imagine such a thing in the lands I used to call home?’

Conrad laughed. ‘It would never happen, people know their place, not like in this godless land.’

Gjaldir leant forwards further. ‘No, in Saxony people are kept in their place because they have no option. Here, a man is what he makes himself, not what a great lord like you chooses to make him. Here,’ he said, standing from the table. ‘Here a man like me can rise from nothing to fight such lords as you, defeat you, and speak to you as I choose. You are our prisoner here, I am offering you your life if your pride can let you accept it. You have been abandoned, Count Conrad, but in these lands a man decides his own path, and it is for you to choose if you die here for those that have forsaken you, or live to go home.’

He gestured angrily to the men and women hidden from their view in the outer castle. ‘You probably don’t know them, or care for them. But have you considered if these people want to suffer and die for your pride?’

Conrad raised a finger and wagged it at Gjaldir. ‘I care for my people, traitor.’

‘Prove it,’ Gjaldir hissed. ‘And spare them from our winter and our steel.’ He looked around the room, meeting the gaze of each and every one of the Christian officers there. ‘You have three days to decide. After that, every man in this castle will die, one way or another. Your women and children, if any survive the winter and the siege, will be returned south.’

‘Liar, you would slaughter them all,’ said one of the officers in fury, his face glowing with it.

‘No. We are not like you, I have seen what the Order does to women and children.’ Gjaldir vibrated with fury as the memory of Aeske’s fate flooded him, beating down on him, bringing water to his eyes and fire to his stomach, along with the burned villages, the charred, grasping corpses of the Order’s flames and anger.

Conrad, at least, looked a little uncomfortable. ‘There are no men of the Order here,’ he said, casting his gaze aside. ‘I do not agree with all of their actions.’ Then he looked back. ‘But do not protest your people’s innocence. I too have seen their work, on the coasts of Saxony and Frankia, and in the streets of this city just days ago, I have seen their work.’

Gjaldir breathed hard, staring the count down, regretting losing his temper.

‘Three days,’ he said, turning and walking towards the door before he was driven to another outburst. ‘Send one of your lackeys with the news, or don’t. The choice is yours.’

He clapped his huskarl on the shoulder.

‘Bjorn, we are leaving.’

‘You never told me your name, emissary.’

‘It does not matter.’

‘You speak with such confidence, with such authority. If I didn’t know better, I would say you have no master to report to.’

Gjaldir hesitated, but did not look back as he went through the open door, a guard moving aside at some unseen prompt from behind.

‘Three days,’ he said again, although they were already through the door and he doubted Conrad could hear him.

On the third day, two of his men rushed into the hall and called out to him. ‘Gjaldir, Christians are coming from the gate!’

Gjaldir jumped to his feet. He was fully armed and armoured, as they always were. ‘An attack?’

‘No, just one man.’

Gjaldir relaxed and nodded. ‘I will come and speak to him.’

He headed out into the overcast day, and saw a single man coming down the path, dressed in the same fine cloak, and he almost stumbled to a stop he was so surprised. Recovering, he walked out to meet the man in the square, the two of them alone with a ring of watching warriors around.

‘Count Conrad,’ he said, still in shock. ‘I expected a messenger.’

Conrad smiled and looked around. ‘Well, you came to see me, alone. Or almost alone. I could not allow myself to seem a coward in comparison.’

‘And they let you?’

Conrad laughed. ‘There was a great deal of arguing, but as you say, in these lands a man can do as he wishes.’

Gjaldir nodded. ‘So, what is your decision?’

Conrad’s smile faded. ‘You know it, you are right. I cannot survive the winter, and I know what you say about Arbugæ is true. I have had it confirmed by another source.’

Gjaldir narrowed his eyes. ‘How?’

Conrad smiled sadly. ‘There are those in your adopted people would prefer to live under our rule again, and managed to get a message to me. Did you think you were the only one who could change sides?’

Gjaldir nodded, annoyed to hear it.

‘So what is your offer?’

Gjaldir’s mind raced, he had not fully expected this moment. ‘You and your people leave here, all of you, and march south.’

Conrad’s smile faded. ‘We take our ships south.’

‘Your ships are far too valuable to let you leave with them. They belong to us now, a small revenge for the damage you have done to these lands, but not the only one. You will leave all your armour, and most of your weapons and equipment too.’ Gjaldir looked around and Conrad protested.

‘We march south, without weapons? How will we defend ourselves from the bandits and rebels not under your control?’

‘We will escort you to the boundaries of the Kolmården. You will not be harmed.’

‘And what then? If we are not set upon by your men, then the people south of here might, or the snows will trap us.’

Gjaldir considered it. ‘I hear that your rule was kinder than most Christian lords. You did not murder and torture like the rulers of Uppsala and other cities. Of course, that did not completely prevent the suffering and starvation of the people here, but at least it saved some of their lives. Debt matters here, honour matters. For the lives you spared, I will give you bows and spears enough to hunt with, and to protect you from bandits. As for the people of Götaland? If they had been better treated, perhaps they would not wish to harm you. You will have to face their justice on your own, and the snows. You chose to come here, Conrad. The snows and the people were here when you arrived. This is your path, and you will have to walk it.’

Conrad glared at him, anger and fear sheening his face like sweat. ‘We will die in the deepwoods. You promised us we would live.’

‘Perhaps, I have had to march through the deepwoods before with no food or shelter, and we survived. Well, most of us. And I did not promise you would live, only that we would let you go alive. I will ensure you leave our lands, with whatever food you can carry. It is more than you could expect from any other of my people. Skoglar would kill you all. And your people would do the same to mine, if our places were reversed.’ Gjaldir’s smile held no mirth, and his eyes were flint.

Conrad stared at him, looking drawn but defeated. He shook his head. ‘If I refuse the terms? Will you let me return to my men?’

Gjaldir nodded. ‘Die in there or out here, I do not care.’

The count looked at his castle, and then back at Gjaldir. ‘Who are you, a Christian who makes decisions for the Norse, and speaks with such authority. Who is your master?’

‘I have no master,’ Gjaldir said, softly. ‘Now take your people, and go home to your masters. Tell them any other sent in your place will die here. You will be the last army of your people who leave this land alive. Be grateful for it.’

Conrad stared at him. ‘You think they will leave you alone here?’

Gjaldir nodded. ‘Why would they come back? What is there for you great lords here, in this cold, distant land? There is no wealth, there is no good farmland, there are only hard, angry people who will fight you and kill you until you leave again.’

‘Oh, you poor man. You talk of your power but you have no idea what is happening.’ Conrad looked almost sad, sympathetic. ‘My brother will never let this go. He cares not for riches or reason, only power. My lord and the other princes will see only the shame of this defeat, and need to erase it with victory.’

Gjaldir’s jaw tensed, and he felt his heart race. ‘There will be another Crusade?’

‘Undoubtedly.’

‘You would be foolish enough to return?’

‘Me? God, no. If I live to get home I would never want to see this hellish place again. But there are so many ambitious lords seeking to make their name here it does not matter. This does not end well for you, Norseman.’

‘Maybe there are, perhaps Count Adolf will be one of them? Tell him to come and get his old servant Ordulf, if he cares to try,’ Gjaldir said with a nasty grin.

Conrad looked at him oddly. ‘Count Adolf is dead.’

‘Dead? When?’ Gjaldir felt an unexpected pang of sadness.

‘Years ago, in the battle south of Jönköping, after the siege.’ Conrad shook his head. ‘We never recovered his body, but his men say he stayed to fight, and he never appeared again. But there are a dozen lords who will take his place, and mine.’

Gjaldir raised his chin. ‘Let them come. The result will be the same. As long as there are people here to resist them, we will.’

‘That is my exact fear, young man, that they will realise that,’ said Conrad with a sad nod. He looked back at his castle. ‘We will leave tomorrow. Is that acceptable?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. I trust your honour that you speak of so loftily not to break the terms, or abuse my people.’

‘We will not. A man is nothing without his word.’

Conrad nodded. ‘I hope you survive what is coming next, Gjaldir.’

‘I hope you do too, Count Conrad,’ Gjaldir said, before his eyes widened and he cursed himself for the slip.

Conrad laughed heartily. ‘It is you? By God! The fabled hero of the Norse; a Saxon peasant.’ He shook his head, still chuckling. ‘My brother would hate that so very much.’

‘Who is your brother, another count?’

‘Should I tell you?’ Conrad tilted his head, considering it. ‘I see no harm. No, not a count – a bishop and the Grandmaster of the Order. He was at Uppsala, I received word he barely escaped the fall of the city.’

Gjaldir squinted, thinking about the battle. ‘I saw a party of men being escorted out of the Order’s compound by half a dozen mounted knights.’

‘That would have been him. It would have been better for you if you had captured him. Perhaps better for me too. A thin man, balding, with a pointed face who looks perpetually angry.’

Gjaldir remembered the party of knights who had passed him, and the robed priest who had ridden at their head, being escorted.

‘Yes, I saw him riding in the street, and maybe in the battle outside their compound, although it was too dark to be sure. He is the commander of the Order?’

‘Yes, and your true enemy. It is he who ordered and conducted the persecution of the local people. We only wanted to rule and have peace.’

‘And grow wealthy from these lands.’

‘Of course,’ Conrad said with a small smile.

‘Well, will you enjoy telling him who I am?’ said Gjaldir, pouting a little.

‘Tell him? That I was defeated by a peasant boy from Saxony commanding an army of rebel housewives and old men? Christ above, no! If I live to see him again I will tell him you were eight feet tall and had an army of ten thousand warriors.’ He smiled broadly while he shook his head. ‘But the truth? Never.’

Then he turned away, waving one hand above his head.

‘Good luck, Ordulf. I hope you enjoy your freedom. And I hope you survive my brother’s wrath, for it will be terrible.’

‘Good luck, Count Conrad,’ said Gjaldir, as the man walked away. ‘I hope you survive the deepwoods, for their embrace is terrible also.’

‘I do not think letting them leave alive is correct,’ said Skoglar carefully, as he stood with Gjaldir and watched the Christian column marching warily through the town, passing through the square and surrendering most of their arms and their equipment under the watchful eye of a thousand battle-ready warriors.

Even their banners were left behind, along with anything else that would not help them survive the journey south.

Gjaldir smiled and looked up at the sky, with its gloom and scurrying clouds. ‘Have I let them live? The cold in the air is growing, the snows will come soon, will they not?’

‘They might,’ Skoglar grudgingly acknowledged.

‘Will they survive the journey south, alone and unsupplied, if the snows come?’

‘They may not.’

Gjaldir shrugged. ‘Then leave their fate to the gods. I was not going to sacrifice hundreds of my warriors in a meaningless victory over an already defeated enemy.’

‘And what if these men come back to fight us again?’

‘These? Their commander wants nothing but to go home. They will not return. I have taken your castle without losing a single man. You might think it is dishonourable, but we need every life we can save. So many have died already.’

Skoglar grunted. ‘There is some wisdom in what you say, but I hate this, and the men hate it too. It is not our way.’

‘Then perhaps your ways should change.’

Skoglar looked at Gjaldir with narrowed eyes. ‘The land up here never changes, and neither do we. You might as well ask a cat to pull a plough.’

Gjaldir laughed at the idea. ‘Well, it is done. I gave my word, and it will not be broken.’ He clapped Skoglar on the shoulder. ‘That is the way of this land, isn’t it?’

Skoglar rolled his eyes. ‘You have me there. You are too clever, Gjaldir. Too clever for the Christians and too clever for me.’

Gjaldir grinned. ‘I like hearing that, Jarl Skoglar. I have enough people who keep reminding me how little I know.’

‘They are wise too, it keeps a man true to have advisors who criticise him. Beware the man who only has sycophants around him.’

They fell to silence as the end of the Christian column passed. There had been about eight hundred Christian soldiers in the fortress, with as many again in family and attendants. The Norse who had sheltered within the fortress had gone the previous day, traitors who had chosen their path, outlived their usefulness to Conrad and were banished by Skoglar. Gjaldir had not agreed with it, seeing the sad and desperate band shuffled out of the gates, but he had no authority over Skoglar’s people.

‘So what now, Jarl Skoglar, now that Svealand is free?’

‘What will you do, Gjaldir? That is the question everyone will want answered.’

Gjaldir nodded. ‘I will try and push south. There are rumours of uprising near Norrköping and Linköping. I will send men to help them.’

‘With winter coming? Your men might be trapped there by the snows. Passing the Kolmården in winter can be treacherous and difficult.’

‘Perhaps we will have to stay there, I don’t know, but we cannot leave them defenceless.’

‘Leave the Götalanders to their own protection. They were poor allies to us.’

‘Surely you need to heal those divisions, not widen them? I know little of the history between Svealand and Götaland, but I know King Sigurd said the men of the North must unite or perish. I think he was right.’

Skoglar gave him an appreciative nod and thumped him on the shoulder. ‘Your wisdom shows again, Gjaldir. I am a man of the old ways, and Svearmen and Götalanders have never truly moved past our old rivalries and wars. But maybe you are right? Maybe some small change is needed.’

‘So what will you do, Skoglar? What of your plans to claim the crown?’

‘I have considered it. It is too late to call a meeting of the Frostating. In this chaos, this close to winter, not enough will hear the message and come. We need to secure all our lands, I need time to gather support from more lords, and then have a Thing to decide. Perhaps after the spring sowing.’

‘Do you not think more lords of the Svear will appear to contest you?’

‘I am sure of it, Gjaldir.’ He turned to Gjaldir with a serious expression. ‘That is why I need your support.’

Gjaldir shifted uncomfortably. He hated the idea of being beholden to anyone. ‘I will consider it carefully, Jarl Skoglar. I promise,’ he said stiffly.

Skoglar smiled regretfully. ‘I understand. I suppose that is all I can expect.’

Leif and Bjorn arrived at that moment, from where they had been monitoring the withdrawal of the Christian force.

‘They are safely out of the city. A hundred men will escort them to the edge of the Kolmården, then they will come back,’ said Leif.

‘I will leave you to your men,’ Skoglar said, patting Gjaldir on the back and walking away to his own people.

Brunhild came over, and Tormund too, appearing from wherever he had been for the last few days. They all stood there, Gjaldir looking around with a rush of satisfaction.

‘I can’t believe we have done it,’ said Gjaldir. ‘We defeated them, we drove them out.’

‘The war is not over,’ said Leif with a smile. ‘But yes, being a freeman in my own lands again is… wonderful.’

‘And Skoglar, what did he want?’ Brunhild asked, looking at the man with a defensive glare.

‘He wanted my support for his kingship.’

‘He needs it, I am sure Jarl Einar will make a claim too. He is still powerful in the North, and our people live in his lands. We must be careful not to make an enemy of him,’ Bjorn said.

‘I know it,’ said Gjaldir with a worried expression. He already hated politics. War he had just begun to understand, but politics still confused and frightened him.

‘Do you trust him?’ Brunhild asked.

‘Skoglar? I don’t know. He seems honest enough, but something about him is… wrong. He feels too deceptive, too manipulative. But perhaps that is just the way of lords and rulers.’

‘He is a snake who will betray you,’ said Tormund, spitting on the ground. ‘I have seen it.’

‘You have seen him betray me in your dreams?’ Gjaldir said, looking at the seer in alarm.

‘What? No, I don’t dream, but any fool can see it with their own eyes. That man is as loyal as a snake, and twice as devious.’

Leif laughed heartily. ‘Gods, Tormund. I think we finally agree on something.’

‘I am pleased, Leif, because you are so often wrong about everything else.’

They all laughed at that, and even Brunhild smiled.

‘Come. We will be careful about him, but for now our problem lies to the south. There are more towns to free and more of our people that need our help.’

‘We have to send food out into the towns and villages,’ said Leif.

‘We will. We will do everything that is needed. Let’s begin. And send word to Vidar to come and join us when his task is complete.’ Gjaldir motioned his little band to follow him back to their quarters, acknowledging a nod from Skoglar who was watching while he talked to some of his people.

Gjaldir set off towards their temporary home, Bjorn and Brunhild at his sides, Leif with his arm around a very uncomfortable-looking Tormund, laughing about something. He felt a warm glow of calm and pleasure that he had not felt for as long as he could remember. He knew more hard times would come, but they had achieved success he could not have dreamt of.

Jarl Skoglar watched them go, thinking carefully.

‘Do you think he will support you?’ Eygarr said, standing alongside him.

‘I don’t know, I hope so,’ Skoglar said.

‘And what if he doesn’t? If he supports another’s claim, or even makes his own, you might not have the votes you need.’

Skoglar glanced both ways to make sure they were out of earshot of everyone except his most trusted men. ‘Yes, if he opposes us, or even stays neutral, it would cause us significant trouble.’

‘And if he does cause trouble?’

Skoglar shrugged. ‘Then we will kill him.’

Eygarr’s eyes widened. ‘That would be a great risk.’

Skoglar smiled thinly. ‘The crown cannot be gained without taking great risks, Eygarr.’

He nodded softly to himself as he watched Gjaldir and his band disappear between two buildings. ‘Taking the right risks is how great men are made.’

Part 3

Now Garm howls loud before Gnipahellir, The fetters will burst and the wolf run free.

Völuspá, verse 44

Chapter 32

Blood and Fear

Lundjen

May 2017

Inspector Schulz looked up from his desk and rose smartly to his feet as Halfar and Hallsson came in. ‘Ah, Mr Asleson, thank you for coming.’ He gestured to the two chairs in front of his desk. ‘Please.’

It had been four days since the break-in at the museum. Halfar had spent three of those under observation at the hospital since the doctors were worried about infection in his hand from the corroded metal, and about the effects of the stress and trauma. The only real trauma for Halfar had been finding out he had a mild heart condition, which had been an unpleasant surprise to him, discovered during their checks.

‘This incident might have saved your life,’ his doctor had quipped. ‘Could have gone quite badly if it remained undiscovered for too long.’

Halfar had not seen the funny side of that, but eventually he had left the hospital with a bandaged hand and prescriptions for antibiotics and heart medication that he begrudgingly accepted.

He and Hallsson settled in and looked eagerly at the inspector, awaiting his information.

Schulz looked uncomfortable. ‘I’m breaking protocol a little in conducting this meeting, but I feel it is important to the investigation. What I tell you in here must remain in this room, you cannot tell anyone or it may harm the further proceeding of the case, which I trust is not what you want.’

‘Absolutely not,’ said Hallsson with a serious expression.

Schulz looked inquiringly at Halfar, who simply shook his head.

‘Good. Well, the attack was far more serious than it at first appeared to be.’

‘How?’ Halfar said, leaning forwards.

‘The security team was not missing through laziness or error. They were told to leave by their management, under instruction they believed to be from the ministry.’

Halfar’s eyes widened. ‘What does Felix Meyer say?’

‘We are unable to find him,’ Schulz said flatly.

‘They took him?’ Halfar said in shock.

‘No, we don’t believe so. In fact, Felix Meyer is our primary, and only, suspect.’

‘Absurd,’ sputtered Hallsson. ‘Felix Meyer did more to get this museum finished and the artefacts displayed than anyone other than us.’

Schulz nodded. ‘Yes. So he did.’ He looked at them intently. ‘He made sure, did he not, that all the relevant Norse artefacts were gathered under one roof, under his control.’

‘Yes, but…’ Halfar felt the blood drain.

‘He made sure he was the hero of the King Sigurd scandal, taking the acclaim for that and ensuring his rise into power in the ministry.’

‘He did that to protect me,’ muttered Hallsson, no longer believing his own automatic defence of the man.

‘Did he?’ said Schulz softly.

‘Well…’ Hallsson slumped back and looked at Halfar in distress. ‘Can we have been so blind?’

‘But Bertrand Lang was the villain. He was against this project the entire time!’ said Halfar.

‘Ah yes, Bertrand Lang. We have talked at great length, Bertrand and I. It turns out he was being blackmailed by Felix, controlled by him. Felix was behind everything Bertrand did.’

‘Blackmailed!’

‘Yes. Bertrand had certain, not exactly illegal, but very embarrassing and professionally and politically damaging… proclivities,’ Schulz said uncomfortably. ‘And Meyer was aware of them, and used them to force Bertrand to obey him, under threat of public revealing of these…’ Schulz stopped, looking disgusted. ‘I will not detail it further, it’s not relevant.’

Halfar felt sick. ‘So Felix arranged for the security to be under his control, so that he could steal the artefacts.’

‘It’s considerably worse than that,’ Schulz said with a sigh. ‘You must have noticed the alarm system was disabled. What you could not have known is that the fire suppression system was also non-functional.’

Halfar felt the impact of that like a hammer blow. ‘The fuel cans.’

Schulz nodded gravely.

‘They were going to burn the entire building down, the entire collection.’

‘That is what we believe, yes.’

‘All at Meyer’s bidding.’

‘Yes.’

‘So he manipulated us, all of us, into collecting most of the significant artefacts of Norse history into one place, so that he could destroy them,’ Halfar said, aghast.

‘Yes, but we believe that was not his original plan. It was risky and also certain he would be found out afterwards. His original plan was simply to have this all suppressed and hidden, your actions forced him into drastic measures that he did not appear to expect to get away with.’

Halfar and Hallsson took a moment to digest the stunning news.

‘But why?’ Hallsson said, shaking his head. ‘Why would he do all this?’

‘That is an excellent question. We are not sure. We have seized the contents of his properties, his electronic devices and his online accounts, and we are processing them. I would, however, guess that this is some form of extremist Germanic nationalism.’

‘The brotherhood,’ Halfar said softly. ‘He was a member of the brotherhood.’

‘No,’ said Schulz with a shake of his head. ‘I believe he was the brotherhood. I think the entire thing was his creation.’

‘Madness,’ said Hallsson. ‘Utter madness.’

‘So where is he?’

‘He fled in advance of the attack, slipping his security detail. We believe he made it onto a flight to Germany under a false passport. We are liaising with the German authorities to track him down, but honestly…’ Schulz shook his head. ‘He could be anywhere by now.’

Halfar screwed his face up in distaste. ‘So he gets away?’

‘Perhaps, but he is not a healthy man, nor suited to a life on the run. I think he will turn up. That is not what is most important anyway. We believe that with him having fled, the threat from the brotherhood is largely over. We have identified the two men who attacked you, thanks to their DNA left behind on the sword. We are moving to arrest them as I speak, and have leads on the rest of their accomplices.’ Schulz nodded in satisfaction. ‘This should end the threat of this particular group of criminals. And you will be happy to know that means it is probably going to be considered safe for your museum opening to go ahead. With added security, of course.’

Halfar brightened up considerably. ‘Ah, wonderful news. Wonderful.’

‘Now,’ said Schulz, picking up his notepad. ‘Given what I have told you, I want to go over every interaction you ever had with Meyer, anything connected to him or that you might have dismissed as unimportant. Anything that can help us further unravel his motives and organisation might be very helpful.’

An hour and a half later, after an exhaustive history of the entire museum project, Halfar and Hallsson left Schulz’s office, emotionally drained and shocked.

‘I still don’t believe it,’ Halfar mumbled.

‘It seems incontrovertible,’ Hallsson said unhelpfully.

‘I know that, but I still don’t want to believe it. He was there, all the time! Smiling and nodding and doing whatever we wanted.’

‘We were doing what he wanted,’ Hallsson pointed out.

‘Yes, well, I don’t like that either!’ Halfar snapped, but then he shook his head and held out his hand. ‘I’m sorry. This has been very difficult, it’s not your fault.’

‘No problem, Halfar, I understand.’

They went down the stairs towards the entrance, and then a young officer came up the stairs towards them. ‘Ah, Mr Asleson?’

‘Halfar, please.’

‘Halfar, yes. You might want to use the rear entrance to the building. We will take you back to your hotel.’

Halfar’s brows knitted. ‘Why, are we in danger? I thought it was safe.’

‘No danger, no. It is the press. They got wind you were here, and quite a lot of them are waiting outside.’

‘The press?’ said Halfar, looking confused.

‘Ah, yes. I neglected to tell you about this. I was hoping it could wait until we got to the hotel,’ said Hallsson, looking slightly ashamed.

‘What?’ said Halfar, looking at him in confusion.

‘You really should use the internet, my old friend, or pay attention to the news.’

‘The news is gibberish,’ snorted Halfar. ‘Nothing good has even come of it.’

‘That might be true,’ Hallsson acknowledged. ‘But in this case, it might have saved this surprise. I didn’t want to tell you while you were in the hospital, the doctors told me to minimise any potential stress on you… but…’

‘But what!’

Hallsson looked amused. ‘Well, the story of what happened in the museum leaked yesterday, and… Well, you are something of a media sensation.’

‘What?’ Halfar looked at him dully. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Fighting off two attackers with an ancient sword, the Light of the North itself? My dear friend, they are going mad over it. It’s the story of the year. The Lundjen Times is calling you Gjaldir reborn, and I’m afraid it looks like it’s going to stick. It seems they are entering into more of a frenzy than I feared. It really is a slow news week.’

‘They are calling me WHAT?’ said Halfar, horrified.

‘If you don’t want to be called Gjaldir, you shouldn’t have fought with his sword,’ said Hallsson with a barely suppressed chuckle.

‘Fought with it! I didn’t fight with it, I screamed and flailed around with it like a terrified child! It was a stupid, foolish thing to do. I’m not a damn Gjaldir.’

‘The truth rarely matters in this situation. It’s a very fun story, and they are going to make the most of it.’ Hallsson shrugged helplessly. ‘Best stay out of sight for a few days until they move onto the next thing.’

Halfar’s face scrunched up in anger and went pink. ‘Bloody press, I told you nothing good comes of the news!’

Hallsson smiled and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Don’t get so riled up, your doctor will be angry.’

‘Sod my doctor!’ said Halfar. ‘And the press too.’

‘Look at the bright side, it will drive some extra interest in the opening. The best PR we could ever have hoped for really. Perhaps we will even get to put our history on some pliable news sites, eh? Spread it to the wider audience.’

Halfar grumbled, but that did mollify him somewhat. He turned to the waiting officer and irritably gestured for him to lead the way.

‘So I have to suffer this to get people to come to the museum, do I?’

‘Yes. You will survive it, I think,’ said Hallsson with a smile. ‘Come on, let’s get you to the hotel. We have a grand opening to prepare!’

Chapter 33

The Last War

Lund

March AD 1123

‘A message, Grandmaster,’ Sighard said softly, approaching with another man.

Reinhard looked up from his meal and saw a young man, probably a squire, dressed in a thick cloak over a tunic. Not a brother of the Order. He looked exhausted, damp, and muddy.

‘From whom?’

‘From Count Conrad, Grandmaster,’ said Sighard with considerable gravity.

Reinhard felt a sharp tinge of shock. He had heard nothing from his brother since his flight from Uppsala the previous year. Messengers had been sent to every Christian garrison warning them of the rebellion and giving orders to retreat or hold out where they were, but he had never received a reply back from Tuna. Count Otto and some of his men had managed to flee Arbugæ in ships, and some others had reached Christian garrisons in the South by their own means. But of Conrad’s forces, nothing had been heard since news that they were reportedly under siege in Tuna.

‘He is alive?’ said Reinhard, addressing the messenger.

‘Yes, Grandmaster.’

‘Where is he, what is his situation?’

‘He is at Jönköping, with five hundred men. We spent the winter there.’

‘Jönköping? Why?’

The man looked nervous. ‘We marched south from Tuna, after the surrender of the town. We didn’t make it to Jönköping before the snows came, and we were attacked several times. By the time we got to the town, the road south was impassable, so we were forced to stay there.’

‘Surrender? My brother surrendered Tuna?’

‘Yes, Grandmaster.’ The man looked at the floor in shame.

‘The greatest fortress in the North, and he surrendered it before winter even came.’

The man simply nodded.

‘Dear gods, the shame of it. The shame. What prompted such cowardice?’ said Reinhard, going bright red with anger, inwardly ignoring that he had lost his own city in half a night.

‘We did not have supplies to last the winter. Count Conrad decided an honourable retreat was the best option, as the Order did.’

Reinhard almost exploded at the thinly veiled insult, but he had no response. It was true, he and the Order had abandoned the North to consolidate in the South. It had been a wise decision, Reinhard reminded himself. They had managed to largely subdue the wave of rebellion in the South over the autumn and winter, even defeating an attempt by a large but disorganised rebel force to capture Linköping.

The snows had frozen the conflict around the destroyed town of Norrköping, which had fallen to a rebellion and then been reinforced by the rebels from the North.

He spent a little time tapping his finger on the table and glaring at the messenger while he regained his composure.

‘What is Count Conrad’s intention now? We could use his men in our upcoming spring campaign.’

‘Count Conrad intends to return to Saxony, Grandmaster. With his entire force.’

Reinhard blanched. ‘He can’t, he can’t abandon the province!’

The messenger coughed nervously. ‘He said you would say that, Grandmaster, and I must regretfully inform you he can. His lands here are gone, he has his own affairs to see to at home and…’

The man stalled, the words sticking in his throat.

‘Well, what?’ Reinhard said, gesturing impatiently.

‘Well, he made me swear to say this word for word, Grandmaster.’

‘Yes?’ Reinhard said, his temper flaring.

The man looked terrified and embarrassed, and stalled several times trying to repeat his message, casting a fearful look at the looming Sighard at his side. ‘My Lord Count Conrad said to say, “If that thrice-damned priest, who abandoned me to die, tries to order me and my men to stay, tell him he has no authority and he can go and…”’

The messenger closed his eyes and winced.

Reinhard rose, slowly to his feet, shaking with anger. ‘What! I can go and what? I need those men, you cur!’

The messenger opened one eye, visibly recoiling from Reinhard. ‘He said you can go and fornicate with yourself… Grandmaster.’

Something behind Reinhard’s eye popped, and the rage flowed through his mind and down his arms. He picked up the bowl in front of him and flung it at the messenger, who shrank away, putting a hand over his eyes to protect himself from the flying food and pewter.

‘He said what!’ Reinhard screeched, trying to push through the table to claw at the messenger’s eyes. ‘Seize him, Sighard!’ he shouted, spittle flying from his mouth, staring at his commander and pointing at the man with a shaking, bony finger.

Sighard looked at the messenger regretfully, and shook his head. ‘I cannot, Grandmaster.’

‘What?’

‘He is the messenger of a lord of the empire and by law he cannot be harmed.’

‘I don’t want him harmed, Sighard, I want him seized! I will decide what to do with him later. Do it now!’

Sighard looked deeply uncomfortable, then crumbled to the pressure and nodded, taking the messenger gently by the arm. ‘Come with me.’

The messenger, wearing a horrified and outraged expression, allowed himself to be led away out of the room as Reinhard stared at him and shook, stew still dripping unnoticed from his left hand and sleeve.

Finally, when the shaking subsided, he sat down and stared at the table, furious with his brother and himself in equal measure.

Eventually, Bertrand appeared with a new plate of food, gently setting it down and then quietly clearing up the mess with a cloth and bucket without saying a word.

Reinhard calmed himself enough to eat, and then looked up as Bertrand finished cleaning and went to stand at the side of the room.

Reinhard flicked his gaze up to the docile man. ‘Do you have anything better to report, Bertrand?’

The priest looked thoughtful, and then nodded. ‘I have several reports from Grandsteward Hugues at Linköping, your grace. His men are in complete control of the area, and he reports the rebels have not made any attacks all month. He suspects their strength is spent by the winter and previous raids.’

Reinhard nodded. It was hardly news, the situation had not changed, but it calmed him to have it confirmed.

‘There are still rebels in the inland areas, and to the west near Norway, but Hugues expects to be able to deal with them by summer and have the entire South under our control once again.’

Reinhard nodded. The wave of rebellion that had overwhelmed the northernmost areas had washed over the south of the provinces more thinly. Lund had not seen an uprising at all, given its heavy garrison and complete pacification, but other towns had seen fighting and disorder, although only one or two had had their garrisons temporarily chased out.

Among the smaller towns and villages, some had taken up arms, and Reinhard had dispatched his men under Sighard to pacify them with ruthless efficiency. Any settlement that rebelled had been razed, and its people scattered or disposed of. The rebellion had quickly fizzled out in the strongly held coastal areas, with the troublemakers driven into the forested interior where Reinhard hoped they had frozen or starved.

‘Good. Any word from Duke Henry?’

‘The Crusade is gathering near Hamburg, Grandmaster. He expects to set sail in a month’s time.’

‘That is the same message as last time.’

‘Yes, Grandmaster. Nothing has changed.’

Reinhard grumbled. It was taking too long, he was tired of waiting for support, he had too few men to retake the North alone and if none was coming from his cowardly brother, then he had no choice but to wait for Henry.

‘There was one thing, your grace, that might interest you.’

‘What?’

‘I heard a rumour, apparently from loyal locals who fled south, that the rebel Gjaldir is actually a Christian, a slave captured by the Norse, raised by their strange pagan ways to become a leader. I don’t know how much credit to give it, but I have heard it spoken by several prisoners.’

Reinhard’s brows raised in outrage again. ‘Gjaldir is a Christian?’

‘Well, an apostate, of course, converted by some foul pagan trickery to believe in their ways. But yes, that is the rumour.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me this immediately?’ Reinhard said.

Bertrand looked bemused. ‘I apologise, I didn’t think it was credible, at first. But several recent interrogations have proffered the same answers, among other things.’

Reinhard put his finger to his lips, deep in thought. He had instituted a prison for captured rebels and suspected sympathisers, to question them and to discern their intentions, motivations and beliefs in order to better understand the enemy they faced. Bertrand often went to record the results of those questionings, although Reinhard himself did not attend. It would not be seemly for him to do so, the interrogators’ methods were often quite… unpalatable… for a man of the cloth to be involved.

Not that Bertrand seemed to mind, he had an academic interest in the results that appeared to override any other sensibilities a priest might normally have. But then Bertrand had always been an unquestioning and emotionless man, it was one of the reasons Reinhard kept him.

‘This story cannot be allowed to spread.’

‘Cannot?’

‘No! That our chief enemy is not, in fact, a pagan, but one of our own people turned traitor to the Lord! An outrage, a disgrace. It will raise questions and doubts at a time where we cannot afford them. Who gave you these answers?’

Bertrand peered at his notebook, flicking back through several pages.

‘No, it doesn’t matter.’ Bertrand waved at him impatiently. ‘Whoever they are, have them silenced. We cannot have this rumour spreading.’

‘Silenced, your grace?’ Bertrand said with a quizzical eye.

‘Yes, permanently. I’m sure the gaolers will oblige.’

Bertrand nodded softly. ‘They will, your grace, happily.’

Reinhard nodded to himself, then clicked his fingers at Bertrand as he thought further. ‘In fact, we will consider it heresy if anyone even speaks it. Spread the word in the Order that it is heresy for any Christian to make claims that a Christian has converted to the heathen ways, or assists them at all.’

‘Certainly, Grandmaster, I will have the order written.’

‘No! Not written, that will just fuel the rumour. Just spread the word, make sure it is known, but keep it unspecific, not about Gjaldir, just in general.’

‘Yes, your grace, a good idea,’ Bertrand said, laying his quill down. ‘Is there anything else?’

Reinhard thought for a moment, then turned his attention back to his food. ‘No, when Brother Sighard returns I want to speak to him about preparations for the arrival of the Crusade. We must make sure we are ready to play a significant part in it.’

‘Yes, your grace.’

Reinhard raised a spoon to his lips, carefully blowing across the surface of the hot liquid. ‘We must be ready,’ Reinhard mumbled, half talking to himself. ‘We can’t allow Duke Henry to claim all the credit.’

Gjaldir sat on the dockside in Södertälje, his sword propped against his knee, and watched the men working the fishing nets by the boats, preparing them for launch.

It was April, and the land was emerging into the fullness of spring after the first winter of full bellies anyone felt they could remember. Crops were going in the ground, livestock were being grazed on new grass in the pastures, and fishing vessels were plying the waters of Lǫgrinn. It had been six months since the war last touched the lands around that town, and the mood among the people was quietly jubilant. But for Gjaldir there was nothing but worry and concern.

Jarl Einar had declared his claim to the crown, and had come down to press it. Einar was not popular in the areas around the great lake of Lǫgrinn, since his lands, unlike the heartland of the Svear, had been largely untouched by the occupation, and also because Skoglar had been busily and carefully spreading the word that Einar had abandoned them after the battle near Uppsala and fled north to make a secret peace with the Crusaders.

Einar, in his turn, had sent representatives to every lord of the far North, putting himself forwards as their candidate to finally counterbalance the far more numerous, and wealthier, lords of the South. Jarls of regions that had never seen a Christian invader were coming south for the first time in half a decade, intent on having their share of the vacant power of the crown now being quietly fought over in Uppsala.

Not that the crown itself even existed, or the King’s Hall, or the temple where the ceremony would traditionally be held. Those matters were problematic to the very tradition-bound Norse. So the vote would not be held yet, the new Christian church built over the remains of the temple was being torn down to allow the temple to be rebuilt, and everyone agreed only that the vote should be delayed, and not when it should actually be held.

Throughout all of that bickering, Gjaldir and his warband had been in the South, often beyond the Kolmården, fighting to free more people instead of arguing over who should rule over the ones who had already been freed.

It had been a hard winter, although there had been no large battles, because neither side could field or supply a proper army in the woods in winter, and the endless raids and skirmishes had taken their toll. Eventually, with both sides worn out, he had given up their attacks and retreated to Södertälje with his warband to recuperate, leaving the rejuvenated, re-armed and now well-fed locals to hold on to the Kolmården, which no army could cross opposed during winter.

Gjaldir had been angered and infuriated to hear the two powerful jarls had vied for power while he fought. He knew that he had neither the position or the ability to rule Svealand, let alone Sweden, but he regretted standing aside so easily to let these other men fight over the victory he and his people had bled for.

Especially Jarl Einar, the man who had forced his warband to leave the safety of the North, who now marched down with a smile and an army into his hard-won lands as if they had always been friends. He had refused to go to Uppsala and meet the man, who had installed himself there as if he were already king.

‘He’s making a mess of that net,’ muttered Brunhild, sitting beside him, watching a young boy trying to fold a net ready to load into a boat.

Brunhild never left his side now, almost as inseparable from him as the sword he wore. They had not discussed it, they had not declared marriage, but her reservations had thawed slowly and steadily like winter ice, until eventually the truth that they were bound together was as evident to them as it had been for so long to everyone else.

She fought alongside him, slept alongside him, supported him in his struggles and advised him in their meetings. And his heart swelled with pride and joy whenever he looked at her.

Not that she liked that, of course. Any time she caught him giving her a loving look, especially in public, she would mock or rebuke him. He might have claimed the hard Northern warrior woman, but he knew he would never tame her even if he wanted to.

‘Gjaldir!’

His thoughts were interrupted and he looked behind to find Jarl Skoglar’s significant bulk looming over him.

‘Jarl Skoglar. Are your men ready to march?’

His mind was full of turmoil about their plans. The rebellion’s progress south had stumbled to a halt, as chaotic and bloody as it had started, and he struggled to know how to continue, or how to unite enough of the people to do so. They had decided to make an early attack, in full force, in the spring well before the traditional campaigning season. Their plan was to march through the Kolmården and past ruined Norrköping, crush the Order’s forces at Linköping, and then head south from there.

Skoglar had agreed to go with him and give him the support he needed, in exchange for Gjaldir’s support against Einar. He was still not sure about that decision, but having dealt with both men and knowing he would have to pick a side eventually, he found Skoglar the less objectionable choice. Especially if he was willing to help with Gjaldir’s ongoing attempts to free the southern lands.

‘My army is as ready now as they are like to be,’ said Skoglar with a smile.

Gjaldir nodded. His own warband was still well over a thousand men, all battle tested and experienced. Skoglar’s army was much larger, recruited from every freed settlement in southern Svearland, and from fugitives from further south. But many of them were old or young, or poorly equipped, and less than half had seen a real fight before. Controlling and commanding them was a task Gjaldir did not envy the older jarl for.

He nodded and stretched, belting Ljós a Norðan at his waist and turning to walk with Skoglar out into the fields beyond the docks, where his warband was assembled in tight blocks of hundreds of men, each behind their leaders. Beyond them, the great mass of Skoglar’s army was vast and dishevelled by comparison.

Men gave him throaty roars and banged their weapons on their shields as he passed along the front of the army with Brunhild and Bjorn at his side. Vidar, Leif and Halfdan stood at the head of the formations they led in battle. Halfbjorn led a block formed from the freed men of Uppsala and their cheers as Gjaldir walked past them drowned out the others, for they, above all others, owed Gjaldir their lives and freedom.

‘It must feel wonderful, to be so loved,’ Skoglar said with an amused laugh, barely audible over the thunder of the shields.

‘Don’t be jealous of it, Lord Skoglar, it is far more worrying than it is joyous. It makes me fear for every one of them, their lives and their future,’ Gjaldir said, acknowledging the men they passed with his raised, scabbarded sword, letting all of them see the red leather and the dragon.

‘Their future is good, have no fear. These men will build a new kingdom of Sweden.’

‘I hope you are right, Jarl Skoglar.’

‘I believe it, Gjaldir, and these men believe in it too while you march at their head.’

Gjaldir grunted, because it was true. The success of the rebellion he and his men had started had driven a wave of devout belief in him and his sword. He had grown tired of walking through towns and villages, because of the number who wanted them to stop so they could kiss its pommel. Its bronze was polished to a high sheen on the upper side by it. All he felt was the pressure of it, of living up to the expectations Tormund’s prophecy had created. He knew their situation was not nearly so good as the people believed. They had barely taken back one part of the vast lands the Christians controlled, and he remembered Conrad’s words clearly. That the Order would return, and their wrath would be fearful.

He reached the head of his warband, taking his place on the road as the blocks moved to fill in behind him. Skoglar signalled to his own subordinates, who readied his huge mass to follow on.

‘You’ve made the right decision, Gjaldir,’ Skoglar said, getting onto his horse beside Gjaldir, who always chose to walk on his own two feet. ‘We will build a great new kingdom of Sweden together.’

‘I hope so, Jarl Skoglar, but first we must free the rest of its people.’

‘Let’s get started then!’ said Skoglar with a smile, and tapped his heels into his horse’s flanks, a massive stallion he had taken from the Christians. The jarl and his closest huskarls rode off slowly down the road, and Bjorn gave Gjaldir a raised eyebrow.

‘He is never simply quiet, is he?’

Gjaldir set off after the small party of horsemen, waving at Vidar to set off in his wake. ‘It is the way of every great lord I have ever met,’ he replied quietly. ‘They never tire of the sound of their own words. And he is so desperate to please me.’

‘That part I don’t mind,’ said Bjorn with a smile. ‘His help will make our lives much easier.’

‘I hope so, Bjorn. I truly do.’

Chapter 34

The Clash of Fates

Three days later, they reached the northern edges of the Kolmården and went through the main pass towards Norrköping. Jarl Skoglar and his men were leading the army, with Gjaldir’s warband following on.

They gathered some of the local men who had been guarding the northern end of the pass, who were more than happy to join an army marching south to take the fight away from their own lands.

It was not long after they entered the long pass through the hills, lakes and forests that a messenger came down the long column to Gjaldir from Jarl Skoglar.

‘Gjaldir, there are Christians in the pass. The army will halt while Jarl Skoglar assesses them.’

‘Christians in the pass?’ Gjaldir said with concern. That meant the enemy had taken over the area around Norrköping and were further north than expected. ‘How many?’

‘We don’t know, there are Christian scouting parties out, keeping us from seeing what lies behind.’

The messenger turned his horse and rode back along the long, winding column. Gjaldir fumed. He was at least a mile behind Skoglar, maybe two. He looked at Vidar. ‘How could we not know this? Why didn’t Skoglar scout the pass yesterday?’

Vidar nodded. ‘I would have.’

Leif came up. ‘If the enemy have a small force guarding the pass, we will be able to break through it.’

‘What if it’s too large?’ Gjaldir asked.

‘There are other passes, smaller but usable. We could go around.’

Gjaldir sucked his lip, deeply uncertain. He had no experience moving around with a large army. It was so much more cumbersome, complicated and blinding than just roaming with his warband in their own lands.

Finally he made his mind up. ‘I need to go to Skoglar, work out what is going on. Vidar, bring ten of your mounted scouts with me. We will offer our services.’

Vidar smiled. ‘Happily. Does this mean you are going to ride to the front of the army?’

Gjaldir grimaced. He hated riding, he was bad at it and it made him look like a fool. ‘I have no choice, we need to get there quickly.’

Vidar grinned like a child. ‘I will get you a horse. A calm one.’

Vidar’s mounted scouts were formed up close behind them anyway, and in moments he, Vidar, and ten of his lightly armed warriors were trotting up the column towards the front, Gjaldir concentrating with his whole being on staying upright in the saddle, trying vainly to remain centred by clinging with his knees while his thighs burned and his hands held the reins in a death grip.

He managed to make it to the front of the army without falling off, and found a large body of men milling about on the road and in the narrow cleft between wooded slopes on either side trying to form up into line.

He spotted Skoglar and a dozen or more of his men gathered on the road, talking and gesturing down the valley.

‘Skoglar!’ he called out, riding over and dismounting with no grace whatsoever.

Jarl Skoglar gave him an annoyed look. ‘What?’

‘What is happening, what enemy do we face?’

‘I don’t know,’ Skoglar snapped, waving to the front. ‘My men cannot get past the enemy to get a good look.’

‘So what are we doing?’

‘We are discussing what to do, Gjaldir,’ Skoglar said defensively.

Gjaldir looked at the rough lines forming on both sides of the road. ‘If we don’t know what is ahead, perhaps we should advance with a small force and drive their scouts back until we can see.’

‘And what if it is a large army?’

Gjaldir nodded. ‘Then we know. It is a narrow pass, we can hold it.’ He jerked his head at Vidar and his scouts. ‘I can send my scouts to look. They are very experienced, perhaps they will have more luck.’

Skoglar gave the horsemen a dismissive glance. ‘If it makes you happy to do so.’

Gjaldir bridled, infuriated by Skoglar’s suddenly hostile demeanour. ‘I’m trying to help, Jarl Skoglar.’

‘If you want to help, give me peace to make my plans!’ Skoglar said, turning back to his men.

Gjaldir almost retorted, but Vidar took him by the shoulder and led him away. ‘It won’t help to fight him. He is lashing out because he is nervous and unsure what to do, and it makes him feel weak.’

Gjaldir breathed heavily and nodded. It made sense.

‘I will take my men and go and see what we can find out,’ Vidar said.

‘Be careful, I need you back.’

‘Of course!’ said Vidar with a smile. ‘The Christians aren’t smart enough to catch me.’

Then he whistled to his men, jumped up onto his horse, and set off at a canter, leaving Gjaldir alone with his horse, who just stared at him dumbly, and then started cropping the grass by the road.

Gjaldir stood there in frustration for a while, and then Leif, Bjorn and Brunhild arrived, out of breath. He smiled at them, glad to have his friends with him there.

‘We were too curious to stay at the back. What is happening?’ Leif said.

‘Vidar has gone to scout the enemy, Skoglar is busy trying to gather the courage to make a decision about anything,’ Gjaldir said.

Even as he spoke, some of Skoglar’s men came riding back and joined his gaggle. One of them was clutching his side, bleeding from a wound.

‘That doesn’t look good,’ Leif said, his smile fading as Skoglar remonstrated with the scouts and then kicked at the ground. ‘Why don’t we go and find out what is happening?’

‘I’m just a distraction to him, he was being a defensive arse.’

‘He has no experience,’ said Brunhild derisively. ‘Why is he in charge and not you?’

Gjaldir sighed. ‘Because he is a jarl and I am a freedman, and he has more men.’

‘We’d have more men if we had let all these boys and old men join us,’ Brunhild said with a sneer, looking over the badly formed contingents on both sides of the road.

‘We didn’t want them, and with good reason,’ said Bjorn.

They watched for a while as men rode back and forth, and Skoglar sent orders to parts of his army, which suddenly started moving forwards into a much bigger, deeper block across the road behind.

Leif looked around them nervously. ‘He is forming up for battle.’

Gjaldir nodded. ‘Now is the time to find out what the hell he is doing.’

He handed the reins of his horse to Brunhild with an apologetic look and then ran over to Skoglar with Leif on his heels.

Skoglar saw him coming and waved him over. ‘There is an enemy force marching towards us.’

‘Marching towards us?’ Gjaldir said in surprise.

‘Yes, they must not know we are here or how many. We are going to move forwards and attack.’

‘How many of them?’

‘I don’t know. Can’t be too many.’

‘Shouldn’t we wait with the army until we know, just send enough men to scout them?’

‘What, and give away the opportunity of surprise? They expect a small force holding the pass, not this army. No, we shall attack while they are unprepared.’

Gjaldir nodded, it made some sense. ‘What shall I do with my men?’

‘Follow us up, be ready to support my line.’

Gjaldir nodded and went back to Brunhild and Bjorn. ‘Brunhild, ride back to the men, tell them to prepare for battle and move up the road behind Skoglar’s men. There is a Christian force advancing through the pass and we are going to attack them.’

Brunhild nodded, climbing into the saddle. ‘You aren’t coming?’

Gjaldir looked at the horse in disgust. ‘It’s better I stay with Skoglar, and we only have one horse.’

‘Fine,’ Brunhild replied, not wasting breath on more words. She turned and kicked the horse into an ugly trot, and headed back through the army that was now spreading out into formation behind them.

Gjaldir stood with Leif and Bjorn, and then followed Skoglar’s party when the army started advancing. He looked around in some dismay at the formation. There was a single line at the front, but it was ragged and disorderly. Behind, blocks of men marched in no apparent order, of varying sizes and at different speeds. It was more a mob than an army.

As they advanced, they came into a wider, flatter part of the valley, with light, sparse trees on both sides of the road that largely obscured vision for more than a few hundred paces, but did not hinder the marching men much.

Suddenly orders were called out, and the front of the army staggered drunkenly to a halt.

Gjaldir moved over to Skoglar again. ‘What is happening?’ he said. Skoglar looked at him furiously.

‘Go to your men!’

Gjaldir bit his lip, furious to be dismissed like that. He watched as Skoglar listened to some of his scouts, and kept peering off into the trees down the valley towards a low rise that hid everything more than two hundred paces away from view. Gjaldir’s stomach fell as he saw Skoglar and his companions looking more and more worried.

‘This isn’t good,’ Leif said. ‘Whatever his scouts are reporting, we are in a shit position. We need to advance onto that ridge, or retreat into the narrow pass. We are in the worst place possible.’

‘I’ll tell him,’ Gjaldir said with a resolute nod, barging his way into the group.

‘What is happening, Jarl Skoglar? You cannot ignore me like this.’

Skoglar gave him a harried look, and his hostility had gone. Gjaldir realised how worried the man looked. ‘There are more of the enemy than we thought.’

‘How many?’

Skoglar shook his head, looking slightly sick. ‘We don’t know, but they are marching this way, they will be here soon.’

Gjaldir swore. ‘We need to move forwards onto that ridge to defend it, or back into the narrow pass. We are too exposed here.’

‘Retreat?’ Skoglar said, wide eyed. ‘Yes, yes. Maybe we should. But how?’ Skoglar looked back, as if shocked to find the army was not in order. ‘I gave orders for them to form lines but they haven’t listened,’ he muttered.

‘What lines? How many, how many deep?’

Skoglar looked helpless. ‘I expected the men to know.’

Gjaldir shook his head in frustration. ‘How can they know if we don’t tell them?’

Skoglar nodded slowly. ‘I shall go and organise it, order the retreat!’ he said.

‘What?’ Gjaldir looked on, dumbfounded, as Skoglar turned and went back towards the army, with his men following.

‘Where is he going?’ Gjaldir said in shock.

There was a pounding of hooves and Gjaldir looked up to see Vidar galloping across the open ground towards him, threading through trees at a terrifying pace. He saw only six men were behind him.

‘Gjaldir!’ Vidar shouted, reining in his horse, barely avoiding knocking over two of Skoglar’s men. ‘Gjaldir. This is a whole army coming. They are just over the ridge.’

Vidar’s eyes were wild and there was blood on his arm.

‘An army? How many?’

‘Thousands, maybe ten thousand. We had to fight our way into their screen just to catch a glimpse.’ Vidar looked terrified. ‘Gjaldir, there were banners as far down the road as we could see, and their front ranks are formed up for battle and advancing. They will be in sight in moments!’

Gjaldir nodded. ‘Skoglar has ordered a retreat.’ He waved back at the army. ‘He has gone to organise it,’ he added without hiding his annoyance.

He looked back, searching for Skoglar, but he could not find him in the chaos of the army behind them, which was still not formed for battle, although some men were starting to retreat in haphazard order.

‘I don’t know how he intends the army to form up. He didn’t tell me what our warband should do.’

‘Then decide yourself,’ urged Vidar.

Gjaldir nodded. ‘Tell the warband to form up in the centre. Hopefully the army will form around us.’

‘What about you? You need to move now, before you are left behind.’

‘We will. Go, quickly, we will follow.’ Vidar nodded and set off with his men.

Gjaldir waved at Leif and Bjorn. ‘Let’s go and find the jarl.’

The army slowly started withdrawing, in even less order than it had advanced, hurried orders reaching different parts at different times. Some blocks of men either didn’t get the orders, or refused to carry them out.

As they hurried away towards the pass, a faint noise grew behind them; the sound of shouting and shields.

Gjaldir watched the ridgeline in sick fascination as mounted men appeared, hundreds of them, spread out in a screen. Behind them came rows of spearmen, formed up in perfect blocks of black, and white and gold. The enemy formation, several thousand strong, halted on the ridgeline, and slammed their shields into place in front with a clatter that resonated clearly across the field.

As one, the enemy army roared a chant at them.

‘What are they shouting?’ Leif asked.

Gjaldir watched, his blood cooling in his veins. ‘God wills it,’ he said, numbly. He looked around them as the army, now able to see their enemy, sped up their retreat.

‘Come on, we need to get back to the pass!’

He set off at a jog, his companions would follow. They fell in with a large group of men who were also retreating and were buffeted by them, veering off course towards one of the flanks. Gjaldir struggled to keep going in the right direction as Bjorn and Leif angrily shoved men aside to stay on his heels.

Gjaldir looked left and pointed at a scrap of high ground. ‘Up there!’ he shouted, and headed off across the field diagonally, pushing men aside to get out of the mass in the low ground.

He managed to fight his way clear of the press with Leif and Bjorn, and looked back in horror at the mass of Christian soldiers pushing towards the pass.

‘That is more than ten thousand,’ said Leif with a hollow tone.

Gjaldir could see his own warband down on the road, forming up as he had ordered, with other Norse contingents forming up around them and pushing through to form a second line. None of it was well ordered, some groups pushed through and just carried on retreating. It looked like Skoglar had lost control of some of the army.

One brave group was formed up behind the retreat, covering off the large group of Christian mounted scouts who were nipping at the heels of the retreating army like wolves.

‘Hold this line here!’ Gjaldir shouted at the men in the formation near him, most of whom looked at him in confusion. They probably did not recognise him, and he could not see their leader.

‘We need to hold the pass down there, and these flanks on the high ground,’ said Gjaldir to Leif and Bjorn. ‘Let’s go down and find the jarl.’

He ran down the hill towards their warband, and as he got close, he saw Vidar and Brunhild searching the retreating men, looking for him. Then they spotted him.

‘Gjaldir!’ Vidar shouted.

‘Where is Skoglar?’ he shouted back.

‘He’s fled,’ said Vidar with fury. ‘He took a few of his men and he rode north.’

‘What?’ Gjaldir’s head swam, he felt sick. He tried to process the information, his fingers going numb. ‘Then we need to take control of the army, and make our stand here.’

Vidar took his arm, looking at him with pleading eyes.

‘Gjaldir, this is not an army. Most of Skoglar’s men are barely trained, many don’t have proper equipment. Almost none of them know you and we don’t know them. We cannot win here.’

‘So what do you suggest?’ Gjaldir said helplessly.

‘We order the army to retreat,’ Vidar said with a pained expression. ‘Save what we can, fight another day.’

‘Run, now, how? The battle has already begun, and the commander is gone! How would we give the order?’

‘Then we save our warband at least.’

‘Abandon the rest of them?’ Gjaldir looked at Vidar in horror. ‘And then what?’

‘Go back to harassing and raiding, not fighting them in open battle.’

‘He might be right,’ Leif said, looking grim. ‘We should go into the woods again, fight them the way we have for years, the way we know how.’

‘And what of the people in the lands behind us? Do we abandon them?’

Bjorn and Leif looked at each other uncomfortably. ‘They must either flee or submit.’ Vidar looked down the valley to where the Christians were advancing. Their front line was only moments away from reaching the first Norse formation. Someone down there was in charge, running up and down the line, shouting at their men to form the shieldwall properly. A real warrior.

Gjaldir was shocked and horrified as he found himself slipping into agreeing with Vidar and Leif. He tried to shake his head clear of it. ‘You wish to give up everything we have just gained, before we even fight? The people have only just started to recover. They are full of hope, they believe in victory. You wish me to crush that, to tell this army and our people to scatter and flee? Even if they listen, we will have lost their trust forever. Who will ever risk their lives to fight for us again, knowing we will flee the moment the enemy appears? This is our last chance!’

‘Gjaldir, the only other option is to force them to die here with us, and then what?’ Vidar pointed down the valley to where the two lines had finally clashed, and the much larger Christian wall slammed into the Norse, shoving them visibly back. There were shouts on the right, and he looked and saw more Christian banners moving in the trees on the flank where he had been standing not long before.

‘We have to go, now!’

‘They will never trust you again, never fight for you again,’ Brunhild snapped.

‘Brunhild, you know nothing of war!’ Leif shouted.

‘And you know nothing of betrayal!’ she hissed back, face red with anger.

On the right there was the sudden sound of fighting as the Christians met with the Norse formation on the right.

‘We must go now or we will die here!’ Vidar shouted at Gjaldir, right in his face. Men around them looked on with obvious fear and confusion.

Gjaldir looked around in a daze. On the road, the brave defiance of the first line was coming to an end, swamped with the greater numbers of the Christian advance, the wall collapsing in several places and men starting to break and run. On the right, on the rise above them, the banners of the Christians were advancing, and Norsemen were fleeing down the back of the hill, towards the next formation, who were already edging back.

‘It’s too late,’ Gjaldir muttered. ‘It’s too late to take control.’

‘Then we should run!’ pleaded Vidar.

Gjaldir swung his sickened gaze around, seeing the collapse of the army around him, the fleeing men and the rampant banners of the Christians to his front and on the flanks ahead to either side. He saw the long line of his own warband, nervous and fidgeting, staring around with awe and worry at the scale of the disaster that was surrounding them, but yet leaving them untouched.

But many of them were not focused on the oncoming enemy, they were staring at him. All along the line in both directions, hundreds of eyes met his, and they all asked the question that Leif was also shouting at him.

‘Gjaldir, what do we do?’

Gjaldir saw the oncoming enemy breaking the last survivors of the formation in front of them, and he felt the decision in his chest, not forming in his mind. There was only one action he could take.

‘Gjaldir!’ Leif shouted.

Gjaldir looked at him, feeling a wave of calm. ‘If we run from here, what will men say of us?’ He took his sword from his scabbard. ‘We started this, we caused this. We brought them all here. No, tell the men behind us to flee. We will buy them time. We started this to save our people, and we will not sacrifice them to save ourselves now.’

He raised his sword and, stepping forwards looked down the line of his men. ‘Shieldwall!’ he shouted, with all the power he could muster.

All along the nervous line, the simple message was heard and repeated, and the warriors of his warband shouted and brought their shields up into line, shoulder to shoulder, boards clattering together with a muted rumble, steeling them with a purpose they understood. The line rippled like a living thing as it formed, shaking out and forming into a solid wall with muscles of living men.

Vidar looked distraught, but Bjorn nodded. ‘You are a true Norseman, Gjaldir.’

Gjaldir nodded, his stomach churning but his mind finally clear. ‘Vidar, go with every man you have on a horse, tell every part of the army you can reach to retreat as fast as they can, go home, hide their weapons and survive. We will hold the pass as long as we can. If any organised units wish to stand with us, let them, but most of them should flee. Then ride for the cities. Warn them what is coming. Good luck, my friend, ride fast.’

Tears were running down Vidar’s face. ‘As you order, Gjaldir.’ Then he ran to his horse and his men behind the line, and shouted the orders.

Gjaldir turned and looked at his waiting men. There was nothing now between them and the Christian army but two hundred paces, and some fleeing Norsemen. The Christian line crunched forwards, steadily and inexorably.

‘We will retreat slowly in front of them, get as deep into the pass as we can, and when they catch us, we will fight!’ he shouted, so that the entire centre of his line could hear.

There was no cheer, just stern and resolute faces. The fear of not knowing could be worse then the fear of a fight. This is what they did, this is what they trained and prepared for, to face their enemies over a wall of ash and linden, with their brothers at their sides.

‘Leif, get them back in formation. Let’s show the rest of the army an example.’

‘Shields up! Pace back! Move!’ Leif roared, looking up and down the line, sword in the air. The whole warband rippled a pace back, staying in formation.

‘Pace!’ Leif shouted, and they took another step back. ‘Pace,’ and another.

The line got into rhythm and Leif shouted the order to continue backpacing. They moved up the pass, deeper and deeper into the narrows as the disordered army around and behind them received the orders to run.

Gjaldir watched with stony eyes as some groups of warriors scattered and left the field. Some stayed together, some became panicking masses who discarded their weapons. Some few reversed course and marched over to join them, adding to their flanks.

Eygarr came over, and he looked downcast. ‘I’ve come to add what remains of my men to yours, Gjaldir.’

‘You did not go with your jarl, Eygarr?’

Eygarr’s face flashed with anger and embarrassment. ‘I have no jarl. He lost my oath when he left his people and fled. I’m sorry. I knew what kind of man he was but he was the only chance I saw. He was always lying to you, he was just going to use you or kill you. He cared for nothing but power.’

Gjaldir nodded in gratitude, feeling relieved that he had been right not to trust the man.

‘What can I do to redeem myself?’ Eygarr asked.

Gjaldir took the man’s arm. ‘You can fight and die with us, Eygarr.’

Eygarr smiled sadly. ‘That I can.’

‘Good, take your men onto the right flank, form up next to us and keep the enemy from getting around our line. It’s going to be hard fighting, are you ready for it?’

‘I am.’

‘Good man.’

Eygarr bowed his head and then turned to jog off towards the hundred or so men that he had arrived with, shouting at them and setting off towards the flank.

‘That was unexpected,’ Leif said.

‘No, I knew Skoglar was a shit.’

‘Of course, but no, I meant it’s unexpected that one of his men wasn’t.’

Gjaldir nodded. ‘There is strength in the people still.’

There was an awkward pause and Leif looked away. ‘I’m sorry I said we should run. It was cowardly.’

Gjaldir put his arm on Leif’s shoulder. ‘You are many things, Leif, son of Leif. But you are not a coward. You were just thinking of our future.’

Leif hung his head. ‘I thank you for saying it. But I am not sure it is true.’

‘Well, we can discuss it later,’ Gjaldir said, watching the Christians close the gap between their lines. ‘After we deal with these. I think it’s time we stood and fought.’

Leif judged the closing distance and nodded. ‘It is.’

‘Give the order.’

Leif called the warband into a crisp halt, and got the line straightened out and the shields up as Gjaldir checked his helmet again, and stretched and flexed his sword hand. He looked to Bjorn, who was already taking up position on his right, and then felt a smaller figure push into the line on his left. He turned and looked at Brunhild and felt a deep, shocking twang of pain and joy.

‘I’m sorry it has led to this, that I have led us to this.’

Brunhild smiled and stretched up to push her forehead into his nose. ‘Do not be sorry. It’s perfect. You gave our people the chance, and I told you I would never be a slave again.’ She gestured to her spear. ‘You made sure I never was. I love you for it, Gjaldir.’

Gjaldir looked away, struggling to keep the tears out of his eyes. The Christian line was nearly upon them.

He looked left and right along the ordered, waiting ranks of his mighty warband. The sounds of battle and the noise of the oncoming enemy cheering was now far too loud for any words of inspiration he spoke to be heard by more than a few dozen men, if he even had any words he wished to speak. He didn’t need to. Every man in that line was battle tested and steadfast. They all knew what was coming. The cowards were long dead or gone.

‘Shield song!’ he shouted to the men nearest him, and all along the line, his proud warband hammered their weapons against their shields, a cacophony of defiance and pride that drowned out the other sounds of battle and gave him a surge of strength and confidence.

The men of his warband howled their resistance at the advancing foe, so close now he could see individual faces over their shields. A warband that had not tasted defeat for many years, that had earned the fear of their enemies in a dozen blood-soaked battles and torn the once indomitable reign of the Crusade down in just a few short weeks stood in the full prime of their power, their enemy in front, their homes behind.

Gjaldir felt the surge of power from it, from their confidence and anger, and from the grip on his famous sword. He smiled at Leif. ‘Gunnar taught us the path to victory is through advance. Never stand still while your enemy pushes you.’

Leif laughed. ‘He would have loved the man you became, Gjaldir.’

‘No, he knew who I was before I did.’

He looked at his sword, reading the runes again, seeing the fire in its core. He raised it into the air, high above them, shining in the sun and there for all to see.

‘Shieldwall, advance!’ he roared. And men on his left and right passed the order down the line and the line started crunching forwards, one half-pace at a time. The Christians were only ten paces away now, blood and mud already staining their black and gold shields.

He saw they were emblazoned with a gold-painted eagle crest, and he recognised it from the gold ring Brunhild wore, the one that he had found in the rooms he had occupied in Uppsala.

He laughed to himself, maybe they would return it to their master.

They crunched forwards, his splendid warband, his friends, his dogs of war, straining at the leash, focused on nothing but the death they would bring to their enemy.

When the oncoming ranks were just two paces away, and the rain of thrown weapons had hammered into the Christian front rank, staggering and weakening it, he brought Ljós a Norðan down and pointed it like a spear, gathering all the air his lungs could hold for the final order to be roared.

‘Attack!’

Chapter 35

The Price of Honour

Gjaldir staggered clear of the warrior who was slumping against his legs, dying with a Christian spear in his chest.

He cut down at the spearman who was struggling to retrieve his weapon, and severed his arm, then paced back again, dazed from exhaustion and a blow to his head. Blood trickled down his cheek.

He dared a glimpse left and right and saw that a large group of his men were still with him, retreating through the trees at the side of the road. Bjorn was on his right, his helmet smeared with mud from when he had fallen to the ground in the fierce fighting. Gjaldir had led a charge to save him, and they had fought over his prostrate form until he had managed to struggle to his feet and retreat, spear and shield abandoned.

He had picked up another somewhere, from one of the others who had fallen.

To the left of him, two warriors left the line and smashed forwards into the battered Christians, reaching the fallen figure of one of their fellows who was terribly wounded and struggling to rise. One warrior hammered the Christians back with his shield while the second scythed with his long-axe at the enemy on his right, ripping the jaw off one too slow to react.

Around and around the vicious axe head flew, shearing splinters from spearshafts and shields, hammering mailled limbs and ringing off helmets, driving the enemy back as his companion dragged the wounded man to his knees and tried to take him back.

But even as they drove a wedge into the enemy line, on either side Gjaldir’s exhausted warriors were giving ground under the relentless pressure of the enemy’s numbers. Several men tried to go and help the two valiant warriors but Leif screamed at them not to break the line.

The axeman was the first to fall, caught between swings by a low spear thrust in the thigh. He bellowed in anger and brought the axe down with a shattering blow on the neck of the enemy who had skewered him, cutting deeply into his shoulder, burying the weapon in his foe’s chest.

But the axe head stuck, and within a heartbeat four more enemy pounced on him and he fell under a rain of blows.

The warrior with the shield, half-dragging his dying friend, was helpless to do anything as he was overrun, and Gjaldir howled in helpless anger as the three brave men were lost to the tide of victorious enemy.

So many had fallen. Gjaldir tried not to think about it as he surveyed the denuded rump of his warband who still fought. Their line on the road had met the first attack and shattered it after a nasty fight. The enemy had arrived tired and expecting another easy victory. They had paid for it with blood.

But a second attack had come, and that one had nearly broken them, leaving hundreds of them in the dirt.

The third assault had split their line like a rotten log. He knew the other half of the warband had been pushed along the road, but he could no longer hear the sounds of their fighting. He hoped that meant they had fled.

The men around him were retreating into the woods, not because they wanted to, but because there was no other choice. Eygarr and several hundred assorted men of the main army had fought on their right tenaciously, preventing them from being surrounded. Eygarr’s voice had rung out across the right, urging his men on, until suddenly his voice had gone.

Then the flank had collapsed, and now they were retreating to avoid being encircled.

But it was coming to an end. Gjaldir stepped back again as a fresh enemy stepped up to face him. There was a wild cry from his left as Brunhild thrust her spear at the new enemy’s face, the tip bouncing off the top of the Christian’s shield and neatly slotting into his eye socket, freezing the soldier in place for a heartbeat before he collapsed.

Gjaldir found the time to smile and feel pride for Brunhild. It was a perfect spear thrust.

But another enemy simply took the dead man’s place, and when Gjaldir cut him down, another.

Then the attack halted and the line in front of them split at shouted commands as a new formation of enemy was revealed. Gjaldir swallowed hard, his dry, rasping throat clenching as he saw the white surcoats and shining helmets of the Order, being worn by several hundred of its belted knights, coming forwards into the attack, no doubt sent there to end it.

‘Fuck,’ Bjorn said, simply.

‘Reform the wall!’ shouted Leif, and the survivors of their warband pulled themselves into a closer group, using the respite to get into a proper line again, breathing hard and trying to recover a modicum of their strength.

The Crusaders’ banners flew proud above their perfect ranks as the knights of the Order came forwards in a shining wave, helmets and gold emblazoned surcoats dazzling in the sun that filtered through the sparse trees.

‘Shields up!’ shouted Leif, unnecessarily, because everyone who could still hold a shield had them up already.

There was no advancing into this attack, nothing to do but take it, and Gjaldir held his breath as the Order’s knights quickly crossed the corpse-strewn space and hammered into them. He braced his legs as he lashed out with his sword, and his shield was smashed back into his face.

A sword snaked around his shield, fast and lethal, and he could barely fend it off as it rattled his helmet and dug into the maille of his stomach. He retaliated with his own blade, driving it forwards in the gap between his and Bjorn’s shields, trying to find soft flesh and finding only steel and wood.

The enemy knights pushed him back another step, shouting at him in French and German. He could hear and feel the line around him faltering, the relentless strength of the enemy advance rolling over his brave but depleted warriors.

He fought with his exhausted legs to hold himself up and heard Brunhild scream as she was knocked down. He looked over in panic to find a knight stepping forwards to finish the prostrate woman and he yelled in anger, twisting to his left and cutting wildly at the Christian, putting him off balance as a warrior behind Brunhild pulled her to safety.

But he had dropped his guard against the knight in front, and moved his shield, and a blow hammered into his helmet as he was unsighted, blinding and deafening him, shaking his vision into stars and his thoughts into mush.

But he still felt, dully, the steel point pierce through the maille of his flank, and the blow that hammered against his shoulder.

He felt himself fall, and the cool earth embrace him. In his dazed state, it was somewhat peaceful, almost welcoming.

He lay there, helpless, and someone stood on his face. It was merely irritating, he was so far gone. The foot moved and something heavy fell on his legs. He just waited, eyes closed, breath coming in gasps as his body struggled to continue a fight he had given up.

‘Get him!’ a voice shouted, and arms pulled at his, dragging him backwards.

‘No, leave me!’ he wanted to shout, but he couldn’t. His mouth wouldn’t move.

Many arms were dragging him now, and he lost his shield. He clung to the sword with a vice grip, the last of his strength, because he knew that he had to hold it in death. That is what a Norseman did.

He was pulled to his feet, but his feet would not hold him. ‘Gjaldir! Stand!’ a voice roared in his ear, and he levered his eyes open to see a blurry vision of Bjorn hauling him back. Leif appeared too, looking terrified.

‘Is he awake?’

He mumbled and shook his head to clear his vision. That only hurt. Something was deeply wrong in his side, and his left arm felt awful.

There was the sound of horses and he looked up to see half a dozen horsemen driving through the trees and Leif called out in ecstasy. ‘Vidar!’

‘What are you doing here?’ Bjorn shouted.

‘I couldn’t leave you. Is Gjaldir wounded?’

‘Yes, badly.’

‘It’s not that bad,’ Gjaldir mumbled, but no one was listening.

‘The line is about to collapse, get him on the horse! Vidar, take him to safety!’

‘No, no!’ Gjaldir croaked.

The hands ignored him, they bodily heaved him up into the saddle of a horse, which elicited the first real stab of pain in his side.

There was a cheer and a thunder of shields behind Vidar as hundreds of men flitted through the trees towards them.

‘Who is that?’ Leif asked.

‘I brought everyone who would still fight. Come on, get away. We have to leave. All of us.’

The cheering wave of men, perhaps several hundred men strong, crashed into the side of the melee, adding to the chaos and staggering the attack of the Order’s knights. Gjaldir, from his vantage on the horse, could see it would not be enough to matter. More Christians were coming. But for a moment it gave the desperate remnants of his warband some relief.

‘Tell our men to retreat!’ Vidar shouted at Leif.

‘What?’

‘Retreat, run. Everyone who can, now!’

Gjaldir tried to raise his head to look, but his vision started swimming again, fading and blackening.

‘Shit, he is falling. Brunhild! Hold onto him!’

Something grabbed hold of his maille, the world under him was spinning, or perhaps it was just the horse. It was odd, as if he was floating. His leg was wet, but it felt distant.

Then it all faded blissfully from his mind.

Duke Henry climbed down off his horse, stretching his legs and surveying the scene. The pass was choked with bodies that even now his men were working to clear.

The army of the Crusade, with his forces of Bavaria at its core, was triumphant. The field was theirs, the enemy army was shattered and scattered to the winds, and his men were starting to take the wounded back to the pass behind where the men of the baggage train were making camp. He smiled thinly at the scene as Grandsteward Hugues rode over. Like him, Hugues was not a leader who sought out the fighting. Henry thought great lords who fought in the front lines and risked their lives, even in victory, were vain fools who cared far too much what others whispered about them. His glorious tunic was mud spattered but undamaged, his sword clean in his scabbard. He wasn’t going to risk his family line over a lucky spear thrust or an errant arrow.

‘These Norsemen don’t seem to be as dangerous as you made out, Grandsteward,’ he said with a vicious smile.

Hugues, ever the careful diplomat, refused to be drawn by the barb. ‘Your men did splendidly, my lord Henry. They are a credit to your family and Bavaria as servants of God and the empire.’

Henry nodded in satisfaction. ‘You know, if you fought as well as you spoke you would be one of the most dangerous men in Christendom.’

‘I thank you for the compliment, my lord,’ Hugues said with a bow of his head. ‘What is your intent now? Shall we pursue what is left of their forces?’

‘What? No, we shall not be distracted. Let the last few flee into the woods. We must continue northwards without delay tomorrow. The fleet is due in at Stadsholmen any day, and they will march on Uppsala with the rest of my forces. We should march north and get in contact with them.’

Hugues looked a little surprised, but nodded. ‘As you command, my lord.’ He turned aside to a few of the white-cloaked officers and messengers of the Order and quietly gave them some commands. Henry nodded in satisfaction again. It was his first real battle in command of an army, although he wasn’t going to point that out to anyone.

He had been on the field of battle before, of course, but always as a junior lord and second son. This battle, and the swift, relatively easy victory over a much-feared and respected enemy, would burnish his credentials to power and help wipe away the stain of his flight from the rebellion the year before. He would not be Duke Henry who ran from rebels, he was Duke Henry the Crusader, the victor. He chewed it over. He needed to re-earn and reinforce his previous epithet: Henry the Black.

He rather liked the name. It conveyed fear and respect, a certain lethality that he thought was a good aura to have. He had earned it by burning the town of Kalmar during the second Crusade after he rode through the smoking town and emerged covered in soot, and the reputation for ruthlessly putting its population to the sword.

He made a note to himself that a little more of that would help. He needed to clear these lands of the local population. Burning their towns was not strictly necessary, in fact it would be detrimental if he did it too widely as some cities like Uppsala and Tuna he needed intact. But he would find some to make an example of, and make sure men heard of it. The rest would follow naturally, with the right word spread to the right people.

He looked up and took a deep breath, revelling in the crisp spring air. This was his time, this was his glory. He was leading the soldiers of Christ on a righteous Crusade against the heathen who had so wounded them, and all of Europe was going to hear his name.

The rocking movement was what Gjaldir sensed first. Then the pain in his side. The rocking movement was steady, unrelenting. The pain in his side bloomed until it forced him to reckon with the world.

He groaned and tried to open an eye. Above him were trees and sunlight. It hurt his eyes so much he shut them again immediately.

‘He’s awake!’ someone called.

Gjaldir felt a wave of nausea and tried to roll to the side, half falling and vomiting over himself and someone who was next to him, someone who swore and nearly dropped him.

‘Easy, easy,’ a voice called. It was Brunhild’s. That soothed him.

A hand was put on his shoulder. ‘Calm, Gjaldir. Calm. You are safe. We are going north. Rest.’

Rest? The idea was nice. Too nice, really. The rocking movement started again, and the blackness came for him once more.

Reinhard sat uncomfortably on a stool at the side of Henry’s generously proportioned tent as the duke and his Crusade officers met to discuss their strategy. He was not included, none of them cared what a priest thought of military matters, and this irked him deeply. For the matter of what the Order’s forces would do, they all looked to Grandsteward Hugues, who led the Order’s combined forces in the field.

So Reinhard suffered in silence and held their morning and evening services, blessing them and ministering to them with a smile, even as he held back his disgust at the necessity of their presence.

Eventually he stood from the stool and went outside. They would barely notice he was missing anyway and he could not stand sitting there being impotent. He walked over towards his own modest tent, and found Bertrand there waiting for him.

‘Grandmaster,’ his assistant said quietly, bowing his head and intoning it in a way that let Reinhard know he had something to say.

Reinhard was almost too annoyed to let him speak, he wanted to be left in silence to pray and contemplate, but he gestured sharply to the priest and went to take a cup of water from where it was sitting beside his camp bed. ‘What is it?’

‘Uh, news from the captives, your grace.’

‘Captives?’

‘Yes, from the battle. We took a number of captives in the fighting, and the interrogators have been questioning them, with some difficulty I might add, but nonetheless successfully.’

Reinhard could tell Bertrand was fishing for a compliment for his work, but he was too tired and annoyed to comply. ‘Well, what is it?’ he said with an impatient gesture.

Bertrand’s smile faded a little but he nodded. ‘The rebel Gjaldir was present at the battle, with the sword, your grace.’

Reinhard scowled. ‘Is that it? We already know that, many reported seeing him.’

‘Ah, well, confirmation was important. But not as important as knowing he survived and escaped, wounded, with perhaps only a little over a hundred men.’

Reinhard scowled even further. He had men going over the battlefield even now, trying to find the rebel’s body and his sword. He wanted that thrice-damned sword. I need that sword to end this.

‘Escaped where?’

‘Well, that unfortunately they either did not know, or would not tell, even under the most persuasive methods.’

Reinhard winced slightly. He knew what those persuasive methods were. His interrogators were kept quite separate from the army, even from most of the Order. He was sure that if word of their activities spread, he might be forced to stop, or at least tone down, their work, despite how useful the knowledge they revealed had become.

‘The suggestion was that he would flee to Uppsala, where he was most familiar with the city.’

Reinhard laughed. ‘If he flees to Uppsala we will have him. But I suspect he will not be taken so easily.’ He sighed. ‘We will not leave this to chance. Take me to Sighard.’

‘Certainly, your grace.’

Bertrand led Reinhard out of the tent and into the rest of the Order’s section of the vast encampment, quickly leading him to an open space where the duty guards sat around, waiting for any orders or attack.

Brother Sighard was there, talking to some knights of the Order. When he saw Reinhard, he left them and strode over. ‘Grandmaster,’ he said respectfully.

Reinhard smiled. ‘Brother Sighard, I have a duty for you.’

‘Yes, Grandmaster.’

‘I need you to detach a force of men to resume the hunt for the rebel Gjaldir.’

Sighard looked taken aback. ‘I heard he was killed in the battle.’

Reinhard smiled viciously. ‘Well, my information is better, and I heard he escaped with a hundred men, fleeing north. Do you wish to waste time discussing it, or will you help catch him?’

Sighard snapped straight. ‘No, of course, Grandmaster. I will do as commanded and hunt for him.’

Reinhard considered it for a moment. ‘I want you to send Brother Hartung. Give him a chance to redeem his earlier failures. You are needed with the Order’s forces here.’

Reinhard was tempted to use the excuse to send the man away, he had been getting far too comfortable questioning Reinhard’s decisions, but since the shame of the fall of Uppsala he had been far more obedient and unwaveringly loyal. The fool probably thought he was atoning through his actions. Reinhard would not forgive the failings that had nearly led to his own death or capture at Uppsala, and Sighard should be smart enough to know that.

But, until he had a suitable replacement, Sighard was his best option to retain some control over the armed wing of the Order against Hugues’s chosen subordinates.

‘Brother Hartung? As you command.’ Sighard turned and called out, and Reinhard saw Hartung come over at a run. He was a little taken aback, he had not expected to talk to the young man right at that moment, but he smiled warmly as the zealous nobleman arrived and saluted.

‘Brother Hartung, you look well. I am glad.’

‘Thank you, Grandmaster,’ the man said, flushing at the public praise. ‘How can I serve?’

‘Gjaldir was spotted fleeing the battle, headed north. He was wounded, he had a hundred men with him. I want him hunted down and brought back to me, with the sword he carries. I do not require him to be alive, in fact it is much neater if he is not.’

Hartung nodded without hesitation. ‘I understand.’

‘Good. Sighard here will give you two hundred men and whatever supplies you need. You will hunt Gjaldir down, using whatever methods you need, and you will destroy his fugitive band and bring me the sword. You will not return until you are successful. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Grandmaster.’

Reinhard smiled. ‘Good.’ He held out his ring, leaving his hand so high that Hartung barely had to even dip his head to kiss it, a carefully public gesture of favour that he hoped the young man would appreciate.

‘I will ask Grandsteward Hugues to release the men and supplies,’ Sighard said carefully.

‘No, you won’t. I will take care of Hugues, he will not refuse me.’

Sighard just nodded impassively. ‘As you command, Grandmaster.’

Reinhard smiled and blessed Hartung, then turned and walked back to his tent, all his previous annoyance washed away.

Once Gjaldir is dead, and the heathens pacified, I can return to Saxony with the sword, a relic of the successful Crusade. I will be certain to be rewarded with an Archbishopric, perhaps of Mainz. And then, when Henry assumes the throne with the Holy Father in his debt?

Reinhard drummed his fingers happily on his leg. Then the path to a cardinal’s seat will be open.

He hummed to himself as he walked, looking at the blush of spring that was present on the trees around him. Yes, it was really a very fine day indeed.

But it was not yet over, he reminded himself. He must not get overconfident, for it led a man to sin. Overconfidence was the precursor to arrogance and arrogance was the enemy of humility.

And we must be humble, Reinhard reminded himself, allowing the smile to fade from his lips. Because humility is dear to the Lord.

Gjaldir sat by the fire as Brunhild tended to his wounds. Three days had passed since the battle, so they told him. His companions were all with him, with about a hundred men of their warband. They had escaped the end of the battle and the Christians had given up the pursuit.

A hundred men. He had led nearly two thousand south. Most were dead or had become separated, fleeing to unknown fates. Halfdan was dead, cut down in the battle leading his men. No one knew what had happened to Rurik, who had been in the half of the warband separated from them in the battle, but everyone knew he too had likely been killed. Dozens of other men who he knew well and who had followed him since their time in the mountains were gone.

He was not sure being alive was a relief. It felt like a punishment, a mockery of his failures. The wound in his side was not that bad, his shoulder was hurt but not broken. The only serious wound was his head. The blow to his helmet had dented it two fingers deep, and there was a swelling on the side of his head the size of half an apple. If his skull was broken, he might still die. He had seen it before. But it was too early to tell.

Whether his skull was broken, he was concerned his mind definitely was. His thoughts were disordered. Light hurt, thinking hurt, movement hurt. He craved only sitting still in silence, with his eyes closed.

As much as they could, his companions allowed this, taking charge of the remnants of their warband as they fled north, avoiding the main road and the danger of meeting the victorious Crusaders.

‘We should reach Södertälje tomorrow,’ Leif said, quietly. Gjaldir nodded very carefully.

‘And then what?’

‘Uppsala. We find Jarl Einar, and see what can be done.’

‘And what can be done?’ Gjaldir whispered.

‘I don’t know, Gjaldir. But we will work it out. You should sleep.’

‘I do nothing but sleep.’

‘Good. That is what will cure you.’

The next day they approached Södertälje. Gjaldir was on horseback, because he simply couldn’t walk well enough to keep up. They saw the smoke before they saw the ruins.

Vidar came back with two of his men to report the Christians had gone. There was nothing left but the burned ruins and the dead.

‘Where are the people?’ Gjaldir asked.

‘They are still in the town,’ Vidar said, and he was weeping.

‘Still in the town?’ Gjaldir asked, numbly.

‘They killed them all, burned them,’ Vidar said, and then he walked off, distraught.

‘So we go to Uppsala?’ he said to Leif, who was barely in better state than Vidar.

‘There are no ships. We will have to go west, to Lund, and hope we get there before the Crusaders.’

Gjaldir was in no state to argue, so he allowed himself to be carried for three days as they headed west, barely aware of what was going on around him. On the third day he felt a little more of his mind was with him, and the swelling on his head had reduced to an angry lump. He could use his eyes without the pain overwhelming him.

He looked around as they left camp on the fifth morning. No one was talking, everyone was sullen. There were far fewer of them than before. Perhaps only fifty.

‘Where are the rest, following us?’ Gjaldir asked Bjorn.

Bjorn did not look at him, just kept walking beside his horse. ‘They left.’

‘Left?’ Gjaldir asked, not comprehending. ‘Why?’

‘They saw Södertälje, they saw the other towns and villages. They left to go to and look for their families. Many of them were from this region. Those who remain are those who don’t have families to go to.’

‘What other towns and villages?’

‘You didn’t see them, you were blacked out. We have passed a dozen towns and villages, all met the same fate as Södertälje. Abandoned or burned,’ Bjorn said in a dejected voice.

‘Gods, and I was asleep?’ Gjaldir felt his first true moment of awareness as he realised what his people had been through while he slumbered and ignored the world.

‘It’s not your fault, Gjaldir,’ said Bjorn, but there was no conviction in it.

‘Where are we going?’

‘We think Tuna still stands. We are going there.’

‘Why?’

‘Because if it was burning we would see the smoke by now,’ Bjorn said softly, and then fell to silence again.

Tuna was, in fact, still standing, and they reached it that evening. But Vidar’s last two mounted scouts reported there was a large Christian force on another road to the south, half a day’s march behind, headed for the city.

Gjaldir and his sorry band marched into the city and he saw that there were guards on the walls, armed and watchful. The town’s elders came out to meet him.

‘Gjaldir, you’re alive!’ their leader said. He had met him before, while he was in Tuna the previous month.

‘Yes, barely,’ Gjaldir said, wincing as he lowered himself from the saddle. He couldn’t meet the elder’s eye. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘For what?’ he asked in confusion.

‘For what?’ Gjaldir looked at the old man in shame. ‘For leading your people to slaughter.’

‘Nonsense. Hundreds of our men returned because of what you did. They told us what happened, that Jarl Skoglar fled and abandoned you, that you and your men stayed behind to fight. Gjaldir, what are you sorry for? So many of our people are alive because of you. They have returned to their families, and fled west and north with them. Our people live because of the sacrifice of you and your men. Do not be ashamed, you saved so much.’

Gjaldir burst into tears, unbidden, and leaned against the shocked man’s chest. ‘I’m sorry for starting this.’

‘What?’ The old man held on to him and guided him to the side of the path, looking at Leif in alarm. ‘What is wrong?’

‘He took a bad head wound, it has tumbled his mind,’ said Leif sympathetically.

‘It is not my head, I have failed. I led our people into destruction. The Christians are coming, they will be here tomorrow. We need to flee.’ He lifted his head and met the old man’s eye. ‘You need to flee.’

The old man gave him a kindly look. ‘My son, everyone who has somewhere to flee has already done so, not many others wish to leave their home. We know what is coming. Don’t blame yourself, you only gave us hope and the chance to stand up. We did the rest. But you should leave in the morning, or be trapped here with us.’

‘Yes, we are going to Uppsala. Do you have a ship?’

‘Uppsala? You can’t.’

‘Yes, Uppsala. Why, what is wrong?’

The old man shook his head sadly. ‘My son, Uppsala has fallen. Jarl Einar and his army are destroyed.’

Leif stared in a daze. ‘Uppsala has fallen? How?’

‘The Christians came from Stadsholmen and overwhelmed the city. Einar tried to fight them but…’ The old man shrugged. ‘It was not enough.’

There was a sob from behind them, and Gjaldir turned to see Halfbjorn putting a hand to his mouth, horror creasing his features. Then the warrior turned to the side and retched, gaining control of himself before he looked up again. ‘What of the people there?’

The elder frowned and shook his head. ‘Some escaped.’

Halfbjorn’s face shattered, and he nodded dully. Then he turned and walked away, staggering as if drunk.

Gjaldir’s legs went weak and he sat against the building’s wall. ‘So it’s over. The war is already lost.’

‘It is. The end times are upon us, Gjaldir. But I am ready for them.’

‘What will you do?’ Gjaldir asked.

‘Oh, those of us that remain here will fight them.’

‘Why?’ Gjaldir asked, perplexed. ‘You will lose.’

The old man smiled. ‘Oh, certainly we will. But what else is there to do but die for our homes? All of our people who can leave have done so, hundreds and thousands gone into the woods and the hills. We will stand here, as long as we can, and slow down the enemy that pursues them.’

‘That is what they will be reduced to, fleeing into the forest and the mountains to suffer a winter there?’

‘It will be hard, but ours are a hard people, Gjaldir. They will survive, and the longer we hold the enemy here, the better their chances of escaping are.’ He nodded to himself. ‘So here we stand and hold the line, as you did. Now it is our turn. I am too old and tired to go and live in the forest. But you aren’t. You should go. The people will need to know you are alive, that they still have a future.’

‘What future? Everywhere we have passed is ashes.’

The old man crouched down to his level. ‘There are still whole regions to the west and north, untouched by war. Perhaps the Christians will never reach them. There is a high mountain valley, to the north-west on the border with Norway. Many of my people are headed there to find a safety and shelter. That is all I wish for in life now, that they make it there, and find a new home. The people there will need you, so must do your duty again, if you have the strength. Do you, Gjaldir? Do you have the strength?’

‘We can’t win the war.’

‘No, it’s not about war anymore, Gjaldir. It’s about survival. And to survive they will need hope. The hope you brought inspired an entire beaten people to rise up! Perhaps it can inspire them to hold on, to survive, until one day these Christians flee the cold and the hills and go back to their soft southern lands.’ He smiled. ‘Come, stand up. You are young and strong. I believe you are capable.’

Gjaldir struggled to his feet as the old man helped him. ‘Why do you believe in me?’ he asked, deflated.

‘Because, young man, there is very little else. Our gods are silent, our lords have fled, our armies have failed. But a young man with a famous sword stood when all others fled, and that, my son, is something worth believing in.’

The old man patted him kindly on the shoulder. ‘Now, take whatever food and tools you need. We won’t need it and the Christians can’t have it. I have a siege to plan.’

Gjaldir looked at him in disbelief. ‘Who are you?’

‘It doesn’t matter, Gjaldir. The only question is, who are you? Are you the man we have been taught about?’

‘I can try to be,’ said Gjaldir, raising his chin a little.

The old man smiled warmly and nodded. ‘You see. That is why you are worthy of our belief. Now go and rest. You can have the hall. We will fight them tomorrow morning and every morning that follows until we are broken, and perhaps it will slow them enough for you to get away. If it does, I will die as a grateful man.’

Then he nodded at Gjaldir’s stunned companions and walked away, headed towards the city’s centre.

‘We have to fight with them,’ Gjaldir croaked.

‘Not a chance,’ said Bjorn with a firm shake of his head. ‘You heard him, he is doing this for us and we will respect that. We will rest and we will rise before dawn to leave. Do not argue about this, you will only dishonour them.’

Gjaldir capitulated, nodding sadly. ‘As you say.’

They stood there in a daze, and then Vidar looked up as several people approached, his face creased with joy.

‘Astrid!’ He ran over towards the small group, and Astrid ran out to greet him. She leapt into his arms as he lifted her off the ground, closing his eyes and burying his face in her shoulder.

‘I thought you were dead!’ Astrid said, struggling furiously, slapping at his shoulders and arms with furious hands as he laughed and held her. ‘Don’t ever leave me again!’ she wailed, tears flowing as the onslaught of slaps relented.

‘Oh, my love, I won’t. We will never be parted again, I swear it.’

‘You can’t promise that!’ she said, sobbing.

‘I have, I have promised it!’ He set her down and looked at Gjaldir. ‘We can bring her with us? Or I will stay with her.’

He wasn’t asking permission. Gjaldir nodded quickly. ‘Of course we can bring her with us. And anyone else who wants to come.’

Vidar smiled in relief, and clung to Astrid once again. It gave Gjaldir a little joy to see it, a joy that was tempered slightly when he saw one of the other group of people was Tormund, who was looking lost and nervous. Gjaldir decided to ignore the seer for the time being. In fact, in his only thoughts of the man he had hoped he would never see him again. It was Tormund’s prophecy that had led him down this path. Led them all down this path.

A hand grasped his shoulder as he watched Astrid laugh and babbled with Vidar, entwined in each other’s arms. He looked up to see Brunhild. He had barely spoken to her since the battle. Then he had barely spoken to anyone.

He put his hand on top of hers. ‘Thank you, Brunhild.’

She looked down at him. ‘For what?’

‘For helping carry me away from the battle. I would have died there.’

She nodded perfunctorily. ‘I know, but I would have too. You saved me first.’

‘That is what warriors in the shieldwall do, protect each other.’

Brunhild smiled softly. ‘I didn’t do it for a warrior, there were a hundred wounded men who I could have held on that horse. I did it for my love.’

Gjaldir smiled and grasped her hand tightly. ‘You know what Vidar just promised Astrid, I also…’

‘I know, Gjaldir. I know. I have always known.’

Gjaldir nodded, falling silent and just enjoying the feel of her hand tightly bound in his.

‘So what will we do now?’ she asked.

Gjaldir looked at the sad remnants of his warband, and the town around them brooding in the light of its last evening.

‘We will do as the old man bade us. We will go north, we will survive.’

Brunhild leant into him, resting her head on his shoulder. ‘Together.’

He took a deep breath. ‘Yes. Together.’

Chapter 36

Garm Howls Loud

Dawn will bring the dreadfoe’s horns

We’ll fight so some can run

Our long threads severed by the norns

This day the last we’ll see the sun

I cannot break my sacred oaths

Or turn and leave my kin

For most of them are in the ground

And I long to meet again

My sword still hangs above my bed

My shield above my door

My helm’s still fit to crown my head

My soul can hear the songs of war

So come down now my restless blade

And feel my grip once more

Leap into hand my steadfast shield

Recall the strength that I once bore

Gather round, my friends, let’s make our stand

Our foes at last arrive

Our death awaits with sword in hand

Blood flows, but songs survive!

Death poem of a Svear warrior

In the woods north of Arbugæ

July AD 1123

‘They are still searching for us,’ Vidar said, watching the two horsemen who were carefully riding up the valley.

‘We shouldn’t have gone to that village,’ Leif said, again. It was an old argument, but a bitter one. They had decided to break their own rules and visit a small village they passed, desperate for some proper food. The white-cloaked men of the Order had visited the same village just a few days later, and burned and carved the truth out of the inhabitants, presumably revealing that Gjaldir’s band had visited. It was not the first time they had done it, and if they risked showing themselves again, it might not be the last.

The relentless men of the Order had been hunting them for months, driving them further and further north. Twice small detachments had caught them, twice they had escaped but only at the price of blood and loss. Twenty-seven armed men now remained, and seven women, some of whom fought, others who did not.

Others had died on the travels, or simply walked off.

‘We had to get some food.’

‘Now they know we are close by.’

‘But not where we are. If they knew we were in this valley, there would be a hundred of them, not two scouts!’ Vidar said.

‘Stop arguing over the past, it is pointless,’ Gjaldir whispered, crawling back on his belly from the treeline. ‘We will move deeper into the woods, get away without them finding our trail.’

They made their way quietly back towards the band who waited for them, carefully hidden in a deep dell in the thicker part of the wood.

‘Where do we go?’ Brunhild asked when they all gathered. She was looking pinched, thin. They all were, but she had started off with less to lose than most of them. Not that she complained about it. She never complained.

‘We could go north-east, back towards our village in Einar’s old lands,’ Leif mumbled.

‘No, we have been over this a dozen times, we are not risking that, we are not leading the Order there,’ Gjaldir said.

‘The Christians will reach them anyway, they might have already. Better that we are with them.’

‘It is better for everyone not to meet us. To meet us is death, you know it, the Order has proclaimed it.’

‘We can’t avoid people entirely. What happens is beyond our control,’ Vidar said with a shrug. The spark had gone from the normally bright man. His eyes were dead, his demeanour permanently angry.

‘We should hide who we are. Cover Gjaldir’s sword, just say we are refugees. There are enough of those around.’

‘Most people will guess anyway. There aren’t many well-armed refugees around.’

Vidar just looked away.

‘We should head for the far North, before winter. Go to that place in the mountains the elder of Tuna told us about,’ Brunhild said.

‘Three hundred miles into the wilderness of Norway, to go to a town none of us has heard of, in mountains almost no one lives in?’

‘Just because you haven’t heard of it doesn’t mean it isn’t real. Enough people know it for them to decide to travel there, and it’s so remote the Christians might not follow,’ Brunhild said with venom in her voice.

Gjaldir shuddered. His small group of friends was starting to break down. All they did was argue now, and the arguments were getting more vicious by the day.

‘It might be our only choice,’ said Gjaldir reluctantly. ‘The Christians have gone up the coast as far north as we know of. Inland could be the safest place, and the further the better. We won’t survive the winter alone. We need to find shelter, somewhere with other people.’

‘And who will feed us? Even if this place exists it will be overrun with those refugees.’

‘We will trade for food, offer our weapons and what wealth we have left. Work for it. Whatever it takes.’ He glanced at the thick gold armring on his arm, his last armring, the only one he hadn’t cut up and sold for things they needed. He couldn’t bring himself to do it, not the one they had given him, inscribed with all their names as a symbol of their trust and faith.

‘Not all of us would make that journey. It is hard,’ said Bjorn.

‘All the more reason to do it now, in high summer. It will only get worse. Maybe they won’t follow us to Norway. As I hear it, Norway is still at peace.’

‘Peace?’ Vidar scowled. ‘Norway is their slave, bowed and broken. The Norwegian jarls will hand us over if they find us.’

‘Maybe not so deep into the mountains. Are there even jarls there?’ Gjaldir asked.

‘I don’t know. None of us know anything about this place, and that is the problem.’

Gjaldir shrugged. ‘I don’t see another choice. We can hide in the hills and villages of Hälsingland, maybe we will go unnoticed for a season. But a year, two? No. They will find us. Our only choice is to go far, far enough they can’t follow. Does anyone have any other options?’

No one said anything. Vidar just grumbled and stared at the ground.

‘Then everyone try and get some rest. We will have to move again tomorrow.’ Gjaldir leant in towards Vidar. ‘Stay here a moment.’

Vidar looked at him angrily, and nodded his head. When they were alone, Gjaldir put his hand on Vidar’s shoulder. ‘It’s not that I don’t listen to your opinion anymore, Vidar. I just believe we have to do this. Don’t be angry with me.’

‘I’m not angry with you, Gjaldir. I’m angry with everything. Look at us, starving and fleeing through the woods! This should not have been our fate.’

Gjaldir nodded. He felt the injustice of it keenly. The prophecy, the hope and expectations of the rebellion, all for nothing. The Crusade had burned through Svealand like a firebrand in summer hay, faster even than the rebellion had spread, and there was nothing left to save anymore. Its people were dead, enslaved, or on the run. He had considered abandoning the sword, it brought him little but anguish, but he never summoned the courage to do it. It would be the final admission of failure.

‘Why do we still keep that thing with us?’ Vidar said, looking over to their left. Gjaldir looked and saw Tormund the seer, sitting on his own by a tree, deep in contemplation as he always was. Almost no one talked to him anymore, they treated him with disgust verging on hostility. He hadn’t been subjected to outright violence yet, but Gjaldir thought it might not be far away.

‘I didn’t tell him to come with us.’

‘But you didn’t tell him not to.’

‘It would have made no difference. He does as he wants. I either allow him to follow us or I tie him to a tree and leave him for the Christians. And then he might spill our secrets.’

‘So kill him,’ Vidar spat. ‘He is the cause of all this.’

‘No.’ Gjaldir shook his head sadly. ‘We did this to ourselves. He only told us what we wanted to hear. Otherwise his words would have meant nothing.’

Vidar shook his head bitterly and looked away from the seer. Then he looked at his hands, nervously picking at a scab. ‘You know Astrid might not survive the journey. She isn’t well. She isn’t strong after three months on the run.’

Gjaldir felt his stomach churn and his breath caught. He did know it. Astrid was fading. It seemed she had given up in her mind and her body was following. He could see now how it was eating at Vidar, driving his bitterness.

He looked down at the ground, thinking hard about what he would say next, and the pain it caused him to think about it.

‘You don’t have to come with us.’

Vidar looked up, surprised, perhaps even slightly hurt. ‘I’m sworn to you.’

‘I remember, and I know that only death or my words can free you from that oath. I can say those words.’

‘It is not done,’ Vidar said, coldly. ‘Men will say I am a coward.’

‘No one that matters will say that, Vidar. It is impossible to believe.’

‘Why should the others follow you if I leave?’

Gjaldir considered it deeply. He did not understand why any of them followed him anymore, other than his four closest friends. Brunhild would die before she left him. Bjorn was constitutionally incapable of considering breaking his oath and Leif… Gjaldir thought of Leif as his closest friend. He hoped the idea of leaving had not tempted him, and the thought alone made him morose so he pushed it aside.

But of the others who remained? Dozens of his men had left the warband after the defeat in battle, simply wandering away. No one had tried to stop them, despite their oaths. But those with him had remained loyal. Why?

Why did they keep the faith? There was nothing left to them by following him, yet even Halfbjorn, who had mourned in near silence for more than a month, had stayed with them through everything.

Perhaps they just had nowhere else to go.

‘Each man will have to make his own choice,’ Gjaldir finally said. ‘I will give everyone the option to be freed of their oaths. We are past the time when it should be the only thing binding us together.’

Vidar’s brows furrowed but he nodded. ‘I will think about it. Would you hate me?’

‘I couldn’t hate you, Vidar. You have done so much. I will be happy for you, in fact. I want you to find somewhere safe to live with Astrid, that is all I want for any of us. If you don’t believe she can survive with us, then be free of us.’

Vidar sat back, looking conflicted. ‘I don’t know if I can do it.’

‘I understand.’

Gjaldir moved next to Vidar and pulled his battered sword around, taking Vidar’s hand and putting it forcefully on the pommel. Vidar looked at him in surprise and a little anger.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Giving you the choice.’ Gjaldir smiled ruefully. ‘But I didn’t think it through. I don’t know what words the lords of the North use to end their oaths.’

‘We don’t have customary words for such a craven act,’ Vidar said with a cold voice.

‘Well, it is good that I am not a lord of the North,’ replied Gjaldir. ‘Vidar Junge, I release you from your oath to me. You have done more than I could ever have asked.’

Vidar took his hand away angrily, looking at it as if it might have been burned. ‘Don’t be a hero, Gjaldir. We chose you, remember? We made you accept the oaths against your wish.’

‘It doesn’t matter, Vidar. It is done. You are free to choose your path.’

‘You have shamed me.’

‘I have given you a choice.’

‘Choice is a burden. Now I will be consumed by it. Our oaths make our lives simple, Southman. Now I have to bear the responsibility all on my own.’

‘I trust you to make the right decision.’ He smiled. ‘A man is nothing but his wyrd and his word. The gods may…’

‘Yes, I know! I know Ragnvald’s words. I must decide how to walk my own path, to meet my own fate,’ said Vidar, standing and still looking conflicted. Then he sighed. ‘Thank you, Gjaldir. I know you mean well.’

‘I will do the same for everyone. Don’t think I marked you out as a coward.’

‘I was still the first,’ Vidar grumbled.

‘It’s about time you were the first at something,’ Gjaldir said with a grin. ‘Go on now, go to Astrid and decide your path.’

Vidar nodded and walked away, leaving Gjaldir alone. He looked at Tormund, and saw the man had not moved. He thought about something that had been nagging at him for weeks, something he kept wanting to talk to him about. The true and secret reason he had not shunned the disgraced seer.

He walked over, and Tormund looked up and his eyes were still sharp and energetic, even if his body was still.

‘What troubles you, Gjaldir?’ Tormund said softly.

‘What troubles me?’ Gjaldir said in amazement. Tormund really had a very poor way with words.

‘You know I mean beyond our mortal problems. We all share those. I mean what troubles your soul, why do you cast such worried glances at me all the time?’

‘You saw that?’

Tormund cracked a tired smile. ‘I am a seer of things.’

Gjaldir grumbled and sat down, worried that he was letting himself in for another set of problems by opening this issue.

‘I had a dream,’ he finally said.

Tormund’s interest pricked up. ‘What kind of dream?’

Gjaldir thought about it. He was about to pass a fork in the road he could get return past, but there was no choice. He had to know, he had to have answers.

‘Your dream,’ Gjaldir said softly.

Tormund’s eyes lit up. ‘My dream? Which one, of Odin casting stones?’

Gjaldir nodded.

Tormund leant forwards, his wizened body alive with energy suddenly. ‘Tell me every detail.’

Gjaldir sighed. ‘I saw an old man standing at the edge of a misty lake. His face was turned from me, but I felt his power. He was casting stones into the mist across the still waters, watching them go, studying each one carefully.’

Tormund nodded eager. ‘That is what I saw too. This is a message from the gods, have no doubt.’

‘So you say. I saw sunlight playing on the surface, and fish jumping. I saw the stones bouncing on the ripples in the water and changing direction in their wake.’

‘Good, good. Yes, it is as I saw.’

‘It was not all as you saw,’ Gjaldir said, hesitating.

‘What else?’

Gjaldir met Tormund’s eyes. ‘I saw the shadow of a great beast in the mist, solid but not solid, the shape of a great wolf or perhaps a hound, sitting, waiting. The old man watched the stones, and then he turned to the shadow and the wolf howled, it sounded as if it was very far away.’

Tormund went still. ‘I never saw that. The old man, what did he do? What happened?’

‘Nothing, the dream ended with him watching the wolf.’

Tormund sat back, his eyes flicking from side to side as he thought about it. ‘The old man, did he look confident or fearful, excited or reluctant? Tell me everything you felt, not just what you saw.’

Gjaldir thought about it carefully, going over the memory. ‘He seemed at peace.’

Tormund nodded, closing his eyes. ‘At peace?’

‘Yes. He did not seem afraid, excited or surprised. He looked to that shadow like…’ Gjaldir waved his hands, unsure how to describe it.

‘Like a man accepting something he already knew was going to happen,’ Tormund said.

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

Tormund reached forwards and scrabbed at Gjaldir’s sword, trying to pull it free.

‘Hey!’ Gjaldir said angrily.

‘Give me the sword, let me see the hilt. Let me show you.’

Gjaldir grudgingly let the seer take the sword, and he turned it over and looked at the crossguard, holding it up in the summer evening light to show him. ‘You see this, this inscription. You know what this means?’

Gjaldir nodded. ‘Of course. It reads, “Garm howls loud before Gnipahellir.”’

Tormund shook his head. ‘I know you know the words, but do you know what it means?’

Gjaldir scrunched up his eyebrows defensively, his understanding of the Norse stories was shaky at best. ‘Garm is a wolf, Gnipahellir is a cave.’

‘Good, and do you hear him, in your dreams?’

‘Garm? No. I hear no wolf.’

‘Ah, you will, when it is your time. And why is the wolf howling?’

‘He is signalling for Ragnarok, a great war.’

‘Not a war, many wars, and the end of things and the birth of the world anew.’ Tormund closed his eyes and ran his bony fingers over the runes on the crossguard. ‘When the end of time comes, Garm will howl to be released from guarding the gates of Hel. His chains will break and he will be free to run into the realms of men, and Hel will follow in his wake. The mighty winter will come and bring with it suffering and death, and then the great wars will follow, and all the people of Midgard will all die by the end of them.’

Tormund looked enlivened, excited even.

‘Do you not recognise the events that I am describing, Gjaldir?’

Gjaldir nodded dumbly, it was impossible to pretend he did not. ‘The weeping winter, two years ago.’

‘Indeed,’ said Tormund solemnly. ‘And then all that has followed has been unceasing war and the death of our people.’

Tormund opened his eyes again and reverently looked at the sword. ‘All of it was foretold, right here on your blade and in our dreams.’ He breathed hard. ‘Ragnarok is upon us.’

Gjaldir furrowed his brows, anger suddenly rising. ‘If this is the end of everything then why did you say this sword would lead our people to freedom!’

‘I did not say that, Gjaldir. That is the meaning people chose to take from my words. I said that as long as this blade was wielded by a Norseman steadfast and true, the people had a future. I did not know exactly what the gods meant by that message, and still do not. I have told you, and you have seen yourself, that Odin speaks in circles and mist. Nothing is clear unless he wishes it to be.’

‘But now you say we have no future, that we will all die?’

Tormund looked at Gjaldir with a piercing glare. ‘Are you steadfast and true, or are you racked with doubts and accepting of your defeat?’

Gjaldir puffed, fury swirling in his breast. But he could not lash out, he knew it was true. He had already considered giving in, discarding the sword, even, in his darkest moments, of trying to return home.

‘So what comes after the wars?’ he said bitterly. ‘What is the world made anew?’

Tormund looked down at the blade. ‘I don’t know. That is hidden from us mortals. There will be a war of the gods after the wars of men, and many will be slain. Odin will live again and lead the victorious to build the world anew and bring men forth to live in it. But how, or why? I do not know. Some say that this has happened many times before, and will happen many times again. That Ragnarok is like the winter of the gods, passing every year of their time, made vast and incomprehensible by our mortal minds.’

‘So what do we do?’ Gjaldir asked, helplessly.

‘We hold on to our belief, Gjaldir,’ he said, passing the sword back. ‘We remain steadfast and true. The gods will decide the rest.’

‘How can you know you are right this time, Tormund, after so many predictions have been wrong?’

Tormund levered himself to his feet, suddenly shivering. ‘That is the wise question, Gjaldir. I do not know the answer. I will go and seek it and I will tell you what I find.’

‘Do you think that is good enough?’ Gjaldir stood, anger and fear filling his lungs and spilling from his tongue. ‘We have followed your stories to what you claim is the end of the world, followed this sword you say will save us, and you will just go and think about it to decide if it was true? How easy it is for you to say so much and sacrifice so little while you manipulate men to their deaths.’

Tormund looked shocked at the venom Gjaldir showed, and his eyes fell. He nodded slowly. ‘You are right, Gjaldir. It is time I made a sacrifice of my own for our future.’

And then Tormund wandered off, head down, hands tightly clutching the pouch of bones that still hung around his neck. Gjaldir was left standing there huffing and roiling, unsure what to do or what to think.

Gjaldir tried to put Tormund from his mind, and the strange man did not re-appear until the following morning, when he did not speak to anyone, just sat in his tiny makeshift tent.

Gjaldir gathered the group around, meeting each one of their gazes. ‘I have decided where we will go, and it will be our final destination. But the journey will be difficult and long, and before we go, I want to give each of you the choice, to leave now free of shame or dishonour, or come with us of your own will. I release each and every one of you from your oaths.’ He looked at Bjorn. ‘Except Bjorn, who would kill me for doing so.’

Bjorn give him a raised eyebrow and a couple of men had the decency to laugh a little, and it eased Gjaldir’s tension.

He looked down at his sword helplessly. ‘I thought that I would make a little ceremony of it, but perhaps after all we have been through together, it is enough simply to say it is done. I consider every one of you to have fulfilled your oaths beyond what any man could expect, and you are released.’

He felt a tear well up in his eye. ‘I am sorry that I failed you, when you have not failed me.’

Leif came forwards and embraced him. ‘You did not fail us, Gjaldir. It was not your doing.’

‘Our people failed,’ Brunhild said with a shrug. ‘Instead of uniting, they squabbled over power like children, again and again. The vanity and stupidity of powerful men.’ She looked away, her hard face set in a pinched expression of distaste.

Gjaldir smiled a little. ‘Whatever the reason, it does not matter now. You are all free to decide your path. But you must make that choice now. Anyone who leaves cannot know where we are going.’ He shrugged apologetically. ‘You all know why.’

One of the women leaned in and spoke in her man’s ear. The warrior argued quietly, but then his head sank and he relented. ‘Gjaldir. I have to go, I am sorry. She has family north of here. We will go to them.’

‘Don’t be sorry, Erik. You have nothing to be sorry for. You should all try and be with your families.’

Several of the others made the same decision. A group of four warriors, the last of Rekke’s men, decided to leave also, they wanted to head back to their homelands in Jarl Einar’s old domain and see what remained.

When all had made their decision, seventeen men and four women were left. The two groups started saying their farewells.

Vidar was standing with Astrid to one side, looking guilty.

He caught Gjaldir’s eyes, and Gjaldir gave him a knowing nod, stepping to one side away from the group. Vidar nervously came over to him.

Vidar nodded. ‘I thought about it deeply.’

‘And?’

‘We’ve made our choice. I’m going to go with Astrid.’ Vidar half choked. ‘We want to find some peace, if it is possible.’

‘I understand.’

Vidar drew in a deep, ragged breath. ‘I don’t know how I can leave you all, what will our friends think of me?’

Gjaldir nodded, and put his hand on Vidar’s shoulder. ‘They will understand, you are making the right decision.’ He leant in closer. ‘You know they will never let me go, Vidar. They will hunt me to the end of the earth for what I did. The Order will never rest, never forget. Everyone who comes with me is in danger. Go, go with Astrid and live for the rest of us. You have to do what it takes to protect her, to find somewhere to be happy with her, if it is even possible. It will give me strength and peace just knowing it.’

Vidar looked at Astrid, who was alone, looking nervous and out of place. ‘I think happiness is beyond us.’

‘Perhaps it can be enough to be safe and comfortable then.’

‘Can anyone have that anymore? Where?’

‘I don’t know, Vidar. But the Christians cannot reach everywhere. Go and find your path.’

Vidar bit his lip and looked at Astrid again.

‘How will I tell the others? I won’t have the strength.’

Gjaldir squeezed Vidar’s arm. ‘I will tell them for you.’

Vidar moaned softly and hung his head. ‘I won’t let you shame me like that.’

‘Then go back to her,’ Gjaldir said, giving Vidar a little shove towards Astrid. ‘And speak to your friends.’

Vidar went over to Astrid and Gjaldir watched him with a sad smile. Leif saw what was happening and came over with an apprehensive look. ‘You are leaving, brother?’

‘I am,’ said Vidar, barely able to meet Leif’s eye.

Leif smiled and pulled the raven-haired huskarl into an embrace. ‘I am happy for you.’

‘Truly?’

Leif nodded and laughed. ‘Of course. Go with her, and find the peace that I cannot.’

Bjorn came over and clasped arms with Vidar. ‘Good luck, brother,’ the stout warrior said.

Vidar slumped in relief at their smiles and support. ‘Look after Gjaldir. He is an idiot without you.’

Leif smiled. ‘He is! But don’t worry.’ He grabbed a surprised Brunhild by the shoulder and pulled her into the little group. ‘The three of us will make sure he doesn’t do anything too stupid.’

Vidar laughed and nodded, giving them all one final embrace. Then he turned away, cuffing at his eyes, and took Astrid by the hand. ‘It’s time to go.’

She nodded quietly, looking at Gjaldir and managing a small smile. He smiled back and mouthed, ‘Good fortune,’ as Vidar led her away.

Those who were leaving said their parting words and set off together eastwards, leaving Gjaldir with those who had decided to go with him.

‘So where are we going?’ Toke asked, when their erstwhile companions were out of sight.

‘Norway,’ Gjaldir said.

Toke frowned. ‘Norway? Norway is south-west, through Christian lands. And they are servants of the Christians now, if we go there we will be found.’

‘We aren’t going south-west. We are going north-west, into the mountains, where the Christians have not gone, and maybe will never go.’

‘The mountains?’ Toke looked alarmed. ‘Life is hard up there, they are a different people.’

‘If anyone can survive, it will be us. What can happen to us that we have not endured already? There is a place we have heard of, a high plateau surrounded by the mountains where there is grass in summer in the valleys and game in the forests, and people live in peace.’

‘That sounds like another story from your seer.’

Gjaldir smiled. ‘Our seer has no knowledge of it. This is a place we have heard of from people who have been there. Or so they claim.’

He shrugged. ‘It is our best choice, and we must get there before winter closes the mountain passes.’

Toke nodded, but he still looked unsure. Many of them did. Gjaldir was not surprised, he was not just asking them to leave their homeland, but to travel to another kingdom entirely and an unknowable fate.

‘There is nothing to do but begin,’ said Leif, shouldering his heavy bundle.

Gjaldir nodded, stepping forwards into the little gathering. ‘Indeed. Let’s leave this place and the Christian dogs behind us.’

Vidar looked down at the stream, taking a moment to rest and stretch. Astrid clung to his side, tired but refusing to complain. The little river was clear and broad, perhaps ten paces across with a lively, churning current flowing over dark rocks and pebbles. On both sides the river was lined with reeds and bushes. It looked quiet and beautiful.

They had left Gjaldir two days ago, and parted from the rest of the small group who left that morning as everyone split up to go their separate ways.

It was a hot summer’s day and he was sweating. The waters of the stream looked enticing. They had not washed for days. He looked down at Astrid and thought that bathing might reinvigorate her.

‘Do you want to wash, my love?’

Astrid looked up and him, thinking, and then silently nodded. He kissed her on the head and they walked down to the stream. He pulled his rusty maille from his body with her help. He should probably have abandoned it by now, but he couldn’t face going without it yet. He wanted to be sure they were safe first.

He laid his maille down and put his sword and seax with it. His shield and helmet were long gone, too much of a burden. He decided right then he would leave his armour and sword on the riverbank where they lay, and continue with just his seax. They were far less likely to arouse suspicion or alarm if he wasn’t armed, and that would probably keep them safer than his sword and maille.

He looked at the sorry pile of iron and felt a wave of immense relief, a profound sense that a change had been made.

His time of fighting was behind him. I will never touch that sword again.

The relief of it, after years of fear and war, was almost overwhelming. He laughed and Astrid looked at him in confusion. ‘What?’

‘Oh, it’s just something I decided.’

‘What did you decide?’

Vidar grinned and pulled his shoes off. He was about to remove his tunic and trousers, but they were so filthy and the day was so warm he decided to do that once he was in the water.

He picked up Astrid, ignoring her squeal of protest, and carried her into the river, splashing in up to his waist, his footing uncertain on the smooth stones of the riverbed. Then he lowered her into the stream with a whoop of delight, careful not to push her under the water completely.

She gasped with the shock of the cold water but her face lit up with a smile as she batted at him. ‘No! You beast!’

He laughed and swirled her in the water.

‘I’m sorry, I am just feeling free.’

‘What has got into you?’ she said, but his joy was infectious, and she smiled as she clung to him in the water, her soaked tunic wrapping her tightly and hugging her thin figure like a second skin.

‘We are leaving our past behind, my love. The war and the loss. We will leave this river fresh and new, and find somewhere safe and quiet to live.’

‘Truly?’ She looked at him earnestly, eyes wide and showing a desperate hope that made his chest ache.

‘Truly.’

She smiled, pushing her head into his chest, her hands going behind his shoulders and clinging to his sodden clothes. They swirled there in the water, gently bobbing and swaying in the current, wrapped in a close embrace. Astrid pulled her head up and pushed away from him gently, taking her tunic off and throwing it over a nearby rock with a nervous giggle.

Vidar’s smile deepened, and he quickly pulled his own tunic off, adding it to the pile. Astrid nervously sidled up to him, reaching up and toying with a length of his hair, which was matted and dirty.

Vidar teased at the strands of his hair and smiled. Then he backed off and ducked under the water, immersing himself completely and rubbing his hair furiously to free it from the dirt and sweat and muck.

He felt the hair break apart and he stood again, breaking the surface and sweeping his hair back with a snort and a deep intake of breath. He laughed at the pleasure of it.

‘Vidar!’ Astrid squealed in fear.

He opened his eyes, confused, to see her squatting in the stream facing half away from him and covering her nakedness with her arms.

He followed her gaze, suddenly feeling the presence in the corner of his vision. His blood froze in his veins as he saw four men standing with their horses on the banks, right where he had left his equipment, watching them casually.

Men that wore white surcoats emblazoned with a golden cross.

He took hold of Astrid’s arm, feeling her shivering from the terror and the cold, and pulled her behind himself. Vidar’s eyes flicked to his sword, out of reach on the bank, a world away.

One of the Order soldiers saw Vidar’s eyes flick to the sword, and he looked down, toeing the pile of maille and weapons with his boot. Then he looked up again with a vicious smile, and his hand moved to the hilt of his own sword.

‘What do we do?’ whispered Astrid in a shaking voice.

Vidar just stared at the knight, and his legs turned to ice underneath him.

‘I don’t know.’

Chapter 37

A Search for Sanctuary

Gjaldir moved through their small camp, greeting his small band one by one. ‘There is no one following us,’ he said to delighted faces.

They had been travelling for a few days, heading north-west through increasingly sparsely inhabited lands. They had seen a group of horsemen the previous day, and he and some of the warriors had stayed behind to watch them, to fight them if needed, while the others went to hide.

But the horsemen had passed without catching sight of them or their trail, and he had returned to the camp tired but grateful as night closed in, with nothing on his mind except sleep.

‘Rest now, we move in the morning,’ he said, and went towards his bedroll.

As he did, he caught sight of the small makeshift tent of Tormund, off to one side of the camp. He was one of the only ones with a tent, one of the few who could carry one since he had neither armour nor weapons to weigh him down. It was one of the many things that made him unpopular with the rest of the group, and no one spoke to him anymore, although none had overtly defied Gjaldir by trying to force him to leave them.

He went over to the tent and found Tormund there, staring into nothingness in the distance.

Just as Gjaldir was about to turn and leave, Tormund finally spoke.

‘I dreamt again, Gjaldir. The gods spoke to me, although their voice was weak.’

‘I thought you no longer dreamt of the gods?’ said Gjaldir in surprise, turning back.

‘I sacrificed something for one final seeing, a trade to earn their blessing.’ Tormund smiled sadly, looked more wizened than he even had before. ‘I had to know. I had to know if you would be successful, after all this pain.’

‘What do you mean, sacrificed?’

Tormund looked off into the distance, sadness in his eyes. ‘Do you know why I am called Tormund Five-Bones?’

Gjaldir pointed to the pouch around his neck. ‘Everyone knows, the bones you carry with you everywhere.’

Tormund laughed, a dry, rasping cackle that had only a madman’s mirth. ‘No one knows what they are, I have never told a living soul. That was part of my first trade with the gods, a secret I swore I would bear until the day I died.’

‘I don’t understand your meaning, Tormund, but I tire of your words and your dreams, and none of it seems to be true. I have other things to do before I rest.’

‘No!’ gasped Tormund, and a bony hand shot out to grab hold of Gjaldir’s arm with surprising strength. He intended to protest, but he as he turned back to look at Tormund he stopped, seeing something in the seer’s face he had never seen before: fear.

‘Please, listen to me, for what I tell you is the truth and it has cost me a great deal.’

Gjaldir wanted to pull away, but Tormund’s desperate look compelled him and he relaxed in the seer’s grasp.

The bony grip slowly relinquished and Tormund deflated in relief.

‘So what did you dream?’ Gjaldir asked reluctantly.

Tormund took a deep breath and closed his eyes, and Gjaldir could see the eyeballs moving rapidly beneath the wrinkled lids, reliving whatever it was the seer had experienced.

‘Death and success,’ he finally said. ‘You will suffer more death, more misery, but if you can bear it, the salvation of our people will be the reward.’

Gjaldir grimaced. ‘That is of no use to me, even for one of your pronouncements. Whose death?’

Tormund shook his head. ‘I do not know, it is hidden from me. But you must persist, Gjaldir, for if you can bear the pain and retain your faith, your quest will eventually be successful.’

‘And what is my quest, Tormund? I am not sure I can even remember.’

‘To be the light of our people in the darkness; to be their hope of a future,’ Tormund whispered.

‘How? Look how few we are, how defeated. You say Odin demands more sacrifice, but we have so little left to give.’

‘All things are possible, Gjaldir.’ Tormund finally opened his eyes but the sadness remained in them. ‘I didn’t tell you why I am called Tormund Five-Bones, or of the first trade I made.’

Gjaldir sighed. ‘I do not suppose you will let me leave until you do.’

Tormund nodded. ‘You are often wise, young Gjaldir.’

‘So?’

Tormund slowly reached up and took the old pouch from his neck, and carefully poured the contents out onto his lap. The five yellowed knuckle-bones gathered in a pile.

‘I wanted to be a great seer when I was a young man, to receive the shards of Odin’s wisdom. I wanted it so badly. I had glimpses of him, you see. Faint traces in the corners of my dreams. But however hard I tried to reach him, I never could. I wanted to know the future, of how things would pass. I wanted it so badly that one night I screamed an oath at the blackness that I would do whatever it took.’ Tormund smiled sadly, and a tear rolled down his cheek as he caressed the knuckle-bones.

‘And the darkness whispered back. The voice, so powerful and aged I knew it could only be the Allfather, spoke to me. “A great gift requires a great sacrifice,” he said. And I saw the faintest shadow of the Allfather, and saw the black pit of his missing eye that he sacrificed for wisdom, and finally I understood. I too had to make a sacrifice.’

‘But you still have two eyes,’ said Gjaldir, confused.

‘Because I did not value my eyes so highly to sacrifice one, as Odin did,’ said Tormund in a deadly whisper. And he lovingly gathered the five knuckle-bones. ‘So I sacrificed the thing I loved the most.’

Gjaldir was hit by a wave of horror, and he recoiled, staring at the bones. ‘No…Who?’

‘My brother, my twin. We were birthed into the world together, and swore we would never be apart, so I carry him still.’

‘You killed your own brother!’ Gjaldir said, aghast.

Tormund nodded, weeping freely, cradling the bones.

‘And what did you get in return for this vile trade?’ Gjaldir said in horrified outrage.

‘My wish. I became an Odinseer, and I was gifted with the future – in my brother’s stolen years, and in the visions that Odin brought me.’

Gjaldir stared at Tormund, appalled but fascinated. ‘And what did you sacrifice for this second trade, to learn my future?’

Tormund’s sad face broke into a smile. ‘The gifts I received the first time, I have relinquished.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘You will,’ said Tormund softly, and then he looked back at the yellowed bones. ‘You will see the truth.’

He did not speak for long enough that Gjaldir stood to rise, his mind tumbling with the revulsion of Tormund’s revelations. As he stood, Tormund sobbed once, long and heartfelt, and his eyes raised to Gjaldir, full of pain.

‘I thought I was the fish, from our dream,’ he said with a mournful sigh. ‘But I think that I was only a ripple, set to guide you this far and then pass on.’ He shook his head and looked at the sky in grief. ‘I killed my own dear brother to be a ripple.’

‘Tormund, what have you sacrificed?’

Tormund’s lip quivered and he whispered softly, almost like he was deflating, ‘Time.’

Gjaldir stared at Tormund as the man’s glassy eyes slowly returned to the pile of bones, and, disgusted by the whole display, he finally closed the flap to leave the weeping seer alone.

Troubled and upset, he went to find Brunhild’s comforting embrace, and the release of sleep.

In the morning, he roused the group to march again. It was not far to their destination, so they thought, and they needed to get there before they starved.

When most of them were ready to go, Gjaldir looked around and saw that the seer’s rough tent was still standing. He scowled in irritation. He had not sought the man since the disturbing revelations of the night before. ‘Is Tormund awake?’ he asked.

Leif looked over and then shrugged. ‘I have not seen him.’

Gjaldir huffed, considering leaving the man to catch up, or perhaps leave him behind altogether, but decided against it and walked over to the tent.

‘Get up, you old fool,’ he said, reaching for the flap and pulling it aside.

He gasped in shock, almost losing his footing as he backed away.

‘What?’ called Leif in concern, running over to join him, and then stumbling to a halt as he saw what Gjaldir had seen.

A dried, yellowed skeleton sat in Tormund’s clothes, a few scraps of ancient skin and wispy hair clinging to its skull. Its empty sockets were angled down, staring at the two bony hands and the scatter of yellowed knuckle-bones that still lay between them in the torn and weathered tunic.

‘Dear gods,’ whispered Leif. ‘What foul trick is this?’

Gjaldir gulped, regaining some of his composure. ‘It is not a trick. I think it really is him.’

‘This is Tormund? What do you mean? This man looks like he has been dead for years.’

‘Decades, I think, maybe more,’ Gjaldir said slowly, the understanding of Tormund’s words the night before finally hitting him. The gift of his brother’s stolen years had been taken back.

Leif looked at him. ‘I don’t understand. What is this, magic?’

Gjaldir shook his head. ‘I don’t know, but we need to leave.’

‘And what of… this?’ Leif said, looking around. No one else had seen them yet.

Gjaldir snapped out of his stupor and nodded, taking one last look at the wizened corpse and gingerly closing the flap of the tent. ‘Leave it as it is, tell no one what you have seen.’

‘What?’ Leif looked completely lost, and a little afraid. ‘They will wonder where he is.’

‘We will tell them that he died in his sleep. And that we are leaving his body for the ravens, as he wanted. No one will miss him.’

Leif took one last wide-eyed look at the closed tent, and then shivered. ‘As you ask. I would never be able to explain what has happened anyway.’ He looked at Gjaldir. ‘I still don’t understand.’

Gjaldir nodded. ‘I think I do, maybe I will explain it to you later.’ Then he shrugged. ‘Or maybe it is better you do not know.’

‘What did he say to you, last night?’ Leif asked, still looking shocked.

Gjaldir tensed his jaw, shaking his head sadly. ‘He said our sacrifice and loss was not yet finished.’

‘Do you believe him?’

Gjaldir motioned helplessly to the abandoned and ancient tent.

‘I don’t know, but he gave his life to tell me what he saw. Come, we must go. Whatever our fate is, this is our path, we have nothing left to do but walk it.’

‘Gjaldir! Horsemen!’ Leif hissed from the front.

Gjaldir looked up from the track they were following in alarm. His heart sank, horsemen almost certainly meant Christians.

They had not seen Christians for several days since the last patrol they had spotted. But this one was much closer.

They all pushed into the undergrowth at the side of the path, getting low and listening.

He heard nothing for a while and then he heard a whinny, distinct and clear in the morning air. And another, getting louder and from the same direction through the light forest. The horsemen were coming their way. He looked around desperately, their shelter was not good enough to hide them from view, and there was nowhere good to run, the ground around them was relatively open.

‘Weapons!’ he hissed, and the men reacted instantly, dumping their kit and belongings on the ground. They all marched in their maille, it was a burden but it was easier to wear than to carry and they dared not abandon it. Only half of them still carried shields and few still had helmets, although Gjaldir retained his. It had saved his life too many times.

Most of them had spears and all had a sword or long seax too and they readied themselves in the bushes as best they could.

The horses got closer and closer as Gjaldir held his breath, trying to remain silent and immobile. The sound of their hooves on the hard earth came closer and closer. There were a few of them, it was not a lone rider. Then he heard voices, not raised in alarm, just talking to each other.

They all remained there, crouched in the foliage not half a dozen paces from the path until Gjaldir could see glimpses of the horsemen through the leaves. As they drew level, Gjaldir thought they might get away with it, but one of the horsemen must have looked in the wrong place, and a voice called out in alarm.

‘Kill them!’ shouted Gjaldir, springing from the bushes and jumping at the nearest rider, a shocked-looking soldier in full armour and a helmet, who made the mistake of trying to go for his sword, fumbling at it in panic.

Gjaldir used the time he had been gifted to reach up and yank the man from his saddle, dumping him on the ground with a heavy thud and a croak of shock and pain as the man was winded.

Running out of breath quickly became the lesser of the soldier’s problems as Gjaldir put a handspan of Ljós a Norðan’s steel through his neck.

He looked up quickly, putting his shield up just in time as another horseman pushed over and hacked at him overhand, hitting his shield twice before two howling warriors transfixed the enemy horseman with their spears, pushing them in towards each other as the man screamed and wriggled and the horse bolted underneath him.

Gjaldir turned towards the back of the little column of enemy, which he could see now was only about eight men, and found two belted knights at the rear who had been out of reach of the initial attack and were now powering into the melee with their spears.

One unfortunate warrior was spitted by a knight’s spear, the glistening head bursting through near his spine and staying in him as he fell, writhing, to the ground.

The Order knight let go of the shaft even before the warrior fell, and drew his sword, rising in his stirrups in the same movement and cutting down deftly from height, splitting the skull of a woman who was trying to grab hold of his leg to pull him down.

Gjaldir roared in heartbreak and anger as the confused-looking woman slumped to her knees, her arms completely lifeless by her sides. Her eyes, pinned wide, flicked side to side in fear as her body turned to jelly underneath her and then a horse knocked her down and she was gone in a tumble of hooves.

Brunhild went down to one knee with her, staring horrified into her dying friend’s face.

Gjaldir shoved his way towards the two knights, screaming at his people. ‘Bring them down!’

He ignored an unhorsed soldier who was wrestling with Bjorn, leaving them behind to roll in the dirt as he charged in towards the two knights, who were circling their horses and fending off a half-dozen of his own warriors.

As he got close enough, he saw Toke try and make a lunge for a horse’s flank as it spun, ducking a sword swing and trying to strike back with his own blade.

He only scored it across its flank and the outraged animal half spun and lashed out with both hooves, putting all its power into a kick that crunched sickeningly straight into Toke’s chest, lifting him off his feet and scattering his shield and weapons, driving him clear across the path to land in a heap against a tree trunk.

‘No!’ Halfbjorn shouted, leaping forwards and hammering at the knight’s sword arm.

The knight made a parry but the force of the blow knocked his sword from his hand and he swore, reaching over and pulling a short blade from his other hip, rendering him almost defenceless if it wasn’t for the vigour with which his horse circled and kicked and bit.

The second knight saw the trouble his fellow was in and snapped a quick look to the front of the column where the six soldiers were dead or dying, the last of them being slaughtered in the dirt.

The second knight flipped his spear overhand and threw it at a warrior who was trying to skewer the disarmed one, scoring a glancing blow that made the warrior shout in pain and pull back from his attack.

Then Bjorn timed his moment and leapt on the first knight’s left arm, pinning his knife and stopping the horse from spinning. The knight responded by hammering on Bjorn’s helmet with his mailled fist and then wrestling for the dagger as Leif jumped in and sank his seax into the Christian’s thigh.

The knight howled in pain and anger, kicking at Leif and his horse, trying to free himself, but two more warriors grabbed him and his beast and he was doomed.

He twisted in his saddle and shouted something at the other knight in French. Gjaldir did not understand the words, but he could tell their intent. He was telling his comrade to run.

Gjaldir felt a surge of panic, none of them could be allowed to escape.

‘Get him!’ he roared as the few warriors around the second knight, who was still armed and clearing his horse, batting back the nervous spear thrusts and sword swipes.

Gjaldir ran past the first knight, who was being dragged from his horse to be slaughtered, and grabbed at the second one’s reins. The knight brought his sword back and down in a wide arc that ripped the neck out of the warrior next to Gjaldir before bouncing off the top of his helmet with a clang.

Halfbjorn, eyes wide with anger, wound up his arm to make a slash at the rider but the horseman managed to deflect it and the blade bit into the animal’s rump just as Gjaldir was getting hold of its reins.

The horse screamed in pain and anger and launched itself, ripping the reins free of Gjaldir’s hand and setting off down the path at a gallop, the knight quickly casting a look back over his shoulder and seeing that he was the last one alive.

Someone threw a spear at the fleeing man as he passed them, but the shaft just rattled off the knight’s armour and he was gone.

‘Fuck!’ shouted Gjaldir in frustration, looking back and seeing the carnage. Four of his people were down, unmoving, and Halfbjorn was rushing to Toke, kneeling in the dirt and dropping his weapons, leaning in to his friend in panic.

Gjaldir walked over, numbly, and saw blood frothing at Toke’s mouth. The man was desperately trying to breathe, and it made an awful sucking, bubbling sound. His chest was caved in, broken ribs piercing his lungs.

Gjaldir just looked on in despair as Toke tried to speak and Halfbjorn held his hand and begged his friend to breathe.

Toke’s eyes went wider and wider and his gasps for air became more ragged and then they stopped with a sigh, and his body relaxed. Halfbjorn squeezed his friend’s hand and bent his head, sobbing.

Gjaldir looked to the sky and closed his eyes, the pain of it washing over him and threatening to overwhelm him. He had hoped they were finished with death and loss.

‘Gjaldir, we have to leave. We don’t know when more will come.’

He looked round to see Leif gesturing to him.

‘I know,’ Gjaldir muttered.

‘Gather your things, we have to run,’ he said, more loudly.

Halfbjorn ignored him, just staring at Toke in shock. Nearby a warrior was kneeling by the dead woman, weeping and trying to wipe the blood from her hair.

‘Help him, please,’ Gjaldir said, pointing Brunhild at the devastated man.

She nodded dully, putting her hands on his arm and talking to him quietly.

‘Halfbjorn, we have to go,’ Gjaldir said.

‘I will not,’ sniffed Halfbjorn. ‘I have nothing left.’

‘We cannot give up, not now. We are not leaving you for the Christians. Come on, let’s move!’

Bjorn came over and half lifted the man to his feet.

‘We have horses now, at least,’ said one of the two remaining women, Branna, walking over with a frightened horse in tow.

Gjaldir shook his head. ‘We can’t take them.’ He pointed at its hooves. ‘Too easy to track, too loud.’

The woman looked crestfallen, but nodded. ‘Shame we can’t eat the damn things then.’

‘No time,’ said Gjaldir. ‘Come on, get your things, let’s move!’

The group moved into the bushes, Bjorn leading Halfbjorn, and they collected their kit.

Five sad piles were left on the floor. Five piles of belongings and equipment that had just so recently belonged to friends and followers who would never pick them up again.

He turned from the abandoned equipment with tears in his eyes even as Bjorn, thinking more clearly than the rest of them, rummaged through the piles for what little food they had left.

Then they set off again, heading off the path, jogging towards the next treeline where Gjaldir hoped they would be able to lose any pursuit when it came.

They all gathered in the trees, looking distraught and afraid.

‘They will be coming for us, and quickly. We have to march now, stay out of sight, and get away from this place as fast as possible. We cannot leave anyone behind. Anyone, understood?’

‘And what if someone cannot carry on?’ Brunhild said.

‘We will carry them.’

‘And what if we are too weak to carry them?’

Gjaldir grimaced, looking away. ‘We cannot leave anyone behind,’ he said again, rising to his feet. ‘Let’s move, now. Keep silent as we go.’

His weary group fell in behind him, heads down and blood still dripping from weapons and arms. Halfbjorn was softly weeping.

Tormund’s last words burned in Gjaldir’s mind. They simply had to keep going, to endure. He remembered what Gunnar had scrawled on his shield with his dying moments.

Persist.

The camp they made that night was sparse and mournful, and Leif watched in despair as the denuded band went about their chores in silence. Even Gjaldir, usually a font of energy, was quiet, sitting with his elbows on his knees, deep in some dark contemplation.

Gjaldir looked up as Leif walked over, his eyes glassy.

‘We have done as much as we can to avoid them following us,’ Leif said, trying to sound reassuring. ‘We just need to rest now.’

Gjaldir nodded mutely, then he looked around and his brows furrowed. ‘Can you find Brunhild? I have not seen her.’

Leif looked up and found Brunhild’s sleeping spot was empty, and nodded. ‘I will look for her, you need to eat and rest.’

‘I am not hungry, save the food for those that are.’

‘You are, we all are. Eat, because I do not want to carry you when you are too weak.’ Leif smiled thinly. ‘If you lose the ability to walk, Branna might suggest eating you.’

Gjaldir just shrugged, but he levered himself to his feet and wandered over to where Branna and Bjorn were preparing their scant food and sharing it out.

Leif instead went over towards the edge of the camp, down towards where the small stream passed by. He thought he had seen Brunhild that way earlier when he had gone down to fetch water.

Sure enough, after making his way down the bank a short while, he came across her staring into the water listlessly.

He approached softly, and she did not look up. He sat down near her and stared into the water with her for a while, not disturbing her peace.

She finally looked up at him with annoyance. ‘Do you have to be here, right here?’

Leif shrugged apologetically. ‘Gjaldir was worried.’

‘Gjaldir is always worried.’

‘Yes. Yes, he is, and we are the better for it.’

‘How can he just continue?’ she asked, looking at him with a trembling expression. ‘Where does he find the strength, after all this loss?’

Leif was taken aback. ‘From us, Brunhild. From you. You think he doesn’t feel it? The despair and loss? You keep him going, Brunhild, more than any other.’

‘I cannot be what he wants me to be,’ she said bitterly, staring at the river again. ‘Not any more.’

‘Nonsense. He would never have made it this far without you, he has told me that himself.’

She shook her head. ‘You think that I should be proud that I have helped him get this far, but you do not see the truth, Leif. I have led him into his own destruction, the destruction of all of us.’

‘We all made our own choices.’

‘No, I pushed him into this. All he wanted was to be with me, to have a family, and I took him down this path, I persuaded him he could lead us all to freedom. And now look at us.’

‘You are not responsible for this, Brunhild,’ Leif said, feeling almost angry. ‘We all wanted to fight, we all helped persuade each other. I know Signe’s death must be hard on you, I know you were close, but stop punishing yourself. Gjaldir may well have wanted to live in peace, raise a family with you… but none of us has got what we wanted. It is not the way of the world.’

Brunhild laughed bitterly. ‘He had what he wanted, and I took it from him.’

‘What do you mean?’

She looked up at him, and her eyes were wet with tears. ‘I was so desperate never to be owned again, Leif. You have no idea what it is like to be a slave, to be a woman who is owned. How could you? You were one of the men who owned me!’

Leif felt a surge of guilt, and he looked away, unable to meet her accusing eyes.

‘I am sorry,’ he said, lamely.

‘It poisoned me, Leif. It poisoned me against Ordulf’s love. Because that is who he is: Ordulf. Gjaldir is the thing we have forced him to be to satisfy our needs. But he isn’t Gjaldir, the mighty warrior who will lead us to freedom. He is Ordulf, the scared boy who just wanted to live with me in peace, and raise his son. And we took that from him. You took his freedom, and I took his son and his choices. Now look where we have led him.’

Leif stared across the stream, trying to find the words to deny it, but knowing it was true. He himself had taken Ordulf into slavery, had trained him to be a warrior, had helped persuade him to lead the warband because he had been too scared and too conflicted to do it himself.

Then he suddenly realised what Brunhild had said, and he turned to stare at her in confusion. ‘What do you mean, his son?’

Brunhild’s look faded from anger to sadness, and she crumpled around that feeling, hollowing out in front of him.

‘Aeske was his son, Leif. And I was too afraid of what he wanted from me to tell him.’

‘Aeske was Otto’s son,’ said Leif, confused and horrified.

‘No. I just told Otto to tell everyone that. I never lay with him, I’ve not lain with anyone else since Ordulf.’ She looked down, her voice barely a whisper. ‘Aeske was his. It was all he wanted, to have a son with me and raise him. He was so wonderful with him even though he thought he was another man’s.’ She rocked back slowly. ‘But I feared that loving him, allowing him to love me, would just be another kind of ownership.’

She shook he head. ‘Now it’s too late. We could have left, just the three of us, and found safety. But the life we could have had is gone.’

Leif was stunned into silence, with horror and sympathy swirling in his chest. ‘It’s not too late,’ he croaked. ‘You can still have that life again, once we cross the mountains.’

Brunhild sighed and dragged herself to her feet. ‘Stop telling yourself that lie, Leif. We will be hunted for the rest of our lives. They will never stop looking for the man Gjaldir that we created, and he will never have peace.’ She shrugged helplessly. ‘How can I remake a life with him like that?’

Leif knew what she was saying was true, and it hurt him, deeply. ‘So what do we do? What are you going to do? Will you tell him?’

Brunhild did not speak for a moment, staring off at some unseeable thing in the distance. ‘No,’ she finally said. ‘It would just hurt him more, and he bears enough pain for all of us. I will just support him, and keep my oath.’

‘To what end?’

‘It doesn’t matter. Until the end, that is what is important. We started him on this path, and all we can do is stay with him on it.’

Leif stood up too. ‘Then you should go to him, give him one less thing to worry about, and let him know we are there for him.’

Brunhild nodded. ‘Perhaps that is all we can do.’

Chapter 38

Finding Freedom

Saxony

July AD 1123

‘Your grace.’ Duke Lothair looked up over and saw a page standing behind him in the hall. He made his apologies to Counts Otto and Conrad, whom he was standing with, and turned to the young man.

‘What is it?’

‘A message, your grace. Utmost importance.’ The page handed over a sealed scroll, and Henry looked at it with interest. It bore the seal of the imperial family, but the wax was onyx black.

‘Thank you.’

He turned away from the page, contemplating the seal carefully and then opening the letter, leaning in towards the fireplace to see it more clearly. He scanned the short letter carefully, his fingers clenching the scroll ever more tightly, and then he let out a deep breath. He looked up at his vassals, who were standing politely and waiting.

‘The emperor is dead. The princes of the empire are called to Mainz for an imperial conference of succession.’

‘Dear God,’ Otto said, his eyes wide. ‘Dead?’ He looked at the scroll uncertainly. ‘So soon?’

Lothair nodded and rolled it again before throwing it into the fire. ‘Yes, earlier than I expected and later than I hoped. Henry will receive the same letter, but it will take longer to reach him. Damn the emperor’s timing, a month ago and Duke Henry was still in the North on his Crusade, but now he has returned with most of his forces. Still, we have prepared for this, we will continue with our plans.’

‘Are you certain?’ Conrad said, edging over. ‘Our position is weakened and Henry is hailed as a hero.’

Lothair gave his vassal a stern glare. ‘My position is strong enough, if everyone does what is required, or have you lost your nerve after your experience in the North?’

Conrad swallowed hard and shook his head. ‘I am ready to do my duty to my lord.’

‘Good. Then summon your retinue. We will march to Mainz with every man we can without looking like an invader. I will send letters to everyone who will support us, or might be persuaded to. Get your men ready and call in your debts and favours. This is our time.’

‘Yes, my lord,’ said Conrad.

Hugues stared into the fire while Reinhard talked. The bishop had become unbearable since Duke Henry had returned home. He had burst once more into power, free of the fetters of being in the presence of his true master, and was using every excuse to belittle and sideline Hugues that he could find.

Truthfully, Hugues no longer cared. The Crusade was over, their victory was total. The extent to which Henry and Reinhard had depopulated the reconquered territory appalled and depressed him. Not just for the terrible slaughter that he had witnessed, but because the land he had spent the last six years of his life working to conquer was now largely a wasteland of burned towns and abandoned villages. It would take generations to recover, even with the influx of German settlers that were promised.

‘Don’t you agree?’ Reinhard said impatiently.

‘Of course,’ said Hugues in a tired voice, despite not having the faintest idea what Reinhard was saying. Even if he did know, and didn’t agree, it would just have led to an argument he could not face rousing himself to.

‘Really? That is a surprise, I was not expecting you to give in so easily,’ Reinhard said, clearly caught off guard. ‘I thought you would want those men for your own tasks.’

Hugues perked up a little. How many men did I just agree to give him? It didn’t matter, it was too late to really argue. He made a desperate last ploy.

‘I will have to check with my commanders, of course. They might want to limit the extent.’

Reinhard went silent, and Hugues amused himself by imagining the bishop’s scowl to find he was, in fact, going to face resistance.

‘I need those men to hunt for the rebel Gjaldir.’

‘So you always say. But no matter how many men we send, we never actually find him. I am starting to believe he does not exist.’

‘He does exist, and we are getting closer. Hartung and his men have found multiple locals who have seen him and his criminal band fleeing through the forests not fifty miles north of the city in recent days.’

‘Then why do you need more men?’

‘I… I just explained this!’ Reinhard said with a trembling anger. ‘The forest is vast! There are hundreds of villages, thousands of valleys and lakes and hills. Four hundred men is not enough!’

Hugues sighed. He realised that his first instinct had been correct. He could not, in fact, face having this argument. ‘I will release another three hundred to the task,’ he said.

‘Three hundred?’ Reinhard’s voice calmed again. ‘Well, that is generous, more than I asked for but welcome. Are you well, Hugues? Your mind seems scattered.’

‘I am quite well, Reinhard, thank you. I am merely tired.’

There was a knock at the door and Hugues looked up, desperate for something to end his suffering.

The bishop’s strange assistant Bertrand came in. ‘A message for the Grandsteward.’

Hugues smiled and stood up from the comfortable chair. ‘Yes, bring him in.’

‘Not a messenger, my lord, just a scroll. Straight from the ship.’

‘Ah, good. Pass it here.’

He was annoyed, it didn’t give him an excuse to leave the room and speak to… anyone else.

He took the scroll and saw the seal of his brother Count Folmar of Metz on it. That was not unusual in itself, and he opened the letter.

‘Dear God,’ he said, reading the letter a second time.

‘Do not use that term so lightly, Grandsteward!’ Reinhard chided him. But the bishop’s curiosity got the better of him. ‘What is it?’

‘The emperor is dying, I am summoned home by my brother. There might be civil war in the empire. He needs me there.’

‘He needs you there?’ Reinhard said, appalled. ‘The Order needs you here!’

‘Grandmaster,’ Bertrand said quietly.

Reinhard waved the man away.

‘Grandmaster!’ Bertrand said with more urgency.

‘What?’

‘Another letter from the same ship, this one is for you.’

Reinhard snatched irritably at the scroll Bertrand was holding, and looked down at it.

‘Dear God,’ Reinhard uttered without thinking.

Hugues did not laugh, he looked over and saw the letter bore a black seal with the imperial crest.

Reinhard looked up at Hugues and then ripped the letter open, reading it quickly and letting his hand droop. ‘The emperor is dead.’ He gestured at the letter Hugues still clutched. ‘Your brother’s letter must have taken so long to get here that the news of his death joined it on the same ship.’

Hugues nodded, thinking furiously. He paced back and forth a little and then turned to Bertrand. ‘Is the ship still here?’

‘Yes, at the docks until tomorrow, Grandsteward.’

‘Good. I will take it to get home.’

Reinhard looked at Hugues, and there was fear in his face. ‘Do you think Henry will be elected?’ This was something completely out of his control, and nothing scared Reinhard like matters beyond his influence.

Hugues gave Reinhard a sympathetic look. ‘For both our sakes, I hope so.’ And then he turned to leave the room.

He hurried to his quarters, rattling off orders to his people to get ready to travel, and to his squire to run to the docks and tell the ship’s master he was purloining the vessel to take him straight to Hamburg.

He took one last glance back at Reinhard’s quarters and the central yard of the Order’s compound in Uppsala. I hope never to see this cursed place again.

A heavy foot kicked him to the ground, and Vidar groaned and covered himself. The Christian gave him one last spiteful look and then turned and shut the door behind him.

Vidar stayed curled up on the hard floor, shivering, trying to work out if any of his injuries were serious. They had kicked him around, beaten him with spearshafts, pricked and poked him with speartips as they herded him to the city with his hands bound behind him.

He moaned and levered himself to a sitting position. One eye was half closed from swelling, he checked his hands and arms and then the rest of his body.

He hurt in too many places to count, but other than an obviously broken rib or two, nothing seemed more serious than bruising. They had been trying not to kill him, that much was clear.

He looked around to find he was in a small room with a hard earth floor. In the corner was a bucket, but there was nothing else. The back wall was made of stone, big slabs carved into blocks and stacked on each other. There was a small window near the top, far too small to fit through, just enough to let in some light.

The walls were wooden panels, and the door looked strong and new.

He went over and tested it, it was locked and it rattled. A voice shouted out and he backed away in fear.

It had been four days since they had captured him and Astrid at the river. He had expected the Order’s soldiers to kill him, but for some reason they had not and they had brought him to Uppsala instead. He did not know why, and none of them had spoken to him beyond shouted commands in a language he did not understand.

He heard quiet sobbing from beyond the wooden wall, and he stopped to listen. ‘Astrid!’ he called out, banging his fists on the wall and leaning in to listen. But the sobbing did not stop, and he realised it was a man.

He slumped down against the wall, forehead on the wood, feeling a wave of nausea and anguish.

He sat there for a long time, perhaps into the next day. He was not sure, his mind was slipping away from him in his sorrow.

Then the door suddenly rattled and unlocked, before being opened. Two soldiers barged their way in and shoved him back, overcoming his futile attempts to resist as he rose from the floor.

Another man brought a large stool in, and the soldiers forced him to sit on it, punching him across the mouth when he resisted, knocking a tooth free which he almost choked on.

They took his arms and bound them to the back of the stool, and then bound his ankles to the legs at the front so that he was completely immobile and helpless.

All the while two other men watched passively. One was balding and wearing a plain brown robe, the other was in the white cloak of the Order but he was fat and older, definitely not a soldier.

‘Who are you?’ the fat man asked.

Vidar looked at him in surprise. His accent was strange, but his words were true.

‘Who are you?’ Vidar asked in return.

The fat man gave a tired nod to someone behind Vidar and a heavy wooden club was smashed into his arm.

He roared in pain and flexed, trying to get his arm away from the bonds so he could cradle it or hold it or shake it, or do anything to ease the shocking pain.

‘Who are you?’ said the fat man again, dispassionately.

‘Fuck you!’

The club again, in the same spot. He was ready for it this time, but that did nothing to ease the pain and he howled.

‘Who are you?’

Vidar panted, the helplessness driving him to fury. But he shook his head.

‘We will try fire and steel,’ said the balding man in the robe in very crude Norse.

The fat one gave a cruel smile. ‘I have a simpler idea. He was brought in with a woman he was trying to protect. That will provoke answers more quickly than any steel.’

Vidar’s heartrate soared and he howled in anger, veins popping, straining to get to the fat man so hard his stool toppled over.

‘I believe you are right,’ said the balding man, looking down at him dispassionately. ‘Get her.’

Vidar was dragged back upright by unkind hands as he railed and struggled.

The fat man disappeared, leaving the bald one watching him with a fearful curiosity.

Soon, he heard voices coming, and the sound of a high-pitched sob.

‘Astrid!’ he shouted, his voice cracking as she was brought into the cell with the fat man’s fist in the back of her hair.

He held her up by it so that she was on tiptoes, hands bound behind her back. ‘Astrid,’ he cried, his body collapsing as he tried to curl up, too afraid to look at her.

‘Who are you?’ the voice asked again, just as level and dispassionate as before.

Someone jerked his head up so that he was forced to look at her, and the fat man raised an eyebrow. ‘You might resist us, for a time, but you don’t want to see us question her. Answer us, or she will face the fire and steel. Do you understand what I am saying?’

Vidar shook with fear and anger, and looked at Astrid, whose eyes were pinned open with fear like a panicked horse, mouth gaping. Her pupils flicked to his and all the horror and hurt in them flooded across the room and something in Vidar broke.

‘Vidar Junge,’ he whispered through cracked lips, so quietly he himself could barely hear it.

‘What?’

The fat man stretched back on Astrid’s hair, pulling her even more upright, so that she had to scrabble with her feet to keep her balance.

‘Vidar Junge!’ Vidar cried out, all thoughts of resistance fleeing him. Only one thought was left in his mind. Don’t let them hurt her, don’t let them hurt her.

The fat man slackened his grasp a little. ‘Good. Now, Vidar. Tell me who you are, and why you were found with weapons.’

The fat man sounded bored, and then the balding man, who had suddenly taken more interest in him, leaned in and whispered something. The fat man’s eyes went wide, and he nodded, and then looked at Vidar, and there was greed and triumph in his eyes.

‘You can’t have been alone. Who were you travelling with, Vidar?’

The fat man pulled Astrid a little closer, smiling over her shoulder and leaning in so his wobbling jowls were right beside her ear, pressing against her pale, terrified face.

‘Who were you travelling with, Vidar?’

‘There, comfort your woman. We will return for more answers later,’ said the fat man, shoving Astrid to the floor.

Vidar shook and sobbed as the soldiers and the fat man finally left. The balding one had been writing notes as he questioned him. Who he was travelling with, how many of them, what weapons, where they were going?

He had spilled his secrets like water from a broken jar and he was so ashamed he wished in that moment he could die from the pain of it.

But the pain of his shame had not been as bad as watching Astrid’s horror and fear. He would have done anything in that moment to spare her from it, she had suffered so much, and he could not let her suffer any more.

He crawled over to her as she huddled in the corner against the wall, and she shrank from him as he approached, which only made his heart ache more. He carefully put his arms around her, cradling his head to his chest.

‘I won’t let them hurt you,’ he whispered forcefully.

‘You can’t stop them,’ she whispered back. ‘That’s why you told them everything.’

Vidar burned with the shame of both statements, but he shook his head. ‘I can stop them, you have to trust me, and I didn’t tell them everything. I misled them about where our friends are heading, they will search the wrong paths, and perhaps Gjaldir will escape their notice.’

Astrid’s eyes widened. ‘You fool, they will find out you lied and come back to us.’ She grabbed his beard, yanking on it in fear and anger. ‘Do you understand what they will do to you, to me, to hear the truth now?’

Vidar shook his head, firmly removing her hand from his and moving over to the back of the cell where they were contained. ‘You need to trust me, Astrid. They call me Vidar the Cunning, and I earned that name.’ He picked up two loose stones from the back wall, bringing them over to show her. ‘Do you trust me, Astrid?’

She looked at the stones in confusion, but then nodded furtively.

Vidar smiled, caressing her face softly with one hand. ‘Good. I swear to you, they will never have the truth from me, and they will never hurt you. Look.’

He put the smaller of the two stones on the edge of a protruding wall slab and carefully struck it with the other, once and then again, until it cracked and a broad section fell away revealing a black, glassy interior.

He showed her the freshly split stone. ‘You see? It’s flint.’ Vidar smiled to himself. ‘My father taught me to make flint arrows and blades when I was a boy. It was the way our forefathers hunted out in the deepwoods, when iron was too expensive and rare. You can make an arrowhead from it, or a simple blade for skinning. He kept the old way alive and he passed it down to me. Iron rusts and is lost, flint can always be found and made sharp anew.’

He put the flint back against the wall again, carefully measuring the angle on the reverse side before striking it again and again. Chips and flakes fell away until the two split faces joined in a jagged, razor-sharp edge.

He was left with a sort of axe head, extremely rough and ragged, but Astrid watched him in fearful curiosity as he worked the stone further, pressing against it with the other stone and cracking away more flakes until the edge was more refined.

Finally, he nodded to himself, smiling enthusiastically. He crouch-crawled over to Astrid again and showed her the makeshift weapon. He put his spare hand on her face, gently caressing it and toying with her hair reassuringly.

‘You see, my love? They made a mistake leaving this in our cell.’ He pressed his forehead against hers, eyes so close he couldn’t focus on her soft, delicate features in the dim light.

He gathered her up into a tender embrace, holding the flint away as he buried his face in her hair, breathing in the essence of her with as much tenderness as he could, calming her nerves as she relaxed into his body, surrendering herself to his embrace.

He gently lifted her chin and put his forehead against hers, looking fondly into her eyes.

‘Do not fear, my love. The time for fear is over. When they open that door again, I swear to you, we will be free.’

‘Grandmaster!’

Reinhard looked up from the scripture with furtive eyes. It was many days since Hugues had left, and he had nothing to do but wait for the results of the imperial conference. Nothing to do but wait and fret. Whatever happened now was done, and out of his control. He had sent a letter to Duke Henry, of course, expressing his outright support and promising that he would continue to support Henry in the future with whatever power his position in the Church afforded. But he did not expect a reply anytime soon, and the waiting was tearing at him.

So he was doing what he often did at times of great stress and mental turmoil, and burying himself in the scriptures. He found a great deal of peace in poring over the text, studying its deeper meanings, and delighted in finding new ways it aligned with his views and most treasured beliefs.

But he hated being interrupted. An interruption was the sinful outside world impinging on his haven. His eyes met those of Hartung, and the young count looked excited. That annoyed Reinhard, the young noble should have no reason to look excited. In more than three months of searching he had still failed to find the apostate who called himself Gjaldir, but whose real identity was a secret confined within the Christian ranks to Reinhard, Bertrand, and a couple of the gaolers who had questioned the ex-slaves of the Norse.

It infuriated Reinhard, the failure to achieve that goal. It would have been another success with which to convince Henry of his usefulness, and he regretted not assigning Sir Sighard, although he had not dared give the man more independence.

Not that he had given up, he still wanted the sword, it would be a powerful symbol of his time in the North and the completion of the Crusade’s aims of pacifying and converting the Norse population. He would have it encased as a holy relic when he was finally made archbishop, and hang it above the altar in his cathedral, so that everyone who came to services in his diocese would see it and be reminded that the archbishop was not just a man of the cloth, and a representative of God’s power on earth, but also a soldier of Christ and a man who vanquished Christendom’s enemies.

He smiled at the thought, it brought him comfort.

‘Grandmaster?’

Reinhard’s eyes snapped up and he realised he had forgotten Hartung was in the room, so consumed had he been by his thoughts.

‘Yes, what is it?’ he said, irritated to have appeared soft-minded or fleeting of thought.

‘We have taken a prisoner who knows the whereabouts of Gjaldir,’ Hartung said with an enthusiastic smile.

Reinhard sighed. ‘What is this, the tenth time that has been claimed? None before have truly known, and even those that have had information that was weeks or months out of date.’

‘This time is different, I believe, Grandmaster.’

‘Why?’ Reinhard said with intense scepticism.

‘Well, Bertrand and the gaolers questioned the man, and report that he does not just know where Gjaldir was, but where he is headed.’

That perked Reinhard’s ears up. Very few of the many prisoners they had put to the question had claimed to know where Gjaldir was headed. He looked behind Hartung and saw Bertrand waiting impassively behind the young count, and his assistant gave a subtle nod of confirmation.

Hartung’s smile broadened. ‘But that’s not all. He isn’t just some follower, he claims to be Vidar, one of Gjaldir’s closest supporters.’

Reinhard’s right eyebrow rose a little more, and he kept his excitement in check. It was a bold claim, too bold to believe at face value.

‘You claim we have captured Vidar, one of Gjaldir’s supposed companions?’ He deliberately said ‘we’, because he had no intention of letting Hartung take the credit for any success after months and months of delays and failures, and he pointedly directed his question at Bertrand. The sheer number of men Reinhard had dedicated to the search had significantly slowed down the pace of their pacification of the inland and Northern areas, which had turned out to be far vaster than he could have imagined.

‘Yes, Grandmaster, and we have good reason to believe his claims.’

‘Why?’

‘He was captured with a woman, who he is clearly infatuated with. He would tell us anything to avoid harm coming to her,’ Bertrand said.

Reinhard’s brows narrowed. ‘You have not shed the blood of this woman, have you?’ It would be a disgrace to the Church to shed the blood of a woman.

Bertrand shook his head piously. ‘No, there was no need. The threat alone broke his resolve.’

Reinhard nodded, addressing Hartung again. ‘Good. I will need to see this prisoner myself, of course, and be satisfied with his answers. Where did he say Gjaldir was headed?’

‘North, Grandmaster, into the lands formerly ruled by Jarl Einar, who we defeated when we recaptured this city.’

‘I see. And we do not control all of this Jarl Einar’s lands yet?’

‘We do not, Grandmaster. Also, one of my patrols was ambushed north of here, all but one of them was killed. The brother who survived reported it was twenty armed men and women, his description matches the group Gjaldir is believed to be with, and he thinks he saw the man himself, although he cannot be sure. They were headed north, perhaps a little north-west.’

‘Hmm, well then, perhaps the prisoner speaks the truth. Good.’ Reinhard stood. ‘Take me to this Vidar.’

Hartung nodded. ‘At once.’

He stood aside as Reinhard took the lead. He knew where the prisoners were kept, in a converted stable at the edge of the city. He avoided going there usually, it would not do for a man in his position to be closely associated with the activities that took place in the makeshift prison. One day he might see the need to claim they occurred without his permission, or deny their existence entirely.

He strode through the city with an escort Hartung had already prepared in advance, a piece of thoughtfulness that impressed Reinhard and annoyed him in equal measure. He did not want the young count to feel he could predict or assume Reinhard’s future actions, but also recognised the value in his forethought.

Bertrand hobbled along behind him as he strode, with Hartung easily keeping pace with his long legs and loping, effortless gait until they reached the stable.

‘So the prisoner is quite compliant?’ he asked Bertrand.

‘Completely broken, Grandmaster. He barely resisted our questions.’

Reinhard frowned. ‘Why would Gjaldir have a man of such weak character as his closest companion?’

‘It is the woman who is his weakness, Grandmaster. He resisted our attempts to glean the truth from him before she was brought to him.’

Reinhard nodded sagely. ‘Women are such a weakness to men, the Lord warns us of this many times, does he not? Such is the legacy of Eve, and of her like.’ They passed through the outer door of the stable and Bertrand nodded as they stepped inside and waited while Hartung summoned the gaoler.

‘From Adam in the garden to the present day, a man’s greatest moral threat is to give in to the sinful temptations of the female flesh.’ Reinhard was so overcome with displeasure at the thought that he crossed himself as if to ward it away.

Bertrand did not answer, he merely nodded in agreement.

‘Grandmaster, come this way,’ Hartung said. He gestured down the corridor that led past all the makeshift cells. Somewhere behind one of the doors, someone was sobbing, and Reinhard wrinkled his nose at the pungent smell of effluent and unwashed bodies. He was so repulsed by it he considered turning back and having the prisoner brought to him, but he overcame the notion as the gaoler reached a door and started to unlock it.

The gaoler rattled the key in the crude lock, confused and embarrassed. ‘Apologies, your grace,’ the nervous man muttered, his hands shaking. ‘It’s a sticky one.’

Reinhard gave the offensively fat man a sour glare. He could not remember the gaoler’s name, but knew he had been a slave of the Norse, hated them with a burning passion, and had proved to be a useful and effective translator and questioner. He was only too enthusiastic to put their mutual enemies to the questions.

But now his hands were shaking on the obstinate key.

Reinhard stepped forwards to the door, impatient and annoyed, moving the lone guard aside with a touch on the shoulder. ‘Step aside,’ Reinhard snapped, pushing the fat man away with a single finger and taking the key, giving him one last scowl.

‘Grandmaster,’ Hartung protested, stepping forwards with concern.

‘Don’t worry,’ Reinhard said, pushing the key into the lock again and forcefully twisting it, trying to compel it to open with his sheer willpower. ‘I will let you go in first, I just can’t wait all day for this idiot to shake the lock free.’

The lock clunked and sprang open, and Reinhard smiled smugly. ‘See?’ he said, pulling the locking bar back. ‘Sometimes I feel I must do everything myself.’

Then he pulled the door back, stepping aside to look in even as Hartung tried to go through in front of him.

‘Really, my boy, do you have to… Oh.’

He stopped dead as he saw what was waiting for him inside the cell.

‘Shit,’ said Hartung, and Reinhard didn’t even chide him.

On the floor, in the far corner, a man was cradling a woman, both pale as bedsheets, her eyes closed and head slumped on his chest, his eyes open and his mouth twisted in a faint smile as he rested with his cheek on her head.

By his limp right hand on the floor, a bloodied stone lay in a thick pool of blood that had flowed and intermingled from the deep, long cuts in their wrists.

Reinhard recovered his composure as Hartung stepped warily into the cell to check on the bodies, but it was too late. Far, far too late.

‘How disappointing,’ Reinhard said, giving all of them a heavy glare. ‘How completely disappointing.’

And then he turned, feeling nauseous, and stormed out of the gaol.

Chapter 39

The Price of Empire

Mainz

August AD 1123

The princes of the empire had gathered in Mainz for the imperial conference, and the spiritual centre of the empire had started to resemble a city under siege, such was the number of tent encampments in the fields around it. The retinues and vassals of every contender for the throne had arrived in force. Much of the chivalry and power of the empire was present, and the city was fearful.

Everyone knew there might be violence, an outright battle was not impossible. Several rounds of feverish and unofficial negotiations before the conference formally began had failed to result in a clear winner. If the conference proceeded before a consensus was reached, anything could happen, and the unpredictability could lead to civil war as the jilted candidates lashed out against their humiliation.

The fear of war was in the air, and Duke Lothair revelled in it because he had long been its master. He sat in his camp chair and looked out over the field where his knights and men at arms, and those of his vassals and committed allies, were gathering.

They were not forming up for battle, precisely, just exercising their right to wear arms and armour and standing around in formations that could, to a trained eye, be deciphered as battle ready.

They had good reason to, because across the fields, an even larger gathering of armoured men was visible, the men of Duke Henry and his supporters.

There was a third candidate, Duke Frederich of Swabia, who for years had been the presumptive heir, but his supporters had withered and deserted him one by one, siding with either Henry or Lothair, until none but his loyal brother and their combined vassals remained.

Too stubborn and proud to choose sides, despite having enough men to perhaps decide the issue, Frederich and his brother Conrad simply sat in their camp on the far side of the city and waited for the conference to begin.

Lothair smiled at the thought. It was the exact pettiness and lack of leadership that meant Frederich had been abandoned as a candidate in the first place.

The last potential candidate, Leopold the Margrave of Austria, had sided with Lothair, a staggering political victory to everyone who had expected Bavaria’s close neighbour to support Henry’s claim.

But on Henry’s side were Duke Simon of Lorraine, some of the eastern nobles, and all of the lesser lords of Italy. Combined they outweighed Lothair’s own support from the northern and eastern regions. But not by enough, he judged. Not by enough.

‘Do you really think this will come to fighting?’ Leopold said, nervously, watching the open field before the tent Lothair had set up.

Lothair shrugged. ‘It is possible, but not today. Today is for posturing and measuring of forces. We are testing each other’s resolve.’

‘Do you doubt Henry’s?’

Lothair shook his head ruefully. ‘No, not anymore. It has been an unpleasant surprise over the last years.’

‘I lost all my wonder at his behaviour since what happened to his brother.’

Lothair raised an amused eyebrow. ‘What happened to his brother? Do you know something I don’t?’

Of course, Lothair was playing with the margrave. He himself had made sure the idea that Henry had killed Welf, or had him killed, spread throughout the empire. He did not, in fact, know if it was true. But it was likely enough that people would believe it, or at least countenance it. What he had not expected was that the reputation, combined with his actions on the Crusades that had earned him the epithet ‘The Black’, might actually work in Henry’s favour.

There was no denying it, the lords of the empire were afraid of the Duke of Bavaria. Afraid of what he would do not only to gain the throne, but if he lost.

In response, Lothair had also made it crystal clear what he was prepared to do, and his history of rebellion against the previous emperor, of his willingness to back his own cause with violence and war, helped him enormously in that regard.

With neither man willing to back down in the build-up and preliminary negotiations, and the whole empire expecting violence, it was rapidly reaching the point where violence and perhaps civil war were the only likely outcomes.

Nor could he challenge Henry to single combat to settle it, Henry was not a fighting man and would not accept. Few would be impressed by the hollow challenge.

So Lothair had agreed to a final negotiation, mostly for show, because if he refused he could be painted as the aggressor.

He watched as Henry’s small contingent made their way out of his lines towards the agreed meeting point halfway between them, a plain white canopy set up in the fields with just two chairs facing each other, symbolic of the purpose of negotiating a peaceful solution.

‘Time to go,’ said Lothair with a satisfied smile. ‘I expect to be an emperor or a rebel by the end of this conversation.’

Leopold just swallowed hard. ‘An emperor, I hope.’

‘As do we all!’ Lothair said, shrugging off his cloak to reveal his fine tunic beneath. It was one of the tricks he had prepared. He was not wearing armour, as he had for every public moment since he had arrived at the city. Everyone would be expecting him to be armoured, to look the aggressor, and he hoped to throw them off guard by shedding the accoutrements of war.

Even more, he hoped Henry would feel pressured to arrive armoured in response, and would himself look like the warmonger.

He smiled to himself at the ploy, and got up onto his horse. Henry was already out onto the field, too late to turn back if he saw Lothair’s state of dress.

‘Come on!’ Lothair said with a laugh at his vassals and allies. ‘We have an empire to win.’

He led them out across the field in a small column, arriving at the negotiation tent shortly after Duke Henry, and almost laughing out loud when he saw that the duke was, indeed, dressed for battle.

Henry, dismounting as Lothair arrived, gave his rival a filthy glare but could do nothing except try to ignore the disparity.

‘Duke Henry, thank you for coming,’ Lothair said, gesturing to the opposing chair and trying to take on the air of being the host.

Their vassals lined up behind them outside the tent on each side facing each other, with only the two dukes allowed to enter its perimeter. It was all heavily protocolled.

Lothair got to within three paces of his rival, taking a long and measured look down Henry’s uncomfortably armoured form. ‘Are you expecting a battle, Duke Henry? I thought we were here to talk?’

‘Very clever, my dear Lothair. Very clever. Sometimes I forget you have moments of intelligence in your monotonous tirade of brutish behaviour.’

‘Brutish?’ Lothair gave Henry a small smile. ‘It’s a shame I cannot ask your brother who is the brute between us.’

‘Shall we end the insults and get on with the important matter?’ Henry said with an annoyed flair as he struggled to sit uncomfortably in his armour and surcoat, sword catching on the side of the chair.

Lothair just watched and smiled at his opponent’s discomfort. ‘I am happy to move on from your defeat in the opening exchange to your capitulation to my terms, yes.’

‘I am not here to capitulate, Lothair. As you know.’

Lothair spread his hands helplessly. ‘Well, neither am I. What a pity then.’ He made an exaggerated motion to begin standing again. ‘I suppose that ends it.’

‘I will not take your childish bluff, Lothair, sit down. We both know you cannot leave so soon, for sake of appearances at least. You are so desperate to control appearances, after all.’

Lothair paused, Henry had him there. He could not look like he abandoned the talks within moments. He settled again. ‘So what do you suggest?’

‘I suggest you listen, Lothair. End this childish parade and actually listen to what I have to say.’

‘Why should I? It is of no interest to me.’

‘Why? To avoid a war, to avoid tearing the empire apart!’

‘I don’t want to avoid a war, Henry, I want the empire to be led by a strong leader, one who knows how to spread its glory after decades of weakness and live up to Charlemagne’s legacy, and that man is me.’

‘And your path to the empire’s glory is to fight me and my allies?’

‘I have said nothing about fighting,’ said Lothair with a dismissive glance. ‘You are the one armed for battle.’

‘You cannot win, Lothair,’ Henry said sternly. ‘I have the majority on my side.’

‘You don’t have enough votes, Henry. And even if you did, you do not have enough men to enforce them.’ He laughed, pointing at Henry’s arrayed forces. ‘You think I am afraid of your half-breed army of Italians? My men are more experienced, more courageous and more loyal, and, most importantly, they have a capable military leader.’ He sneered at Henry. ‘You don’t even know how to sit while wearing a sword.’

Henry looked furious, but he kept his calm and shook his head as he fidgeted at his sword, trying to get it to sit correctly at his side. ‘As always, Lothair, you are all bluster and bravery, and three paces short of my plans.’ A thin, tired smile played over the Bavarian duke’s face and Lothair felt a pang of nervousness.

‘Which are?’ Lothair said, suddenly serious.

Henry looked over his shoulder and nodded. ‘Ah, here they are.’

Lothair looked up, taking his gaze beyond the tent and seeing for the first time that there was movement behind Henry’s army. Dust and the sparkling of steel, and the colourful fluttering of banners. New banners.

Lothair’s stomach twisted itself into a knot. A small group of horsemen rode out from the newcomer’s ranks and made its way over to the negotiating place. Lothair squinted in silence to see who it was, and recognised the banners before the men, and his worst fear was confirmed.

‘Dukes Frederich and Conrad,’ Henry said with a triumphant grin as he watched Lothair squirm.

The two dukes and their small retinue dismounted and strode over to join Henry under the broad canopy, ignoring the protocol that forbade it.

Lothair stood, shaking in anger, all his arrogance faded away.

‘What did he promise you in order to buy your allegiance?’ he hissed.

‘Peace,’ said Frederich with tired distaste.

That stalled Lothair, he had been expecting it had been land or power, and had been scrambling in his mind to make a counter-offer. But he did not know what to counter peace with.

‘Peace?’

Duke Frederich nodded. ‘We all know you, Lothair. We know you won’t accept anyone else. Not me, not Duke Henry. You have made it clear to us.’

‘So you think by joining him you bring peace?’ Lothair said in astonishment. ‘You merely guarantee war!’

‘You cannot win a war against all of us, we outnumber you two to one,’ Frederich said, bristling.

‘Gentlemen, please!’ Henry said, holding his hands out. ‘Duke Frederich, if you would be so kind, the agreement was that Lothair and I would speak alone. I thank you for your support, I know what it cost you and shall be in your debt. But I beg of you, retire from the tent and I will conclude this matter.’

Frederich looked furious, but he nodded curtly and turned to walk away, standing awkwardly and proudly separated from Henry’s other allies.

Henry gestured calmly for Lothair to sit.

‘I will not,’ grated Lothair, feeling his mind boiling with anger and struggling to control himself. This had changed everything, and he could not pretend it had not. ‘Do you really think I am such a coward that I will just bow down to you now? Are you really so foolish and naive?’

Henry gave a tired shake of his head. ‘No, Lothair, I am not.’

‘Then what more is there to say?’

‘Listen to me, Lothair, one final time before you draw your sword against the empire,’ Henry pleaded.

Lothair wanted to turn and go, wanted to storm away and call his banners to fight, but he saw something in Henry’s eyes, not gloating but a little fear, and he nodded curtly.

‘If you fight, and I know you would, you cannot succeed. Maybe you will score some victories, maybe you will even win the war, but the empire you gain will lie in ruins and most of it will hate you,’ Henry said. ‘None of the glory you seek will be yours.’

‘But the other path is humiliation and the destruction of my power, for if I allow you to become emperor you cannot allow me to survive; you know, quite rightly, that I will always be a threat to you.’

‘Quite,’ said Henry drily.

‘Then what is there to even discuss?’ Lothair snarled, suddenly regretting not having armed for battle.

‘There is a third way,’ Henry said.

Lothair took a deep breath. ‘What could it possibly be?’

Henry took a moment to steady himself, looking out of the ranks of both armies. Then he nodded. ‘I have been impressed by you, Lothair. Underestimated you greatly. So I will make you an offer, the most I could possibly offer you, one I think you can accept and retain your honour and your power, and, most importantly, one that means we will no longer be a threat to each other.’

‘That is a preposterous notion.’

Henry ignored him. ‘The only child God saw fit to give me is a son, young and unmarried. You have only a daughter, of about the same age.’ Henry held up a hand to forestall Lothair’s protest. ‘I do not mock you for your lack of a son. It is beyond our control. So let us marry them, and join our houses together with all their strength and pride.’

Lothair was staggered as if he had been hit by a charging horse. ‘You expect me to give you my only daughter, as a hostage, are you insane?’

‘No, not as a hostage, as a partner. Think of it, Lothair. You wanted to become emperor but you have no son to carry on your legacy. I have, and if your daughter marries him, with our combined power and influence, our children and grandchildren will rule the empire for a hundred years, perhaps more! You seek legacy, and this is what I offer you. You cannot be emperor, but your daughter can sit beside the throne, your grandson, if God sees fit to grant one, will sit upon it himself.’

‘You truly think we can be friends and allies, after all that has happened?’

Henry shook his head. ‘No. We do not need to be friends, Duke Lothair. In fact, we never have to see each other again. You seek power and lands, I will grant to you the entire Northern provinces that we have worked so hard to gain. You will become the second most powerful man in the empire, with a vast demesne that you will be free to rule yourself, partially independent in a way Saxony never can be, a kingdom within an empire. You will be safe from any revenge or repercussions, not only because our interests will be joined, but because you will have enough power to ensure your own position.’

Lothair stared at him, mind racing. ‘And what protects you against me?’

Henry shrugged. ‘Your family’s legacy, for if you rise against me, our children will never take the throne, our grandchildren will not be emperors, and your legacy will be dust and ashes in your mouth.’

‘So my daughter is a hostage,’ Lothair said curtly.

‘Only if you make it necessary,’ Henry said. ‘If you gracefully retire to manage your new conquests, she will be the empress of Germany and the mother of emperors, a glorious continuation of your line.’ Henry puffed out his chest. ‘The choice is yours, Duke Lothair. Surrender your ambition to be the emperor, support me in my claim, and everything else you could want will be yours. The empire will be glorious and strong, and you will be its foremost prince.’

Lothair’s jaw tensed and he put his hands on his hips, looking around in frustration, trying to find something, anything, that he could counter-propose. He finally groaned in frustration. ‘You say all I have to sacrifice is the one thing I have worked my entire life to achieve?’

‘Yes,’ said Henry bluntly.

‘How easy it is for you to offer that, having to sacrifice nothing.’

Henry shook his head sadly. ‘Oh, Lothair, do you truly think I have sacrificed nothing to get to this point?’ His voice was soft and forlorn. ‘Come, this is the end, Lothair. You have been a worthy opponent, and a magnificent Prince of empire, but you know this is the only way this can end. Let us not tear the empire apart fighting over it, let’s rebuild it together for our children to rule.’

Lothair turned away, his arms tingling with the anger and the outrage, the injustice of it all. He saw the worried looks on the faces of his vassals, and considered what possible measures he could take to win the war against the forces now arrayed against him. He came up with nothing, and he felt a sudden rush of relief at his defeat, a rush that shocked him with its power.

There was nothing else he could do.

He took a moment to compose himself, and he dragged his body back around to face Henry, thinking carefully.

‘I am offered the North, but your men in the Order are busy turning it into a wasteland, a ruin of ashes and death. My new subjects are being slaughtered without thought or purpose, Christian converts and heathen alike. What benefit can I get from land that is ruined and empty? I want the purges ended, immediately.’

‘Agreed,’ said Henry, snapping greedily at the prospect of Lothair’s capitulation. ‘There have been… overzealous actions, and I will work with you to have them ended at once.’

‘It is not enough. I want your lackeys removed from control of the Order, I will not have them in my lands under your direct control. We will jointly agree on their replacements in due course.’

Henry nodded. ‘That can be done.’ He turned to his vassals, beckoning to one. ‘Baron Hugues, if you please.’

Lothair looked as a plain-faced man strode over, looking nervous. He scowled as he recognised who it was.

‘This is Baron Hugues of Lorraine, Grandsteward of the Order. He will assist you, on my honour.’ Henry looked at Hugues studiously. ‘Hugues, if you see to Duke Lothair’s concerns in restoring peace and productivity in the Order’s territory with the utmost care, I will be in your debt. You have my full authority to do as he asks. I will give you instructions to pass to Grandmaster Reinhard, as well as appropriate reward for his efforts. I will find a suitable new position for him, now that his time leading the Order must end. We will speak in detail later, if you please.’

Baron Hugues bowed graciously and perfectly. ‘As you command, your grace.’

Lothair nodded, feeling slightly mollified, already considering what else he would ask for.

‘Thank you, Baron Hugues,’ said Duke Henry, dismissing the man with a slight nod.

The baron backed away and Lothair stared at Henry, the last of his fury draining from him.

‘Do we have an agreement, Duke Lothair?’ Henry asked, in a calm voice. There was no hint of gloating in it, no incitement. The man really wanted him to accept. He sensed the chink of weakness there and decided to work in a little space for later negotiation.

‘We need to discuss my daughter’s dowry and suitable living accommodation. And there are other smaller matters, guarantees of safety for my vassals and allies,’ said Lothair with a stern grimace. And he closed his eyes once more as he gathered himself to make the leap, not believing what he was about to say. He took a last look out across the field that had so nearly become a place of death and battle, and offered his hand to his greatest enemy.

‘But yes, Duke Henry. We have reached an agreement.’

Chapter 40

A Just Reward

Uppsala

Late August AD 1123

Baron Hugues watched impassively as his small ship arrived at the new docks near Uppsala. He had so recently left these lands hoping never to see them again, but Duke Henry had bade him visit one last time on an essential errand, one that would secure peace in the empire. It had not been an option to refuse.

He waited patiently for the ship to be tied up and then he and his small retinue disembarked. He had a dozen of his own household knights and the same again of Henry’s personal bannermen, bearing the arms of the Duchy of Bavaria, just to ensure everyone knew the authority they bore.

Henry was not crowned yet when Hugues had left Mainz, the coronation ceremonies moved on to Aachen and lasted several weeks, but word would already be spreading, even to this far reach of the empire’s lands, that the princes of the empire had raised Henry the Black to the throne of Charlemagne, and the title of Henry VI; King of the Romans and of the Germans, King of Italy, and Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire.

Marching under Henry’s banner gave him the full authority of the throne, and none would dare refuse him.

Several boys had run from the docks into the city, and Hugues knew they would be carrying news of his arrival to Reinhard. It made him smile to think of it, the panic the outwardly calm Reinhard would feel on hearing his unannounced arrival under the duke’s banner. Perhaps he would believe Henry himself had come. Reinhard’s overinflated sense of importance might delude him to believe the new emperor was paying him a personal visit.

They made their way into the thrice-conquered city and he found that it was a sad place, still half in ruins and depopulated. The Norse workers who had once filled over a quarter of the city had not been allowed to return, or had been slaughtered by Reinhard’s zealots.

He knew, although he was keeping it a secret for now, that Lothair intended to move the seat of power from Uppsala to a new city to be built nearer the coast, by the island the locals called Stadsholmen, where it could be supplied more freely from the sea and resist any future siege.

Reinhard’s great project, his city and his still-ruined cathedral, would be abandoned. Hugues would once have felt joy at the idea of telling Reinhard that, but he was tired, and simply glad everything was coming to an end. He had set out on Crusade nearly eight years before, and most of his life since then had been spent in the North. He longed to return home for good.

They reached the Order’s compound and Hugues found a hurriedly assembled guard formed up on both sides, the brothers of the Order looking resplendent as they always did in their white and gold, helmets polished and spears bright and shining.

He saluted the men, many of whom he knew and had commanded, and saw Reinhard waiting nervously at the steps to the Order’s headquarters.

Hugues walked up to the Grandmaster and smiled. ‘Bishop Reinhard.’

Reinhard looked at him, and then back to the gate, his face puzzled. ‘I was told Duke Henry’s banner was coming, is he here?’

Hugues could only shake his head in bewilderment. Reinhard really had lost his sense of reason.

‘The Emperor Henry is unable to visit you at this moment, he is unfortunately preoccupied,’ said Hugues.

Reinhard’s eyes came into focus on him again and the bishop looked disappointed for a moment and then nodded. ‘Of course, I just thought… the banner.’ Then he gave Hugues a spiteful look as if he had done something treacherous.

‘I am here under his banner, carrying his orders and authority. Might we meet in your quarters?’

‘His authority?’ Reinhard said, suddenly looking nervous again. ‘Of course, of course. This way.’

‘Brother Sighard, if you would join us?’ Hugues said, motioning to the guard commander who stood silently at Reinhard’s side. The knight looked to Reinhard for confirmation, and Reinhard nodded brusquely.

Reinhard did not protest as half a dozen of Hugues’s entourage followed them in and made their way up to Reinhard’s quarters. The display of power and authority was carefully calculated.

Reinhard stood by his chair, looking excited and nervous in equal measure. ‘So Duke Henry was pleased with our support in his election?’ Reinhard asked.

‘He was very pleased,’ Hugues said with a neutral expression. He gestured to one of his men, who brought out several sealed letters from a carefully clasped leather pouch.

Reinhard’s eyes widened with greed and glee when he saw the imperial seal on them, not in black, but in blood red. The seal of a living emperor, containing his indisputable word within.

Reinhard almost reached out for them, his fingers twitching and fluttering, but Hugues ignored him, instead taking the first one and showing it to Sighard and Reinhard so they could see that it was sealed.

‘These are the words of the emperor.’ He opened it and handed it to Reinhard. ‘The emperor’s commands for the Order, agreed by the representative of the Holy See.’

Reinhard’s excitement died away as he read through the letter, eyes flicking from line to line. ‘No, it can’t be. We are so close.’

‘All activities of conquest are to end, immediately. All summary justice and depredations against the local population also. The emperor has decreed it.’

‘The emperor said this?’ Reinhard said in frustration, looking up from the letter. ‘The emperor ordered these actions in the first place!’

Hugues gave Reinhard a stern look. ‘The emperor orders it, we would be wise not to call his honour or honesty into question.’

Reinhard blanched and nodded. ‘Of course… I would never,’ he blurted, looking down at the letter again, then he grew animated. ‘What about the rebel Gjaldir? I am so close to finding him! Hartung reports that he has found the apostate’s trail again and will have him within days!’

Hugues shook his head and pointed at the letter. ‘All activities, Reinhard. Without exception. The rebel does not matter anymore.’

‘But I was so close!’

‘Reinhard!’ snapped Hugues. ‘It is no longer your responsibility.’ He took the second letter and gestured to it. It bore the seal of the emperor, and of the Pope. ‘This letter ends your service as Grandmaster of the Order, and mine as Grandsteward. Our task here is complete.’

Reinhard looked stunned, he reached for the letter and Hugues allowed him to take it. Reinhard’s fingers shook as he broke both seals, taking a moment reverently to run his fingers over the seal of the papacy before carefully separating it from the parchment beneath.

‘Are we rewarded for our actions?’ Reinhard breathed as he scanned the long-winded and formal document ending their tenure.

‘We are, as Emperor Henry deems appropriate.’ Hugues handed the last scroll to Sighard, who looked very surprised but took it.

‘This gives you temporary authority over the Order, until a permanent replacement is appointed. It also contains your orders directly from the emperor.’

Sighard nodded reverently, then broke the seal. His eyes widened as he read it, and then he looked up at Hugues in the closest thing to fear Hugues had ever seen the resolute knight display.

‘Are you sure, Grandsteward? These are his orders?’

‘These are the words of the Emperor Henry, King of the Romans. Will you carry them out, Brother Sighard?’ Hugues said, staring at Sighard sternly. As he did, his men in the room all subtly moved forwards to flank him, as Hugues had instructed them in advance to do. This was the key moment, he needed to take control of the Order without protest or violence. Outside in the yard, his other men were distributing similar orders to all the officers present in the compound.

Sighard’s eyes flicked from Hugues to Reinhard, looking cornered and tense.

‘What does it say?’ Reinhard said, his voice rising a tone or two.

Sighard looked down at the letter, reading it again to convince himself.

‘It says you are to be arrested for the crime of murder, Bishop Reinhard. Your campaign of unsanctioned killings in this province, driven by your own personal ambition and desires for power, have caused the death of thousands of peaceful and innocent Christians, slaughtered indiscriminately and unjustly along with the disloyal rebels who hid in their midst.’

Reinhard froze, staring at Hugues as if he had been slapped.

‘In deference to your prior service to the empire and to the Church, and desiring to avoid a public scandal and humiliation, the emperor will allow you to retire in private to a monastery, defrocked and stripped of your titles and position, to spend the remainder of your days in service and peace as a lay servant, spared from the gaze of the public and a trial for your crimes.’

‘He… what?’ Reinhard said, staggering to one side and putting his hand heavily on a table to stop himself from collapsing. ‘But Henry himself gave me my orders!’ he croaked in an outraged whisper.

‘You will not speak that treason against the emperor again,’ said Hugues, giving the bishop a ruthless glare. Then he turned to Sighard, who was still rooted in place, the letter containing his orders clenched in his hand.

Reinhard finally comprehended the scale of his downfall, and he stuttered, pointing at Sighard and then Hugues. ‘Kill this traitor, Brother Sighard,’ he gasped. ‘These are all lies, we are servants of God. You have always been loyal to me. Kill him!’

Sighard looked at Reinhard, aghast, and then back at Hugues, dropping the letter from his grip.

‘Will you carry out your orders, Sir Sighard? Or explain to the emperor why you would not?’ said Hugues with a growl as his own men rustled behind him, ready for violence.

Sighard looked at Hugues for another heartbeat and then turned and strode over to Reinhard, grabbing him by the arm.

‘Sighard!’ Reinhard wailed. ‘Kill him!’

‘Be quiet, I am a servant of God and the emperor, and my orders are clear.’

‘I am the Grandmaster! Obey me!’

‘You are not,’ said Hugues calmly, pointing at the first, discarded letter as Sighard pushed Reinhard towards the door, halting him in front of Hugues. ‘You are just a man who did not understand the game of power he tried to play. The emperor believes you are too dangerous to allow to continue. I know that,’ said Hugue, finally allowing himself a small smile of victory, ‘because I convinced him of that truth.’

Reinhard’s face drained as the realisation hit him that Hugues had beaten him, in the end, and then he lost control, veins popping and spittle flying as he flew into a rage, scratching and lashing out at Hugues with his one free arm, screaming obscenities that Hugues was shocked to find out he even knew.

Hugues batted away the slender arm and then backhanded the disgraced bishop across the face with his fist, silencing him with a thud and a whimper as Sighard gained control over his captive.

‘I apologise, my lord, it will not happen again.’

‘Keep him locked up until orders and escort come for his final destination. He will try and escape, he will try and corrupt his gaolers, he will bribe and threaten and do everything he can think of and more. Best to keep him isolated and only use men you trust absolutely. Failure to keep him contained will be a direct threat to the emperor’s reputation. You heard his treasonous words, Sir Sighard,’ Hugues added menacingly. ‘You will be held responsible if they evade your imprisonment of him.’

Sighard straightened and his chin rose. ‘I understand. I am a loyal servant of the emperor, and I will conduct my duties to the fullest.’

Hugues nodded, satisfied. ‘As you always have, Sir Sighard. I knew you were the right man for this task.’

‘When will orders be sent with what to do with him?’

Hugues allowed a slow smile to spread across his face. ‘Oh, next year, I expect. First we have to find a monastery willing to take him!’

‘Next year?’ Sighard said with a disappointed look, but he quickly recovered. ‘As you command.’

And then he handed the sobbing and broken ex-bishop to one of his men. ‘Lock him up downstairs until I come for him.’

‘Yes, Brother Sighard,’ said the shocked guard, taking Reinhard and disappearing with him out of the door.

‘Is there anything else, my lord?’ Sighard asked.

‘Yes, there is. I have a letter for Count Hartung, orders from his liege lord Duke Lothair. Where is he?’

‘He is still out hunting the rebel Gjaldir, my lord. I’m afraid he is many days’ ride away, and I am not sure exactly where.’

Hugues smiled again. ‘No matter. I have four of Lothair’s men with me who need to go and retrieve him. Some of yours can guide them?’

‘Of course.’

‘Good. They can spread the orders to abandon that foolish hunt and return here, and get Lothair’s men to Hartung at the same time. Make sure you emphasise to the men you choose that Duke Lothair is the lord of these lands now, and his men have absolute authority here. Do you understand? Absolute.’

Sighard nodded gravely. ‘I understand.’

‘Good. The time of the Order’s supremacy is over, Sir Sighard. Under your supervision, they will become what they were meant to be: servants of the Lord, protectors of his flock, and preachers of his word. No more.’

‘I understand.’

‘Good, because if you do this well, it is entirely possible you will be made Grandmaster on a more permanent basis. The men trust you, you know the land well, and the emperor and Duke Lothair desire some degree of continuity.’

Sighard’s eyes widened. ‘Me, Grandmaster? I am deeply honoured, my lord.’

Hugues smiled and put his arm around the overwhelmed knight. He couldn’t tell Sighard the truth, of course, which was that what Lothair wanted was a dull and obedient servant who could control the Order without trouble, and that Sighard was the perfect candidate. But if Sighard felt honoured to receive the recommendation, more the better.

‘Fabulous,’ Hugues said, leading Sighard out of the room and down the stairs to the courtyard.

‘Will you be staying, my lord? I can prepare the bishop’s old quarters for you.’

‘Staying? No, my friend, I will not. I am done with this place. My ship will return me to Stadsholmen, and from there to Hamburg.’

Sighard looked taken aback. ‘As you command.’

‘I do not command you anymore, Grandmaster Sighard. And I am leaving to avoid anyone having that false impression.’

They walked down the stairs and out into the courtyard in silence, then stopped and waited as Hugues’s men prepared to leave again. There were a lot of very shocked and confused-looking men of the Order around the yard, and not a few of them looked at Hugues with angry or hurt expressions.

‘This will be a difficult task for you, Sighard, as it was for me. But I believe you are equal to it and the rewards for success will be worthy.’

Sighard nodded thoughtfully. ‘Were they for you, my lord?’ he said, suddenly showing an unaccustomed curiosity and insight.

Hugues thought about it a moment, considering if he should answer, but he saw no harm in letting Sighard know that the emperor’s generosity was as great as the terror of his justice.

‘It was, Brother Sighard. It was. I trust you to keep a secret?’

‘Of course.’

‘My liege lord will find his dispute over the lands of Lower and Upper Lorraine is decided favourably, giving us control over both, and that we will enjoy the protection and friendship of the emperor in any future disagreements with the kingdom of France.’

Sighard’s eyes widened a little. ‘That is what you were seeking, from the start!’

Hugues looked at him. ‘You knew that?’

Sighard smiled a little. ‘Reinhard required me to pretend to be ignorant of anything outside of my duties, my lord. But I am not. You ambition was not a well-kept secret.’

Hugues laughed deeply, creasing his eyes and shaking his head. ‘Well, thank you for that little slice of humility, Sighard. I had convinced myself it was.’

His guard were ready to go, and he turned to smile at Sighard. ‘You will do fine work, Grandmaster Sighard. Attend to the emperor’s requests with all haste and dedication, and one day you too will have what you desire.’

‘What is it that you think I desire, my lord?’ Sighard said, giving Hugues a raised eyebrow and a sly smile.

Hugues was suddenly tongue-tied. He shrugged helplessly. ‘You know, Sir Sighard, I really have no idea.’

Sighard nodded in satisfaction. ‘So you know I am good at keeping confidence, my lord.’

Hugues nodded slowly, staring at Sighard, suddenly seeing more behind his eyes than he had expected to. ‘I desperately misjudged you, didn’t I?’

‘I was always what I was required to be,’ Sighard said, saluting crisply. ‘And will continue to be so. Good luck with your journey, my lord.’

‘Good luck to you too, Sighard,’ Hugues said, with an amused grin. Then he turned and gestured to his guard to get ready to leave. He felt an enormous depth of satisfaction, but he had no time to dwell on his victory. They had a long way to travel before the day was done.

Chapter 41

The Wolf in the Lake

In the mountains of eastern Norway

Early September AD 1123

Gjaldir smiled in satisfaction. He was tired, and he was hungry, but he felt they were close to their journey’s end. Close enough to almost reach out and touch it.

The morning sun was streaming through the tall fir trees behind them as they walked north-westwards along the ancient track, lighting the path with shafts of white light and pools of dappled yellow on the forest floor. On the left of the track, the forest extended across the narrow mountain valley. To their front, the path curved away from view behind some rocks and, unseen, followed the valley up towards the pass they were heading for, one that would take them deep into the safety of the mountains. On the right, a rough low stone ledge, perhaps twice the height of a man, lined the way. Above the ledge, the mountain’s flank soared up to meet the bright blue sky, the last vestiges of the previous winter’s snow clinging to the peak of the ridge. It was a beautiful place, its beauty going unnoticed by most of the warweary band who traversed it, hoping to reach the pass before night fell, or their hunters caught them.

The band of exhausted warriors shuffled doggedly on, driven by the endless quest to stay ahead of the scourge of their pursuers. For weeks they had not seen a single Christian, and Gjaldir had believed they were out of their reach forever. But in the last ten days or so they had spotted their enemy again, riding the nearby valleys, searching. He was sure they had not been spotted, they were careful, but it had slowed their progress dramatically.

‘Someone must have betrayed us,’ said Leif bitterly as they had watched one party searching the valley below them while they were hidden behind a rocky outcropping.

‘Who?’ Brunhild had asked. ‘We have barely seen anyone except other refugees and some hunters and trappers. When was the last time we passed a proper village? A week ago?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Gjaldir. ‘We can avoid them. We are so close to the mountain pass now, once we are across it unseen they will lose our trail. There are so many places we could go, and winter is nearly upon us. All we have to do is evade them for a few days more and we are free of them.’

So they had watched, and they had carefully made their way towards the pass, moving in the dawn and the evening in the half-light, and resting most of the rest of the day to avoid being seen.

They were running out of food again, despite their attempts to forage, hunt and steal as they went. They had run out of money to trade for food a while ago. Gjaldir’s last possession of value was his gold armring, and he wasn’t willing to part with it. It meant too much. No one complained about it, even though it would feed them all for a month.

The days had passed and they had climbed higher and higher into the mountains until they reached the valley with the pass at its head, they could see their goal, and it put a lightness in their step that nothing could defy, and they walked in the evening sun with smiles on their faces and joy in their hearts.

Gjaldir walked near the back of the small column, with Brunhild at his side. The hardships seemed to have taken a toll on her beyond his understanding. Her warmth had faded and she had become more reclusive again, more wrapped up inside her own mind. But he did not hold it against her. They were all suffering, enough that some people would have been broken by it. But not Brunhild. She would bend but would not break. Gjaldir knew that about her above all things. The woman was simply indomitable.

So he walked in tired silence, and he knew that by merely by still walking at his side she was showing her true devotion, and it satisfied him more deeply than a kind word or a coy smile could.

The first sign that something was wrong was the crunch of moving stones on the ledge above them. A cry of alarm sounded from the front of the group as armed men burst from the cover of the bushes ahead of them and Gjaldir drew his famous sword, already shouting, ‘Shields!’

His warriors reacted without hesitation. More than a dozen weapons leapt into hand, the few shields they still had were raised and spread out, eyes were set on the charging enemy or scanned the woods for other foes. The crunch above them turned out to be half a dozen rolling and falling stones, varying from the size of a man’s head to the size of his chest, that plummeted into the rear of the group one after the other with only a moment’s warning.

Gjaldir was facing that way, the rim of his shield under the level of his eyes, searching for threats from the rounded holes in his helmet’s nosepiece. He saw the rocks coming over the ledge, he saw where they would hit. He cried out in warning and moved to cover his companion to the right, whose back was turned to the falling rocks, with his shield. Strong, fiery, fair-haired Brunhild. The fierce woman who had refused him, loved him, advised him, opposed him in turn. Independent Brunhild, who swore or gave herself to no one, but lent her support so earnestly and fully when it was deserved. He got his shield halfway across her back, just enough to take the brunt of the first plummeting rock.

Brunhild was driven to the ground, stunned but alive. A second larger rock drove Gjaldir to his knees as he tried to shelter them both under the broad canopy of his round shield.

He put his right hand down in a fist to support himself, still holding his sword, the stones of the rough path digging into and splitting his knuckles. A third rock hit the man in front of him in the head, landing so hard on the front of his leather skull cap, and snapping his neck backwards so violently that, for an instant, he looked to be a creature with the body of a man and a head of stone. The illusion shattered as the lifeless man crumpled to the floor and his grotesquely lolling head rolled around to stare at his own shoulder.

A tumbling rock landed astride Gjaldir’s sword as it lay on the ground, denting it and bending it halfway along its length. The last falling rock crushed Brunhild’s exposed ankle as she struggled to rise, leaving her screaming and clutching at it on the ground.

When he was sure no more rocks were falling, Gjaldir opened his senses to the area beyond his little world under that shield. Brunhild was moaning on the ground beside him, clutching her ankle with the hand that had lost her grip on her weapon. There was the sound of snapping crossbows behind him and men screaming, both in pain and with battle cries. Gjaldir turned his head to see what was happening there as a clash of steel on metal and wood erupted. He took in the situation in a moment’s glance: There had been an ambushing group hidden behind the rocks and bushes ahead of them. They had sprung their trap with the rockfall and attacked the head of his small column, covered by crossbows being fired from the woods on the left, and were now engaging with his people at the front. As Gjaldir watched, trying to decide how to react to the devastating attack, swords clashed, shields clattered, and men screamed death at each other across a few inches of contested space.

Gjaldir’s indecision, so unfamiliar, and his desperate desire to protect the prostrate Brunhild, robbed him of the time and chance to make a difference. He saw Leif, fighting two men at once and alone, block a blow from his right then take a sword through the throat from his left; a thrust that pushed over the top of his shield while he was unsighted, punched past the top of his maille byrnie and carried on into his neck. Leif reeled backwards off the cold steel and a bloody red mist sprayed in the bright shafts of light. He dropped his shield and clasped his neck, collapsing over his sword to lie gasping in the dust behind his desperately fighting comrades. Gjaldir was just ten paces away, a gulf so vast in that moment that he could not comprehend the distance as his sword brother bled out in the dirt, eyes wild and fearful.

Gjaldir turned his helpless eyes from the friend he could not save to the one he could. He dropped his damaged sword and held a hand out to Brunhild. Their eyes locked, hers misted with pain and anger, his blurred with grief and helplessness. As he started pulling her up, a bolt slammed into the top of her shoulder and buried itself to the fletchings in her chest, transfixing her heart. The shock washed over her pain-filled face like a wave, her eyes filled with the sorrow of understanding.

She desperately tried to speak as he clutched at her in horror. ‘Gjaldir, I… Aeske…’

She coughed once before a torrent of blood flowed out past the fletches and those deep green eyes he had known so well, always so full of fire and passion, unfocused and rolled into the back of her head. Her hand released his, and she slumped back to the ground, empty of life as those eyes had emptied of her spirit.

Gjaldir’s sense of time and place rended as his world crashed down around him in a storm of clashing weapons and a hail of iron-tipped bolts. His knees could feel the tremble of the combat through the sharp stones digging in above his thick boots, as he knelt, heartbroken, on the rough path. As shouts swirled around him, he heard, as though muffled, the clash of weapons and the snap of bolts.

But now it was as if it was distant, happening somewhere else, to someone else. His shield felt like the weight of the world was bearing it down, rim on the ground, boards on his shoulder. His numb right hand rested on the hilt of his sword, unfeeling, refusing to grip it. Someone, somewhere, so near but sounding so far away, was desperately shouting his name.

He ignored it. He could not respond to it.

He had lost so much in the last years. So many faces never to be seen again. Gjaldir already carried so much heartache for the losses, but he could not bear these. Not these lost friends. Not like this. He stared down at the paling face of his lover and friend and he stopped caring. Kneeling in the dust, tenderly covering her body from the chaos of combat around him, cutting himself off from the screams and shouts of his last companions, the shattered man looked into her empty eyes and waited for his own death to release him.

‘Gjaldir, watch out!’ He heard Bjorn’s cry, so desperate and piercing that it cut through his shock. He looked up dully just in time to see the Christian lunge at him, too late to do anything about it. The spear punched into his side, bursting through his maille and jamming into his ribs, sticking there with a jolt.

Howling in pain and despair, Gjaldir twisted and lashed out with his damaged sword, ripping the jaw off his attacker as the soldier fought vainly to recover his spear from the tangle of maille. The soldier went down and he finally wrenched the spear free as he did so. The pain overwhelmed Gjaldir and he gasped and sank back to one knee, putting his swordtip in the dirt and trying to breathe.

Bjorn arrived at his side and tugged at his arm. ‘We have to go, now!’

‘We can’t leave her,’ Gjaldir sobbed, looking at Brunhild’s body.

Bjorn scurried over to her and took one look at her face before coming back, his face a mask of anguish. ‘I’m sorry, Gjaldir, I’m sorry. She’s already gone. Move, now, please!’

Gjaldir was driven to his feet, unable to resist Bjorn’s urging. He saw that in front of them the fighting was dying away, the few survivors of his band chasing the last enemy back off the path even as crossbow bolts still flitted out of the trees.

‘Move!’ shouted Bjorn, pointing the way up the valley with his bloodied sword.

Gjaldir trudged onwards, leaning on Bjorn as his huskarl covered his side with his shield.

They passed Leif’s motionless body, his blond hair matted with blood and his shocked eyes still staring sightlessly at the sky.

Gjaldir whimpered and felt his legs going again, but Halfbjorn ran over to him and took his other arm. The warrior had a cut across his face that seemed to have destroyed an eye, but he wasn’t acting as if he noticed.

The two men dragged Gjaldir away from the site of the ambush, up the mountain, along with the six others who had survived. The ambushers, the ones that remained, did not have the numbers or the courage to pursue them.

By the middle of the day they reached the top of the pass and Bjorn finally allowed them to stop and rest near a small lake.

Gjaldir slumped down against a rock, the pain washing in waves and dull by comparison to the burning ache in his chest.

Brunhild was gone. He had watched the life leave her body, and had been able to do nothing. Nothing.

Leif was dead, and Gjaldir had not been standing at his side, shoulder to shoulder, as they were supposed to do in battle. He had been too busy cowering over Brunhild, failing to protect her too.

He had failed them all. The weight of it crushed the last spark of his soul like the dying embers of a hearth fire.

He looked up in a daze over the small lake, and his eyes focused and then his breath was caught; eyes narrowing to be sure of what he was seeing.

I know this place.

He looked down at the stony shore in disbelief, and then moved his gaze out over the calm surface, seeing a jumble of rocks standing proud from the waters near the centre of the lake. The rocks sloped up to a stony point, and from where he was sitting they looked unmistakably like a crouched wolf. He stared at it, amazed and uncomprehending.

Every detail of the place was correct. This was the lake from his dream, from Tormund’s dream. He heard a faint and distant howl on the wind, mournful and fading, gone as soon as it arrived, and his heart shivered at the call of it.

Garm.

He rubbed his fingers subconsciously across the runic inscription on his sword.

Bjorn was busy giving orders to the others, trying to drive them through their grief and keep them focused. He sent two to watch the path south, and several of the others to check a rough, abandoned-looking shack in the treeline and a small boat shelter down by the lake’s edge.

Then he came back to Gjaldir. ‘Let me see it,’ he said, breathing hard. Gjaldir saw Bjorn’s eyes were red, and his cheeks wet.

‘See what? The wolf?’ Gjaldir asked in a daze, staring at the rocks.

‘What? No, the wound.’ He pointed at Gjaldir’s side, where he had a hand clamped to the spear wound the Christian had given him.

‘Oh,’ Gjaldir said, dully, trying to raise his arms to let Bjorn carefully lift his maille up, moaning and gasping as the movement aggravated his pain.

Finally Bjorn had the maille up enough to examine the wound.

‘It’s not so bad,’ he declared with little conviction in his voice. ‘A little rest and this will heal.’

‘Rest?’ said Gjaldir in tired disbelief. ‘How am I supposed to rest? No, this is the end for me too.’

‘No, it is not!’ said Bjorn, with a furious expression. ‘Don’t you dare give up, not now. This wound will not kill you, it will heal, you will survive it. Others have survived far worse.’

Gjaldir reached out to put his hand on the huskarl’s face. ‘The Christians will be here within half a day, maybe less. I can’t escape them like this, I can barely walk.’

‘Then we will hide,’ said Bjorn resolutely.

Gjaldir slumped back, lacking the energy or the strength to argue. He looked up at the sky and tried to focus on nothingness.

‘I was not called to this place to hide,’ he whispered.

Hartung paced excitedly as the sorry-looking soldier made his report.

‘You are sure, you heard them say it?’

‘Yes, Brother Hartung. They shouted his name at one of the ones who escaped. It was Gjaldir, and he was wounded. He might already be dying.’

Hartung excitedly thumped one fist into the other. He was too pleased to even be angry that the soldier had failed to stop Gjaldir’s party. He had left ambushing forces at the head of three valleys nearby, fishing for the furtive group that one of his patrols had briefly spotted a few days before. ‘We have him! Come on, call the other patrols in. We will hunt them down and finish them off!’

He ran back down to the basic camp where they had stayed for the last two days. ‘Get my horse!’ he shouted, hoping his squire would hear him.

Then his squire ran over. ‘My lord, riders for you.’

‘One of the patrols? Good, bring them over.’

‘No,’ said the squire, shaking his head. ‘From Uppsala.’

‘From Uppsala, here? What on earth?’

He looked over as eight horsemen rode into camp. Four wore the white surcoat of the Order, four were strangers to him, wearing the mark of his old liege lord, Duke Lothair.

They all dismounted. One of the brother knights came over and addressed the group around Hartung. ‘By orders of the Grandmaster, I am taking command,’ he said in a loud voice.

Hartung staggered to a stop. ‘What?’ he said, outraged. ‘What is this nonsense?’

The knight gave him a rigid look and handed over a letter. ‘I am sorry, Brother Hartung. The Grandmaster has ordered the hunt for the rebel Gjaldir to end. You are all recalled to Uppsala, immediately.’

‘Immediately? What, you don’t understand! We have him!’ He pointed up the valley. ‘He is half a day’s ride that way, he is wounded, we will have him tomorrow morning!’

The knight shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter. These orders come straight from the emperor. The suppression of the heathens is to end, it has already ended in the lowlands, you are probably the last commander to receive the orders. It took us a week to find you,’ he added bitterly.

Hartung worked his jaw in anger. ‘I refuse, I will complete my task, Grandmaster Reinhard will understand.’

‘Reinhard is no longer the Grandmaster, Sighard is in command now.’

‘Sighard!’ Hartung said, stunned.

‘Yes.’

‘What has happened down there?’ Hartung said, appalled by the news.

‘There is a new emperor, and we have a new master.’ The knight gestured uncomfortably over his shoulder at the four men of Lothair’s. ‘Duke Lothair now controls the province. I’m sorry, Brother Hartung. You didn’t deserve this, but our duty is clear.’

Hartung slumped, wanting to howl in fury. He had been so close to his quarry, been searching for so long. Now he was going to have to return to his home empty-handed, with nothing to show for his toils.

The knight turned away and started shouting orders for the camp to pack up, soldiers scurrying to comply, leaving Hartung alone with his disappointment.

Duke Lothair’s men walked over and the knight who led them came up to Hartung, holding up a letter.

‘Hartung? I have a message from Duke Lothair.’

‘Yes, what?’

‘You are to come with me to face Duke Lothair’s justice. Your lands and titles are declared forfeit.’

Hartung’s mouth gaped like a landed fish. ‘My lands? On what charge?’ He protested, still trying to process the shattering statement.

‘You are charged with the murder of Sir Dietmar of Eresburg, Duke Lothair’s loyal vassal, among other crimes against his lands and subjects. You will be presented to him, and defend yourself.’

‘Murder…Sir Dietmar? I did not murder Sir Dietmar, he refused my orders, he raised his sword against me!’

The three other unfamiliar knights had moved forwards as the first one spoke, forming a loose cordon behind their leader. Behind them Hartung could see his own men looking on in disgust, and he felt a wild, desperate hope.

‘Sir Hartung, will you come with us as commanded?’ the voice called out, and Hartung snapped his eyes back to the man, rage at the injustice of it filling his blood.

‘To face justice, for what, for doing my duty!’ He shouted.

‘Murder of your betters is not duty. There are good witnesses, noble men. You will be tried and found guilty, to spend the rest of your days in penury and disgrace.’ The knight said with an evil smirk, goading him.

‘What would I come with you to make my case when it seems my guilt has already been decreed.’ Hartung spat. ‘If you wish to take me, try it. My men will not stand for it!’

The knight nodded, briefly looking around at the men of the order who were guiltily looking away even as Hartung’s voice grew shrill and desperate at the realisation of it. ‘I will give you the same choice you gave Sir Dietmar.’ he said slowly, savouring the words, stepping forwards while his hand moved carefully to his sword until he was almost in striking distance.

Hartung’s eyes stung as he fought back tears. He looked at his men once more, men he had served with for so long but never truly bonded with, and they could not meet his eye, his silent plea for help.

The anger at that final betrayal seized him, and his hand moved to his sword without even wishing it. ‘By hell you’ll take me!’ He screamed as he grabbed the hilt of his sword and started to draw in a flash of steel.

He was so intently watching the knight’s sword hand as he drew his own, as he had been trained to do, that he never saw the dagger in his opponent’s left hand, hidden by his side in his cloak.

His executioner, for Hartung realised far too late that is what the man truly was, simply stepped into him and plunged the short blade into his stomach while his own blade was still rising.

He gasped, the strength going from his arms even as he tried to complete his own attack, and his sword clattered to the ground.

The knight leaned in close as a lover to whisper in his ear as he started to slump, only held up by his killer’s blade.

‘Duke Lothair thanks you for your choice, and for avoiding the spectacle of a trial. He has loyal lords he needs to reward with your lands.’

Then the knight yanked the blade free, and the bloodied steel hung in the air as Hartung slumped to his knees, desperately trying to draw in another breath as he tilted his head back to stare open mouthed at his killer, raising a hand to try to plead.

The uncaring blade came back regardless, plunging into his chest with a sickening thump that he felt reverberate from his toes to the top of his head, and he felt his heart rend and stop beating.

He fell back as the blade was ripped free, falling to the ground and spasming, his vision clouding over.

The last thing he heard in the soft, muffled clouds of pain, was the knight shouting at his men to mount up, and then the darkness claimed him.

‘They haven’t appeared,’ said one of the two warriors Bjorn had sent to the pass as the evening started to close in around them.

Bjorn nodded fiercely. ‘Good. And it is too late for them now. We are safe for the night.’

Gjaldir was barely listening, he was just sitting staring out over the lake, silent and disconsolate.

‘What do we do tomorrow?’ said the warrior, looking nervously at Gjaldir.

‘We’ll talk about it in the morning,’ Bjorn said.

‘No,’ said Gjaldir, looking up with a pained expression. ‘We will talk about it now. I have made my plans.’

Bjorn looked surprised. ‘You have?’

‘I have. Gather everyone else in,’ Gjaldir said, looking around at the seven warriors; six men and one woman.

Bjorn blanched. ‘Gjaldir, this is everyone,’ he muttered mournfully.

Gjaldir looked around again, shocked, and the pain hit him again. He closed his eyes to clear them. ‘Yes, I know. I’m sorry. It’s my head, it’s still not right.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Bjorn said. ‘Just tell us, what is your plan?’

Gjaldir opened his eyes, looking at them one by one. ‘Our fighting days are over. Our only chance now is to hide and spread out into the valleys of Norway beyond that ridge.’ He pointed past the lake at the path they must take the next day. ‘So few of us, unarmed, can hide in the population and they will never find us.’

Bjorn looked taken aback. ‘Abandon our weapons?’

‘Yes,’ said Gjaldir with a tired nod. ‘We won’t need them anymore, we are too few to defend ourselves, and the Christians will be looking for armed men.’

Bjorn swallowed but nodded. ‘If the Christians find our weapons, they will know what we have done.’

‘That is true, so we will dump them deep in the lake. Bring that boat.’ He pointed at the boat shelter at the edge of the lake where his men had found a small boat. ‘We will put all our gear in it, and send it out onto the lake to burn.’ He smiled sadly. ‘A funeral for our warband, our friends.’ His voice cracked.

‘The Christians will see the smoke,’ Bjorn said.

Gjaldir shrugged, and the movement hurt him anew. ‘It doesn’t matter. They know where we are.’ He gestured to his people. ‘Go to the forest’s edge, gather firewood and whatever food you can find, come back just before dark. Go.’

The warriors looked at each other uncertainly, Halfbjorn grimacing behind his bandaged face, but they obeyed without argument. They first went and got the boat, dragging it along the shore to near where Gjaldir sat, and then, one by one, they put all of their equipment in it. Maille, spears, swords, an axe and their remaining shields and helmets.

Gjaldir kept his armour on, it was too painful to remove. His sword stayed at his side and no one objected.

Then they all went off to gather firewood and to forage whatever they could.

‘Bjorn, stay with me,’ said Gjaldir weakly, ‘there is something I would ask of you.’

Bjorn nodded earnestly and knelt down by Gjaldir’s side as the others went away.

Gjaldir smiled fondly at Bjorn. ‘Bjorn the Faithful, it was fated to be you here, at this moment. Only you could be trusted to do what I ask of you now.’

Bjorn’s brows knitted together in concern. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You know I can’t run, Bjorn. Shushh, don’t argue, I haven’t the strength. You know it. I will slow us down and they will capture us, tomorrow or the next day. If I go with you, you will all die.’

‘Then we will die together!’ hissed Bjorn.

‘And we will have failed, they will have me and the sword, and our people’s hope with it! No, I cannot allow that. Not after all we have suffered and lost. We cannot fail, and I cannot go with you.’

‘What are you asking of me?’ said Bjorn in mounting horror.

Gjaldir didn’t answer him, he just smiled softly, looking away and staring out over the lake towards the wolf-shaped rocks. Then he let out a sob he couldn’t hold in. Bjorn grasped his hand, and Gjaldir looked up into the concerned warrior’s eyes.

‘I thought I was the stone,’ Gjaldir muttered. ‘I wanted to make a life with Brunhild, I thought that was what I was fighting for. But now it is gone, it has all gone, all my vision of the future. It has passed on from me…’ He laughed bitterly, tears running down his face. ‘I know what I have to do. My task is nearly over, yours is now beginning.’ He looked up at Bjorn with an utterly drained expression and shrugged. ‘I was just a ripple.’

‘What?’ said Bjorn, looking completely lost and distraught.

Gjaldir shook his head softly. ‘I can’t explain, I don’t have time. I just need you to do as I ask, Bjorn the Faithful. The Christians cannot take the sword, nor know where it has gone. It is all that matters, so you must leave me here and bear it’s burden now.’ Gjaldir squeezed Bjorn’s hand hard.

Bjorn shook his head, furious, his eyes begging Gjaldir even as his resolve wilted away. ‘I cannot do it. Not this.’ he whimpered

‘You can, Bjorn. You are the only one that can. The duty is yours now, this is what our people need you to do, this is why you are here, I know it. I have seen this all before.’ Gjaldir reached up with his other hand, his face clouding over in pain as it pulled at his injured side. But he ignored it and clasped Bjorn’s hand between his and looking at him intently, his expression finally settling until his looked almost at peace. ‘Bjorn the Faithful, my friend. I have one final command for you before I release you from your oath.’

Bjorn looked on with trembling hands as Gjaldir carefully and painfully poled the small boat away from the shore, standing unsteadily, his face drawn and pale, blood tricking down his side as his wound cracked open.

Bjorn’s heart nearly tore, watching, as Gjaldir moved the boat slowly towards the rocks in the centre of the small lake.

There were footsteps behind him and he turned round in alarm, seeing Halfbjorn coming down the bank with an armful of firewood and a confused expression. Two of the others were behind him.

Halfbjorn suddenly saw what was happening and he dropped the firewood. ‘NO!’ he shouted, and sprinted down the bank, splashing into the water.

‘Halfbjorn, wait!’ Bjorn shouted at him, running to intercept him and grabbing the other warrior’s shoulders, dragging him to a stop in the shallows as the one-eyed man bellowed in outrage.

‘Gjaldir!’ the big warrior howled, struggling to get free of Bjorn’s dogged grasp.

Bjorn looked out as Gjaldir staggered to a stop, turning unsteadily in the small boat to face them. He was smiling, his face was calm, and he held out a hand to pacify Halfbjorn, shaking his head softly.

Halfbjorn subsided, tears flowing down his one exposed cheek. ‘What is he doing?’ he gasped.

‘What he must,’ said Bjorn, clutching his distraught friend.

‘He is abandoning us? I put all my trust in him, everything I had! Yet he loses his faith in us and gives up!’

‘No, he is doing this because he has faith in us.’ Bjorn looked at Halfbjorn intensely, practically shaking the man, tears still wet on his cheeks. ‘He is saving us so that we can complete his oath.’ Bjorn cuffed his cheek and looked out again at his oath-sworn leader.

Across the lake in front of them, Gjaldir reached down into the boat, laying the spear in the bottom, and then picked up a mass of maille and weapons, holding them tightly to his chest. His sword was still buckled at his side, and his maille hung from his broad shoulders. He looked every inch the warrior.

He smiled at them, standing there in the dying sunlight for one moment of stillness, and his face was peaceful and serene. He nodded once at Bjorn, slowly and deeply, a moment of understanding that crossed the vast gulf.

The sun played on the ripples spreading out from where the boat rocked in the calm water, in the shadow of the rocks. Gjaldir looked up at the sky and he put one hand on the hilt of Ljós a Norðan. Then he stepped back onto the rim of the small boat. It rolled towards him, tipping him into the water. He fell backwards, arms still clasped to the weapons and maille, and disappeared with a splash as the boat turned over on top of him.

Halfbjorn fell to his knees in the shallows with an agonised groan, staring at the churning water where Gjaldir had just disappeared.

Bjorn looked away as the upturned boat drifted aimlessly away and the froth of bubbles that marked the spot where Gjaldir had slipped beneath the surface dissipated, until there was quickly no evidence remaining that he had ever even been there. Just as he had wanted.

Bjorn grasped Halfbjorn’s hand, trying to turn the other man around as the one-eyed warrior moaned in pain.

‘What do we do now?’ Halfbjorn finally croaked, racked with misery as Bjorn guided him to the bank where the others were standing in shock and disbelief at what they had seen.

‘We do as Gunnar bade us. We persist.’ Bjorn said. ‘We have to keep the story of Gjaldir alive. This was his last command.’ Bjorn fought his tears as he spoke to them. ‘You must all swear to keep the secret of what happened here until your dying day. We will go down into the valleys of Norway, we will split up and spread out, and we will tell the people that Gjaldir escaped into the mountains with Ljós a Norðan. We will tell them that he is still fighting for them, that he will return once more to lead them when the time is right.’

Halfbjorn looked at him with his one good eye. ‘Why?’ he asked, looking lost.

‘Because it will give them some chance of hope, and it will prevent the Christians from finding the sword, or knowing that he is dead. He will always be a threat to them if they think he is preparing to come back. I know it is hard to accept, but this is what he explained to me at the end. The story that people believed in was always more important and powerful than the sword, than him. Ljós a Norðan only had power because people believed it did, and if they know it is gone, they will lose that belief.’ He gently shook his fist as he looked around at them. ‘We must not allow that to happen. We are the bearers of Ljós a Norðan now. It is not a sword, it is an idea. We will remain steadfast and true, and if we do, our people will have a future. That is what the gods have promised us.’

Halfbjorn gave a sullen nod, and Bjorn glared at them all, forcing each of them to meet his eye until he was sure they all understood.

‘Good,’ he said, finally relaxing. ‘We will leave in the morning before dawn breaks or the Christians arrive, and when we are into the valley beyond we will go our separate ways. None will tell the others where we are going so if the Christians follow us or capture one of us they will be condemned to chasing ghosts through the whole of Norway. Go far and wide, my friends, find those of our people who have survived, and spread the tale to any who will listen.’ He looked back at the calm waters, and the wolf-shaped rocks. ‘One day, perhaps it will make the difference for them.’

He rose, straightening his tunic. ‘Get some sleep, we set out on a long path tomorrow. Our journey is far from done.’

The mournful group slowly dissolved, headed to the shelter of the hut, but Bjorn went down to the lakeshore along in the gathering darkness and stood there, staring out at the dim shadow of the wolf that would guard Gjaldir and his secrets until the end of time.

‘I will do as you asked. I will not lose faith. I swear it.’ He whispered to the darkness. And the darkness said nothing in return, for the watcher in the shadows did not need to speak.

Bjorn finally turned away from the lake, and the shadow of the wolf dissolved unseen behind him as he went to join his friends.

Chapter 42

The Final and the Faithful

On the coast near Trondheim, in the old kingdom of Norway

Summer AD 1167

There was an old man who looked up from his seat on the benches in the middle of the ship as Sverre sat down wearily opposite him. The beady eyes that peered out from under the greying, bushy brows faintly unsettled him, and refused to stop staring.

Sverre stored his belongings under his bench where the sea-bitten captain had indicated, and looked around the ship that would be his home for the next week or so.

There were about a dozen crew; hardened, weatherbeaten men who made their living plying the open sea, and another half-dozen or so paying passengers like himself. Much of the space in the ship was taken up by cargo, carefully laid out in the keel and under the benches, tied and strapped so that it would not move around.

Iron, furs, fine hardwood, clothes, and all manner of other trade goods. All would fetch the captain and his crew a good price in Iceland.

‘Have you been to sea before?’

Sverre looked up and saw the old man was still looking at him.

He nodded, then shrugged a little. ‘For much shorter journeys, nothing like this.’

The old man nodded slowly. ‘Neither have I. Are you nervous?’

Sverre tried to feign indifference. ‘No, the captain knows his business.’ It was true, but he also knew that from time to time, ships simply disappeared on the open waves, swallowed by the icy waters or the things that lived beneath and never seen again. The journey they were taking was risky, but he felt it was worth it.

‘Oh, I’m sure he does.’ The old man leaned in a little with a cheeky smile. ‘But I’m still nervous.’

Sverre felt relieved to know he was not alone in that, and he broke into a grin. ‘Me too,’ he admitted.

The old man nodded and sat back up. ‘There is no shame in acknowledging it.’

‘Why are you taking this journey? You are old to be going to sea.’

The old man smiled softly. ‘So very old, it is true. The captain wanted to refuse me, at first.’

‘And why did he not?’

The smile broadened. ‘I am very convincing.’

Sverre understood that, the man had a confidence and gravitas that he found hard to deny. He looked strong and tough, despite his age. His hair still had faded streaks of a fine black colour, and his hands were calloused and showed a life of hardship that was mirrored in several lighter scars on his tanned cheeks and forehead.

He looked out over the bay where they would soon be heading, furtively leaving a small fishing village in one of the long, deep fjords near Trondheim.

It was a smuggler’s ship, they all understood that. The country’s Christian overlords did not permit trade with pagan Iceland, not without special permission that almost no crew could get. But the coastline of what had once been Norway was so long and ragged that enforcing that ban was almost impossible. So the ships still sailed, if you knew where to find them.

‘I want to live the end of my life in a land where the old ways still hold,’ the old man said finally, looking out over the water. ‘Iceland is not my home, and I hear that life there is hard. But the years of my winter are ending and I do not wish to be buried in a Christian’s grave. It is a painful thing to do, but I must abandon the land of my forefathers, where my children yet live, and go to die in one where the old traditions are still followed.’

It was a bold admission, Christianity was the only allowed faith in the old kingdoms now, and anyone admitting following the old pagan ways was liable for punishment.

Sverre looked at the old man again, judging his age. ‘Did you fight in the wars?’

The old man nodded gravely. ‘I did. I fought… I lost.’

Sverre nodded sadly. ‘I was born just after they ended, my parents had fled from the South - Danes. They taught me the old ways too.’ He carefully pulled out the hammer amulet he kept hidden inside his tunic and showed it to the old man, who smiled in sly pleasure and brought out his own.

‘You know the old gods?’

‘I do.’

‘I am pleased. So tell me, why are you travelling to Iceland, young man?’

Sverre looked at his carefully wrapped belongings bitterly. They were all he had in the world. ‘I have a similar cause to travel as you. There is no place for me in this Christian land anymore. I made my life travelling, entertaining at halls and hearths with stories of the old times, and trying to keep our ways alive, telling the tales of our people.’ He shook his head with terrible sadness. ‘But there is less and less call for it anymore, fewer who will welcome me into their halls and even fewer who will listen to me. There is no place left in Norway for a skald.’

‘You are a skald?’ the old man said, looking delighted.

Sverre nodded, surprised at the strength of the reaction. ‘Yes. I am Sverre Knarlsson. My father was the skald of King Magnus of Denmark, and I keep his memory and his stories alive.’

The old man slapped his knee and laughed with something that must have been near pure joy, the warmth of it creasing his wrinkled features further.

‘A skald to share my journey? Ah, Odin still watches over us!’

Sverre furrowed his brow. ‘Why, what do you mean?’

The old man shuffled over on the bench next across from him, leaning in with a satisfied grin. ‘You know the saga of Gjaldir and the sword Ljós a Norðan, I assume?’

Sverre nodded cautiously. ‘I have heard the rumours and tales, different with every telling.’

The old man nodded again, stretching his back and staring wistfully out into the distance. ‘Odin has given us a long journey together Sverre Knarlsson. And the reason I am so happy to hear that you are a skald - a keeper and teller of stories in the old ways - is because my name is Bjorn, whom men used to call the Faithful.’

He paused and smiled, his eyes clear and bright. ‘And I have a remarkable story to tell you.’

Chapter 43

A Prophecy Fulfilled

Lundjen

June AD 2017

‘No, get that light off my face. I can’t talk if I’m blind.’

‘The audience needs to see you, Mr Asleson.’

‘They aren’t blind either! Just get that thing pointed anywhere other than my face.’ Halfar said irritably, standing at the podium of the museum’s respectable auditorium. During normal operation, the two-hundred-seat amphitheatre room would host video presentations, visiting lecturers and events for the university. That day, three times that day, and again every day that week, it was going to be host to a personal lecture by Halfar on the discovery of the sword Ljós a Norðan and its importance.

It was opening day for the museum, and Halfar was fussing over the arrangements for his lecture, making sure everything was perfect. The stories about him and the fight over the sword had not died away, but magnified and spread. The story of the little old man fighting off a brace of terrorists with an ancient, magical sword had been the kind of click-bait that the internet news cycle simply could not resist.

On top of being the man who had toppled a corrupt government, and being a champion for Nordic identity and history, he had become an unwilling icon for the Norse population of the country. It was not something he was all that happy to embrace.

‘Halfar? We have a visitor.’

He looked up from the podium and saw Hallsson standing with an excited smile on his face, and Inspector Schulz was with him, in plain clothes rather than his police uniform.

‘Ah, now?’

‘Yes, now.’

‘But it’s opening day,’ said Halfar defensively. ‘I’m very busy.’

‘This won’t take a moment,’ said Schulz with a soft smile. ‘I have new information, and I am certain you will want to know immediately.’

Halfar bit his lip and then nodded. He was in a high state of nervousness. The doors were due to open in a little over an hour, and he had heard there was quite a crowd gathered in the queuing system outside.

Everything he had worked for up to this point was on the line.

Hallsson and Schulz stepped up onto the podium and walked over. Schulz opened a small bag he was carrying and took out a sheaf of printed paper, held together at a corner.

‘I’m afraid this is only a copy, the original is sealed evidence, but I thought you should know,’ Schulz said.

‘What is it?’ Halfar said, peering at it.

‘We found a lot of interesting material on Felix Meyer’s computer and in his home, and Professor Hallsson has been helping us go through some of the historical documents.’

Halfar looked at Hallsson in indignation. ‘You didn’t tell me about this!’

‘I wasn’t allowed to tell anyone, all part of the investigation, you see,’ said Hallsson, visibly vibrating with excitement.

‘Well, I’m not just anyone!’ Halfar said indignantly.

‘I know! That is why I insisted Inspector Schulz let me show you this when I found it yesterday.’

Halfar’s curiosity was piqued. ‘So, what is it?’

Schulz nodded. ‘Meyer kept extensive notes on the Crusades of the 12th century, and had done quite a lot of historical research.’

‘I think historical research is a tortured term for what he was doing,’ interrupted Hallsson.

‘As you say. But he had gathered some previously unknown material from the depths of the archives of the Ministry of Culture. Documents that were not even on the registry.’

‘He stole it, effectively,’ added Hallsson.

‘Indeed. Anyway, it was quite revealing to his motives and beliefs. One of the documents he had translated in detail, and annotated heavily with his own notes, was the work of an obscure 12th-century priest called Bertrand of Jelfsdorf.’

‘Bertrand?’

‘Yes. He was a member of the Order of the Brotherhood of Christ’s Light.’

Halfar raised an eyebrow. ‘Interesting.’

Hallsson smiled. ‘Oh, more than interesting. It is a detailed record, although some parts are missing or lost, of the Order’s activities during the Second, Third and Fourth Crusades. It is a treasure trove of historical information, remarkably detailed. It’s groundbreaking, truly. We will be studying these documents for decades.’

‘We believe Meyer’s obsession with the Order is what drove him. He saw himself as continuing their legacy in purging this country of the Norse and their beliefs,’ added Schulz.

Halfar’s mouth hung open. ‘His little criminal gang; the brotherhood. He called them that because he was copying the name of the Order of Christ’s Light.’

‘Yes.’

‘How did I never make that connection? It’s so obvious!’

‘None of us did, it wasn’t obvious before,’ said Hallsson.

‘This is all fascinating, but why are you telling me this now, today, one hour before the doors open?’ Halfar said with some consternation.

Hallsson nodded with unbridled enthusiasm. ‘Because of this section.’ He leafed through the paper to one page marked with a yellow tag. ‘Look, read the section I have marked!’

Halfar felt his friend almost vibrating with excitement, and he took the paper to read it, scanning it quickly.

‘Good Lord,’ he said as he started.

‘Quite,’ agreed Hallsson.

Halfar’s eyes opened wide, and he moved the paper into the light on the podium, scanning back and forth, making sure he was reading it correctly.

‘No…’ he whispered, reading the line again out loud. ‘“The prisoner, a wretched Saxon named Otto who had been confined in the slavery of the heathens, did confirm to us under rightful questioning that the rebel known as Gjaldir was, in fact, an apostate named Ordulf, a Saxon smith of low birth corrupted by the Norse to serve their purposes.”’

Halfar looked up at Hallsson. ‘This can’t be true.’

Hallsson shrugged. ‘The documents are legitimate, the details contained within extensive and some are easily collaborated. I think it’s real. I think this Bertrand of Jelfsdorf was a member of the Order, and this is a genuine account he wrote. I cannot attest to the truth of what this man named Otto said, but it appears to be a first-hand account.’

‘Gjaldir was a real man?’

‘So it seems!’

‘And he was German?’ said Halfar, astonished.

‘Apparently so.’

Halfar suddenly choked. ‘Dear God, we found a jawbone in the lake, near the sword.’ His hands were almost shaking with shock. ‘You checked its origin, and said it wasn’t Norse.’

‘Yes, isotope analysis on the teeth showed it was from Northern Germany. A young man from Northern Germany, approximately 12th century. We dismissed it as coincidental.’ Hallsson laughed. ‘We weren’t looking for a German.’

‘But you kept it!’ Halfar said, fraught.

‘Of course we did! We kept everything’

‘Oh my God.’ Halfar clutched the edge of the podium. ‘It could be him!’

Hallsson shrugged. ‘We can’t know, but it’s certainly possible with this context.’

‘He might have been in your drawers, 10ft away from your office, all this time.’

Hallsson beamed. ‘Yes.’

Halfar’s face suddenly fell. ‘Oh, my word, we’ve got to update the displays. This changes everything.’ He looked around frantically. ‘I’ve got a lecture in two hours, I need to re-write it, introduce…’

‘Calm, Halfar! Calm. There is time for everything.’

‘But the visitors are coming in and the displays are wrong!’

‘History is never correct, my old friend, it is merely a reflection of our latest understanding. Don’t panic, we will update them in time when we have completed our studies and are sure of our conclusions. It will give people a reason to come back!’

Halfar got a grip of himself and nodded. ‘Yes, you are right. Of course.’

Schulz walked over and carefully flipped the stapled pile of papers closed. ‘I will be keeping these for now. Of course the original will be given to the university once the case is closed.’

‘And when will that be?’ Halfar said.

‘Well, our friends in the German police say they have a strong lead on Meyer. He is living under a false name in Bavaria. They are confident they will find him. He is a very unique individual.’

Halfar smiled, and started bouncing on his toes a little. The sort of bouncing that he only did when he was truly excited. ‘Good. Good. Thank you, you were right to bring this to me today! I’m truly grateful.’

‘No problem. Now, I have to go. My wife is holding my place in the queue.’

Halfar stared at the smiling Schulz. ‘You are attending the opening?’

‘I have tickets for the opening lecture that the professor was kind enough to secure for me.’ He looked around the auditorium. ‘I’ve been looking forwards to it very much. In an unofficial capacity, of course.’

‘Of course.’ Halfar beamed back, and offered his hand to shake, the rocking on the balls of his feet increasing in intensity.

‘See you later then!’ Schulz said, shaking his hand and walking off. As he left, he turned back. ‘By the way, you might want to go up to the roof garden and take a look at the queue outside… It’s quite something.’ Then he smiled broadly and left the room escorted by a member of staff.

‘The roof garden?’ Halfar said to Hallsson, looking perplexed.

Hallsson shrugged. ‘I haven’t been outside all morning. But if Schulz suggests it, it’s probably a good idea to check. Do you have time?’

Halfar looked at his watch and fretted, but then nodded. ‘Oh, I can spare a few minutes.’ He looked around. ‘Is Ingrid coming today with her father? This is all really her story as much as ours. She started all of this, she found the sword.’

Hallsson smiled regretfully. ‘He thought it was best not to expose her to this much publicity.’

Halfar nodded. ‘I understand.’

‘But I did arrange for her to have a personal after-hours tour next week, if you agree?’

Halfar beamed. ‘Of course! I would be delighted.’

‘Good, then let’s go up to the roof and see what Schulz was talking about.’

The two men went up the back stairs to the rooftop garden where a café was preparing for the day’s visitors, and went to the balustrade that lined the balcony and looked out over the street and park in front.

‘Oh, my,’ Halfar said, staring down dumbfounded at the scene before them. ‘That is… quite a lot of people,’ he said in shock, looking down at the crowd in front of the museum, gathered together in a patient and excited line that snaked through their neat queuing system, and then filled half of the broad grassy space in front, sprawling, massing, dwarfing the expected turnout. Even as they watched, another group of people appeared from the entrance to the university station of the metro line on the other side of the park.

Tiny figures of museum staff were hurrying to and fro like sheepdogs, desperately trying to herd the vast crowd into an orderly queue.

‘My god, the prophecy was true.’ said Hallsson, staring at the crowd in awe.

‘What?’

‘The prophecy; that as long as the sword was wielded by a Norseman strong and true, the people would have a future. The saga says that it would return when the people needed it, and look what it has done!’

‘What are you talking about, it’s just a sword!’ said Halfar incredulously.

‘Just a sword? Look! Look at them, Halfar! There must be twenty thousand people down there, all come to see it, to hear about its history. These are people who have been told their entire lives that the Norse mythology is a lie, a footnote to Germanic history. The evidence of their heritage has been hidden and destroyed, abused and denied. Until now! It’s not just a sword, it’s a symbol, its meaning is what we make of it. Look at its power!’

‘You are being ridiculous,’ said Halfar, but his protest was more muted. He looked out over the crowd again, shaking his head. ‘When did you become such a fervent Norse nationalist?’

‘I am not a nationalist, Halfar! I am a historian who just wants the true story of our people to be told. I have spent my entire career having to hide my true feelings because anyone who expressed them was sidelined, ridiculed and silenced. Now, with this sword, this story, we can finally do that!’

‘So you are not saying the prophecy is true, you are saying you want to make it true.’

Hallsson smiled. ‘It is the same thing. Power is only given reality by people believing in it. Look, see how the people believe in it.’

‘You are starting to worry me, speaking of wielding power like this,’ said Halfar with concern.

‘Then all we need to do is speak the truth and have people hear it. I am not talking about overturning the German history of this land, just telling the whole story together, so we all know it. No one needs be afraid of the truth, and anyway, you are the voice.’ Hallsson laughed. ‘You are Gjaldir reborn.’

‘Stop saying that, it’s not funny,’ Halfar muttered.

‘I’m just teasing you,’ Hallsson said, his lined face creased with joy. ‘But you can tell these people the truth, and they will listen. It is a golden opportunity to correct the historical record. It should be a moment of healing, not division.’

‘We are going to need a bigger auditorium,’ said Halfar with a leaden voice.

‘Oh, don’t worry. We will be livestreaming you on the internet. The audience is unlimited.’

‘We are what?’ said Halfar, looking more confused than before.

‘We are videoing your presentation, and putting it on the internet in real time, so that anyone who wants can watch it. People out there can even watch it on their phones. The staff are handing out QR codes to take them to the correct web address.’

Halfar stopped, staring at Hallsson. ‘I don’t understand half of what you just said.’

Hallsson laughed, putting his hand on Halfar’s shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, old friend. There is time for everything. You really should learn to use the internet properly. It’s a wonderful resource, and this sort of thing is the future.’

‘We are occupied with uncovering matters of the past.’

‘You are quite wrong, Halfar. The pursuit of uncovering history is nothing if not a method of understanding the future. Has the sword not shown us that?’

Halfar stopped and considered it. ‘That is either the smartest or dumbest thing you have ever said to me. And I’m upset that I don’t immediately know which.’ But he gave Hallsson a mischievous grin.

‘Come on, it’s time to go,’ said Hallsson, turning Halfar towards the stairs. ‘The doors open in little more than half an hour, and King Sigurd is waiting to greet his people. We will have to be his voice.’

Halfar nodded happily as they walked away. ‘And by the gods, do we have a story to tell them.’

Epilogue

Nordland

Winter AD 2017

The lake was misty as she looked out over it, the far edges shrouded, but familiar nonetheless. She knew this place, it was comforting.

She suddenly saw a cloaked man standing by the water’s edge, facing away from her. She felt no threat or surprise, as if she knew him, that he belonged there.

She moved down to the water’s edge beside him, and he half-turned, and he smiled at her with the side of an old man’s face.

‘Ah, here you are at last, farseer! And stronger than ever before. Good, come here, stand with me, ah, look at you! Not for a dozen lifetimes of men has one so clearly appeared to me. Not since the traitor of five bones, or the one called Gjaldir who bore the light. I was faded since then, barely a wisp on the wind in the realm of men. But now I feel a current of my power return, the tingle of it in my old bones. Your strength is growing, farseer, and mine with it. I hoarded it, used it carefully for the seven acts of power which I have shown to you, and sought to have you understand. Seven nudges to the passage of time and the ages of the middle realm. Ripples on a lake.’

The old man turned to the lake again. He cast a pebble that he had gained unseen from somewhere. She watched as it skipped across the surface, disappearing into the mist, leaving ripples and marks on the water in its wake. The old man grunted in satisfaction. He watched the ripples spread, and, sighting carefully, cast another stone bouncing across the surface, its impacts interacting with the waves already there to create more complex circles and patterns as the stone skimmed away.

‘I lifted a blade from Gjaldir’s belt, shaken from its sheath so its wielder could not draw it and took up his hammer instead, showing his value to his foes. That brought him into my realm. I turned an axe in the air, so that it missed its target and set Gjaldir on the path to his full potential. I nudged a falling star from the heavens and cast it down in the sight of his people, so that he could use its power to forge a weapon that would unite your kin.’

He cast another stone, although she could not see where he got them from. The water’s surface was disturbed now, a chaotic interactions of ripples and wavelets as the stones passed. Yet the old man studied them, read them, and cast his stones into the ever changing pattern again and again. Light danced in the wavelets and fish jumped into the disturbance, adding to the dance of water and movement. A chaotic melee of movement and reflections, yet still the old man studied it carefully, choosing his moment, another stone poised. Then, suddenly, he cast again, skipping another stone through the chaos. Smiling in satisfaction at the result before speaking again.

‘A handful of loose stones, scattered on the ground, betrayed its wielder’s footing and returned that powerful blade to Gjaldir’s grasp. Then, when he cast it away in fear of its power, I shook a tree and caused it to fall at his feet, returning it once more to his grasp. Five small acts that led to an uprising, an uprising that led to the salvation of my people, who would otherwise have been cast into utter ruin. A great sacrifice, for a great cause,’ the old man said, and he sounded mournful. He took one more stone, smooth and polished, jet black. He carefully held himself ready, scanning the water.

He chose his time and cast the stone, harder and faster, this one skimming over the disturbed water with more speed and longer bounces before disappearing into the mist.

‘And then I waited, and watched, and finally my chance appeared. A hook, pulled into place on a long-lost ring of maille, and the sword was re-discovered. Then the final act, the last of my precious strength, a gust of air overturned a slab of glass, the blood of our foes once again ran on the blade held in a worthy hand, and the legend of the sword was reborn.’

The old man stood upright again, contemplating his work. ‘Do you wonder why I have plagued your dreams with these stories, farseer? Well, the time of our people arrives once again, and your bloodline calls to me, daughter of the Norse. You cannot know from whose roots of blood you grew but he was worthy, and you are the fruit that has been given forth, ready in the time and place of need as was foreseen.’

He reached out for her hand without taking his gaze from the lake, and she let him take it, confused when she looked down to see that she had given him a stone that was now enclosed in his weathered fingers, bright and marbled. The old man studied the stone carefully.

‘Will you be known as Faithful, as your bloodline’s sire was? Time will reveal the truth, as it always does.’

She tried to speak, to ask him who he meant, but as she struggled in confusion the old man shook his head and smiled.

‘No, be calm. You have not found your voice yet, but have no fear, in time you will learn to speak to me. For now, you must only gather your strength, as I gather mine. So rest now, farseer, and heed my call when the time arrives. The wars of loss are long over, the men of the middle realm and the Aesir have paid their dues in blood and strife. The time of rebirth has come. And soon the people will need our strength again.’

The old man finally turned to fully face her, and she saw his other eye was missing, leaving only an empty socket behind. But she was not afraid or disgusted, and his smile was kind and reassuring as he studied the bright, marbled stone, tracing a finger over its contours. He did not cast this stone, instead carefully putting it in an unseen pocket inside his cloak before fixing his bright, unblinking eye on here once more.

‘The path ahead will be yours to alone to tread, farseer, but while I may only have one eye, I will always be watching over you.’

She tried to speak again, confused that she could not even feel the words form, looking down at herself to see what was wrong but seeing nothing but the shore. She looked up again and the lake was calm and placid, and she was alone. The old man was gone as if into the mist. A shadow of a great wolf looked back at her across the water, and then it turned and faded away into nothing. The mist itself darkened and spun itself around her as she finally felt her panic rise.

On the second floor of her father’s house in Lundjen, as the first light of dawn teased at the edges of the curtains, Ingrid’s eyes snapped open.

Afterword and historical note

It’s been seven years since I typed the first words in the rambling prelude document that would one day become this series. Today I typed the last of three quarters of a million words that complete it. It’s a journey that somehow feels as long and arduous as the one Gjaldir faced, although I think that is a little unfair on one of us.

There is enormous satisfaction, and some sadness, to have reached the end, not as an old man like Bjorn the Faithful, done with his travels, but as a… young(ish) man with a lot left to do and say. There may be other entries in this saga world, I have a few prequels and short stories in mind, but the main Viking-era story definitively ends here, with the world-changing life of a young man and his companions who refused to be bowed by powers too great to resist, and events beyond their understanding.

This was not the story of lords and kings, they were supporting characters. It was not a tale of unstoppable heroes with unquenchable luck and confidence, because they are not real. This is a tale of ordinary people trying to find their way in extraordinary times. Of how legends can be born and tales that sound ridiculous can have root in the truth. Of how a lost boy of no name, from the middle of nowhere, can find the strength to change the world, with a little help from fate and friends.

It may not feel like a happy ending, and perhaps that is because it is not. There is tragedy and glory in resisting oppression and failing, horror in finding out that even in your fight for freedom you were merely a pawn in a higher power’s plans. But the true spirit of this story is in the words of Jarl Ragnvald: A man is only his word and his wyrd; his honour and his fate. He may not be able to decide where the path of his life ends, but he alone decides how to walk it.

Gjaldir’s sacrifice, and that of those around him, were part of a greater plan to preserve a spark of his people’s future from impending and absolute doom. They could not understand it, could not live to see it bear fruit, but their actions changed the course of history, allowing Henry the Black to take the throne and Lothair to take a far kinder stewardship of the Norse people, sparing the North from a prolonged and apocalyptic persecution under the reign of Henry the Black and Reinhard’s Order.

The events depicted in this book are, as before, a fictional alternative timeline based on our real history. In our true timeline, Duke Lothair and Duke Henry the Black were indeed fierce rivals on opposite sides of the competition for the throne of the ailing Emperor Henry V. The imperial conference depicted at the end of this book is based on a real event that took place (two years later) in August 1125. The three significant candidates were Duke Frederich Hohenstaufen, nephew of the late emperor and assumed successor, Duke Lothair, and Margrave Leopold of Austria.

Duke Henry was not powerful enough to declare as a candidate, but was a key elector. At the conference, Frederich thought he had secured Henry’s support, which would along with existing allies have secured him the throne. He was so confident that for a while he did not even attend, a bout of arrogance that cost him the title.

In his absence, Henry and Lothair held a secret meeting, perhaps not unlike the one I depicted in this book, for what is said was not recorded, but the results would change the course of history. The two rivals stunned the empire by declaring an alliance and the marriage of their children. Henry switched to support Lothair at a critical time in the conference, leading to Lothair’s election.

This betrayal of Frederich by Henry led to a blood-feud between the Welf and Hohenstaufen dynasties that would last nearly three hundred years, had a huge impact on the course of European history, consumed the papacy in decades of war, and is known in Italy as the wars of the ‘Guelphs and Ghibellines’.

It’s a fascinating and bitter rivalry that deserves its own series… someday.

So Gjaldir’s fictional rebellion as depicted in this series, despite its failure, upturned that series of events, with enormous repercussions. You can call it the butterfly effect; the beating of a butterfly’s wings leading to a chain of events that changes the world. I prefer to think of it as ripples on the lake of fate. The world would belong to a being capable of predicting the key intersections of those ripples in history and time, and with the power to nudge and adjust them, just a little.

The lake from Gjaldir’s dreams and where Ingrid found the sword is real, insofar that I chose one off the map. It’s called Bjørsjøen Lake and it is at the top of the pass that leads into the secluded Glomma river valley, an oasis of fertile land in the rocky, frigid highlands of western Norway. There is a cluster of rocks in that lake near the north side that probably look nothing like a crouching wolf, but that is a liberty I took. There is even a cabin on the shore there, which I adopted as Ingrid’s father’s, and thus you can see the precise location where Gjaldir and his famous sword went into the lake.

That is where this story began, seven years ago, and where it ended.

The way this series has changed my life is profound. I’m blown away by the reception of the readers, the frankly embarrassing amount of lovely emails I receive from fans, and that I am accepted by the industry and other writers as a ‘real’ author and not an imposter telling silly stories. I assure you that absolutely nothing feels better as an author, who works and toils alone for… very modest compensation, than getting an email from someone telling you how much they loved your book. I am so grateful to everyone who ever reached out, or simply who bought my book and enjoyed it. That alone makes the entire effort worthwhile.

I’ve also become immersed in the colourful and wonderful community of authors and devotees of historical fiction and fantasy, made a lot of new friends, and met a lot of my literary heroes. In the first book’s afterword I spoke about other Viking and historical fiction authors who had inspired me. At the time, I had barely even spoken to two of them. Now it’s my turn to organise the yearly top-secret Christmas Viking author’s dinner where a dozen or so of us will gather to drink and eat too much and tell terrible jokes. It’s bloody wonderful what writing some vaguely interesting lies down and selling them can do for your life.

So if you are sad that so many fictional characters had to suffer and die, just remember, it was all in a good cause.

As well as my wonderful (and patient, this book was nearly a year late) readers, I want to thank the people who made this series possible. My editors at The History Quill, for their relentless mistake hunting and polishing of my work, my graphic designers at Damonza.com, who made such a beautiful series of covers, my artist James Nathaniel, who drew the wonderful character illustrations, and my mapmaker Hans van der Maarel at Red Geographics, who shows you where everything happens.

It’s time to end now, and if you are left bereft and looking for a new series I’m going to take the opportunity to recommend to you my other Viking era historical fiction series: ‘The Last Viking saga’, about the extraordinary life and adventures of the legendary Harald Hardrada, more details on the next page, but also some other historical fiction series by other authors that I enjoyed. Dip into the list and I know you will find something else you love.

The Viking Blood and Blade Saga by Peter Gibbons

The Charlemagne’s Cross Series by Donovan Cook

The Eagle of Mercia Chronicles by M J Porter

The Long War by Christian Cameron

The Whale Road Chronicles by Tim Hodkinson

Hakon’s Saga by Eric Schmacher

Outlaw Chronicles by Angus Donald

As for my own work, I will be taking a break from Viking fiction in my self-published books. My next project will delve into an alternate history of the Black Death, and I will be publishing some more historically inspired fantasy novels as well. I hope you give them a try, even if it’s a little outside your normal genre for reading.

Thank you for sharing this long adventure with me.

James C. Duncan

October 2024

Other works by J C Duncan

The Last Viking Saga:

A five book historical fiction series about the life and adventures of the legendary Harald Hardrada. He is his known for his death at the battle of Stamford Bridge in 1066, and his life was so significant that the end of the Viking age is marked by his death. But Harald was a remarkable man long before that fateful day. He was an exile from Norway, a mercenary in the Kyivan Rus, a Varangian guard in the Byzantine empire, a famous conqueror and warlord and the friend and confidante of the magnificent Empress Zoe; the most powerful woman who had ever lived at her time.

He was a mercenary, he was a traveller, he was a King. And he was the Last Viking.

Book 1. Warrior Prince

Book 2. Raven Lord

Book 3. Emperor’s axe

Book 4 July 2025

Book 5 early 2026

Want a free book?

If you want to be kept updated on new releases, discount deals, or become a beta reader, join my readers’ club, ‘The Warband’. It’s completely free, I don’t do spam emails and for joining you will get a free prequel novella for this series titled Steel in the Morning, a punchy Viking adventure exploring the backstory of one of the main characters of the series.

So, to get your free book and an inside line to all my future work and discounts and giveaways, just visit my website and sign up.

www.jcduncan.co.uk

About the author

Hi there! I’m James Duncan. As an author I am fascinated with history and fantasy. I write historical fantasy/fiction based on our world, but in an alternate timeline, past, present, or future. Each book or series asks and tries to answer a question of ‘What if?’ My debut series, the Light of the North saga, asks the question, ‘What if the Norse didn’t convert to Christianity, and instead the Viking raids continued?’ And posits the answer, which you will have to read the rest of the series to find out! I do not create new worlds, I mess with the history and future of ours, grounded in our own past and the laws of our universe, but tweaked in events and often adding a soft sprinkling of the divine or fantastical, resulting in relatable historical and future fantasy.

Outside of authoring, I am a professional engineer, and split my spare time writing, reading, and being an amateur bladesmith. My bladesmithing work, and more information about my life and authoring, and the ability to contact me and talk to me directly, are available on my website. Thank you so much for reading until the last word of this series.