Heroes of the Valley (11 page)

When the cliffs allowed, the road veered away from the tumbling river to follow a more gradual slope. Here speech was possible, allowing Bjorn to question Halli repeatedly about his background, his family and his visit to his uncle. Halli's lies were as bland as he could fashion them, but he grew uncomfortable with the persistence of the man's attention. He wished for some means of leaving his company, but there was nowhere for him to go.

Sunlight receded from the gorge and evening drew in. They walked in dappled shadows, greenish-grey and black. Several times the old horse lost its footing and stumbled, causing the trader to lurch forwards in his saddle. 'You bag of bones!' he cried, slapping the horse's neck. 'I shall sell you to the tanner for glue and gut-strings! The beast is hungry,' he shouted to Halli. 'It has not fed well today. I tried negotiating for beet-stalks with a mad old man in a hut this morning, but he refused. When I tried to take some anyway, he chased me off with a knife. Ah, it is a selfish world, where each man guards his possessions so jealously.' He glanced sidelong at Halli. 'My friend, it will soon be dark. Let us make camp for the night. There is a place I know not far ahead, where we can sit in comfort.'

Halli frowned. 'Can we not make it down today?'

'Impossible. We would fall over a crag and perish. Why so impetuous? I have tales to tell, and much good wine to drink. Have you a head for it, lad?'

Halli had less tolerance for wine than Katla, who after two cups would caper about the kitchens, bony heels kicking as high as her chin. He shrugged. 'Of course.'

'Good, good. And here we are . . .'

Among the pines to the left of the road was a small expanse of grass, scarred black by campfires at its centre. It was big enough for horses to be tethered, and for several travellers to lie in moderate comfort, provided they did not go too close to the far side. Here the grass ran down in a gentle slope, which suddenly steepened and opened out upon a void. While Bjorn tied up his horse, Halli went to investigate, and was rewarded by a plunging view along the gorge, over forested cliffs, and out towards the lower valley. Far away, where the light still sparkled, he caught a glimpse of golden fields. Below him, however. was a precipice. Halli inched close to the lip and peered over, only to recoil quickly with a lurching stomach, and a confused impression of raging water, tumbled rocks and splintered branches swathed in mist.

'Take care, Leif !' Bjorn the trader called. 'That is a horrid drop! Come sit snug beside me, and let us talk of nicer things.'

Wood was found, a blaze was lit; snippets of raw meat were toasted on the fire. During the meal Bjorn plied Halli with many cups of wine, most of which Halli poured into the grass when the trader's back was turned. Bjorn also made great show of bringing from his bags several curious objects. 'See, my boy, here is a bone flute carved by Eirik himself: if played, it is said to wake the hero in his cairn! Oh yes, I have tried, but it is blocked and made no sound. Now, here, this oddly patterned skin . . . What do you think it is, eh? Nothing less than the hide of a sea-beast washed up on Barren Strand! Yes, take it between your fingers.' He watched Halli examine it for a time. 'Is that not priceless? I would not swap it for anything, except something of the
rarest
quality.' He smiled at Halli, small eyes blinking, head slightly on one side. 'And see here, perhaps this is my greatest prize of all . . .'

He took from his pack a jet-black object, curved as a crescent moon, sharp as a sickle blade, twice as long as the fingers on Halli's hand. 'Here, Leif my lad, you see before you nothing less than a Trow's claw, taken from the ashes of Thord's House, when the Ketilssons burned it down. I believe it is the very one Thord brought back in his thigh. Certainly it is the only one I know of in the valley. To get another, you will have to go beyond the cairns and ask a Trow politely for the privilege!' He wheezed gently. 'What do you think of
that
, eh?'

'It looks to me very much like hardwood, stained with dye,' Halli said. 'I should think a simpleton might have knocked it out a month ago, in return for bread.'

Bjorn the trader concealed a scowl with difficulty. 'Well, well, you are an upland boy, you have no eye for these things.' He was silent for a time. 'All I lack,' he said at last, staring mournfully up into the dark trees, 'are objects made of the rarest metals. Silver, say. Such treasures have not been made since the heroes' days – there are very few left now. Ah, but I would pay handsomely for such an item!'

Halli was toasting a piece of cheese on the end of a twig, turning it round and round so no drips were lost. He seemed intent upon his work; he made no answer.

Bjorn spoke softly, as if to himself. 'There is a silver goblet in the treasure room at Egil's House, so I am told, and I have heard a silver belt sits in a box at Svein's. If there are others, I do not know of them. Well, it is unlikely either of these would come into my hands. Their owners would not sell them, and a thief would find them hard to dispose of. Hard and perilous, for while he carried such a thing, the shadow of the gallows would hang over his head every moment! Only someone like me, with contacts in every House, might successfully take it off his hands . . . And certainly I would pay well for doing so, in thick gold coins . . .' His little black eyes gleamed in the firelight. 'What do you say to that, Leif ?'

Halli drew back the twig and popped the molten cheese whole into his mouth. He chewed contemplatively, with Bjorn's attention fixed upon him. Several times he seemed about to speak, only to suddenly resume chewing, leaving Bjorn in a frenzy of impatience. At last he wiped his mouth on his sleeve, belched and said, 'In an abstract sort of way, it is fascinating to hear your tales of business. Be sure that if I meet someone with such a silver item, I will direct him to you. But for now, I think I shall turn in; all that wine has gone to my head.'

He got up and went round the fire to where a natural bank offered a comfortable spot; here he lay down beneath his cloak and, with a number of grunts and sighs, composed himself for sleep.

Bjorn the trader stayed sitting where he was, staring into the flames. For a long while he remained motionless, the firelight flickering against the contours of his great impassive face. He drained his cup at last, and sat hunched and thoughtful as the fire slowly died and the shadows closed in upon the little clearing in the middle of the gorge. Close by, the bony horse cropped grass; overhead, between invisible boughs, cold stars shone.

The fire burned low. Halli lay still. Bjorn was a dark hunched form.

Far below, the river chuntered over its bed of tumbled rocks. Somewhere in the forest that clung against the cliffs, an owl called. A branch snapped and shifted in the fire. Still Bjorn sat silent. And now Halli's breathing sounded out across the clearing, slow and heavy with the rhythm of deep sleep.

Outlined dimly by the firelight, Bjorn's shoulders shifted and dropped a little, as if with a release of tension. After some minutes he leaned slowly to one side. Gentle noises followed as he foraged quietly in his bag. The noises stopped. Silence returned.

A tendon cracked as Bjorn got slowly, stiffly to his feet. Halli, watching from between his half-closed lids, saw him standing motionless for a moment, his head bowed. Then Bjorn began treading softly round beside the dying fire, using its last remaining light to guide his way. Despite his bulk, his boots were almost silent on the grass. He held something in his hand.

When Bjorn reached the bank, he slowed and stopped. He stood above Halli – a hulking shadow without face or features, outlined against the fire. Beneath his cloak, Halli lay quite still, every muscle in his body tensed with terror, struggling to maintain the nonchalant sounds of sleep. His throat was tight, constricted; his breath rasped in his open mouth. His chest rose and fell raggedly. He heard blood pulsing in his ears.

Still the dark shape did not move. Then it lifted an arm.

The pressure in Halli's throat became unbearable: he cried out loud and violently.

The shadow jerked back. Halli's shout echoed across the black gulf of the gorge.

Halli flung his cloak aside.

A sudden rush: the shadow swooped, one arm outstretched. A black, curved sickle shape flashed down. Halli rolled, sensed the impact as something drove deep into grass and soil behind his head. Now he was on all fours, springing away and up the bank – but his boot slipped on his cloak, made him stagger, fall— Something caught his ankle. It pulled savagely, dragging him back down.

With a moan of fear, Halli rolled onto his back; he lashed out with his free boot, kicking up and outwards into the darkness. He felt it sink into something soft and yielding; he heard an incoherent sound of pain.

The grip on his ankle loosened. Against the firelight Halli saw the shadow reeling, clutching at its stomach. He sprang up and away into the darkness of the clearing.

After a few steps he turned again, looked. There in the dying firelight: Bjorn, stumbling after him, one half in darkness, one half lit red. His hand clawed at his belly. His voice called softly, 'Little Leif, you have hurt me, you have ruptured something in my guts. Oh, I shall pay you out for that.'

Halli backed away, slowly, slowly. Behind him sounded the distant roaring of the river; he felt the stirring of air, of immense regions of emptiness. The precipice was close – he could go no further safely. With crawling skin and eyes wide and staring, he stopped dead. watching the trader's lumbering approach.

Bjorn's mouth hung open; moisture gleamed on his lips and chin. 'Little Leif, little Leif, give me the belt, or – to be frank, as one thief to another – I shall slice your throat open on a stone.'

Halli bared his teeth. 'Here is another option. Sling your buttocks onto your cringing nag and ride away in shame, for you shall never have the belt.'

Bjorn tittered; even as he did so he leaped forward, faster than Halli had been expecting. Halli darted aside, too late. A great weight fell crushingly upon him; a stench of sweat, wine and bodily odour burst against his face. A blow fell on his upper arm, making him cry out. Hot fingers clutched at his throat; his legs buckled, he toppled backwards in the darkness, twisting as he did so, feeling the man's weight roll up and over him.

Halli fell heavily onto his back. He heard the impact as Bjorn struck the ground beyond him, felt the clasping fingers torn away. With desperate speed he struggled to his feet, knowing that in the darkness Bjorn was doing the same.

Something clutched at his back. Halli struck out blindly with a fist. The shock of the contact jarred his arm. There was a cry of rage, a retreating scuffle in the grass – then nothing.

Halli stumbled a few steps away, expecting Bjorn to launch himself upon him.

Nothing happened.

Weeping, gasping, Halli waited, half crouched in the grass.

From far below, scarcely audible above the rushing of the distant river, came the faintest of impacts, a brief clattering of stones. It ceased. The river's roar continued undiminished. Wind moved the pine branches overhead. Otherwise the night was quiet, newly empty.

Across the clearing, the campfire dwindled to a narrow band of glowing embers.

Halli huddled where he was, staring wide-eyed at the dark.

W
HEREVER HE WENT, PEOPLE
sang of Svein's deeds. House elders thrust gold and gifts into his hands, while pretty maidens waited for him every few yards along the road in states of disarray. Consumed by jealousy, the other young heroes of the valley sought to emulate him. Ketil marched into the forest to fight the outlaws, but was put to flight by a midget wielding a penknife. Eirik climbed Dove Crag to slay a man-eating bear, only to be chased by its cub for miles across the ridge-tops.

Svein made no comment on any of this; he was not much one for words. By now he was fully grown: a tall, stern, barrel-chested mountain of a man, swift-moving, sure and confident – quick to judge and act upon his judgements. Few people cared to challenge his opinions in the hall.

At some point in the blackest hours before dawn, Halli had regained his cloak and taken shelter, but the morning found him cold and feverish. With shaking hands he built a new fire and ate the remnants of the meat beside it, taking long gulps from the wine flask as he did so. The old horse watched him from under a pine. Beyond the cliff edge, thin streaks of mist hung upon the distant trees.

Perhaps, Halli told himself, Svein too had found it hard, the first time he killed a man. The tales did not record his feelings, the softer emotions he must have felt, but it stood to reason he too would have been unnerved, even terrified by the experience.

It was a good sign, surely, to know such fear.
Not
to feel it would make you a lesser man. By overcoming it, and still triumphing, you showed your mettle.

So Halli told himself. But he remained by the fire for a long time, and when at last he went to investigate Bjorn's bags, his legs still trembled under him.

The panniers contained a good deal that Halli rejected instantly: wooden hairgrips and carvings of assorted heroes, all crudely done; beads, necklaces of amber, bone brooch pins; a number of soiled linens. The treasures that Bjorn had shown him the evening before were no more tempting, since Halli did not believe any of them were genuine. But at the bottom of the second bag he found a better prize: a soft cloth wallet, heavy with coins.

Halli took the wallet and all of Bjorn's remaining food and wine. He flung the panniers away among the pines. Then he stamped out the fire and went over to the old horse, still tethered on the margins of the glade.

'I haven't the heart to ride you,' he told it. 'For what it's worth, you're free of him. Go where you will.'

He slapped its rump gently; after some consideration, the horse ambled away and down the cliff road. Soon it was lost among the trees.

As Halli followed it out of the clearing, his eye caught sight of something black sticking out of the grassy bank: the supposed Trow claw, driven into the earth with vicious force. With difficulty he prised it free and, on examination, found to his surprise that the craftsmanship was excellent – the wood smoothed to a polish, harder and heavier than he had imagined. It was sharp too, ripping the cloth of his pack as he pushed it in. Well, that was all to the good. It would do for protection until he bought a knife.

The remainder of his journey down the gorge was uneventful. Steadily the cliffs drew back and the gradient lessened. The road emerged from the pinewoods into a landscape of broken rocks and scattered debris – the beginning of the lower valley. The river returned to meet it with a succession of rapid loops and turns. Already it was broader than on the heights above; in places it raced down shallow terraces of stone before tumbling over into deep, dark pools. Halli began to see cattle on the slopes below the cliffs; goats too, penned in stony fields. Little by little the soil grew noticeably better, the grass a richer green. The numbers of cattle increased. The walls of the valley drew away from him; there was a sense of space and air. The sun burned the mists away, and far off he saw a gap between the hills – a curious flatness of horizon, where he knew the sea must be.

Warmed by the sun, free of the dour seclusion of the gorge, Halli felt his spirits rising with every step. The horrors of the night receded, and he began to view his actions as less desperate and more considered than they had seemed before. He chuckled as he went. How cleverly he had led that villain to the cliff edge!

Beside the road a wooden hero post – an ancient figure, worn and shapeless, but daubed with bright blue dye – marked a boundary. Away across the fields, beyond a band of trees, a number of curious red-tiled roofs showed. Flags flew from the gable ends, a sure mark of a great House. Good – there he could buy food, a knife and other things, and – why not? – spread word of his recent victory. No doubt Bjorn had robbed many folk on the lonely roads. News of his death would be welcomed: with luck Halli would not even need to pay for his provisions.

Lost in pleasant reveries, Halli arrived at a place where the road forked around a pillar of stone; the right-hand way led along a broad path lined with fruit trees towards the distant House. Here and there about the orchard, women stood on ladders, collecting plums. A small sandy-haired, brown-limbed brat, wearing nothing but a long twill shirt, sat beneath the pillar in the dust of the road. He eyed Halli with listless curiosity.

'Good day, my boy,' Halli said. 'What are those roofs away among the trees?'

'Eirik's House, as everyone knows,' the boy replied. 'Shouldn't your legs be longer? Did a tree fall on you?'

Halli said: 'Would you prefer a gold coin or a slap about the head? Think hard.'

The urchin considered, picking his nose the while. 'The coin.'

'Then refrain from rude comments and run at speed to your House. Alert the people. Tell them a hero has arrived.'

The boy looked in awe to the four points of the compass. 'Where?'

'Here.' Halli spoke with some asperity. 'No – here. Me.
I
'm the hero.'

The boy's face fell. 'Give me the coin before I go. In fact give me two. I get a beating whenever I tell palpable untruths, so this must be made worth my while.'

Halli stepped closer. 'Do you dare to doubt my word? I have just slain a foul robber in the vastness of the gorge, while you dawdle purposelessly in the dirt. You should be leaping to do my bidding!'

The boy slouched to his feet. 'As to my purpose, I am waiting for my father. As to leaping, I have no energy for that. My mother and I have had little to eat these last few weeks, while Papa has been away. If he does not come soon, with money from his travels, we both shall surely starve.'

Halli took the cloth wallet from his bag and selected a coin. 'There, there! A nice gold piece to ease your woes. Now then, stop gawping at my wallet. Hobble off as best you can and spread the word. I will follow on behind.'

The boy moved off, slowly at first and with many backward glances. To Halli's displeasure he did not head up the road, but scampered over to one of the nearby trees, where a scrawny red-haired woman stood with a basket, collecting plums passed down from above. An animated conversation ensued, the boy pointing in Halli's direction. It ended with the woman hurrying forward, her colleagues watching from among the trees.

Halli drew himself up. 'Now then, good woman, I bring important news—'

The woman spoke anxiously. 'My son here says you have come down from the upper valley.'

Halli bowed. 'I have.'

'You are brave indeed to travel alone through those desolate wastes.'

'Well, they're not
that
desolate. Except the gorge, of course, where—'

'I wonder,' the woman went on, 'whether you met with anyone on your way? Please, my lad and I are worried sick about my husband, who—'

Halli raised a gentle hand. 'Madam, I regret I have seen no other travellers. However, I
did
fall foul of a wicked trader, who attempted to rob and kill me. Ah, he was vile – a vast, corpulent beast of a man, utterly without virtue. Fortunately I am not easily cowed – in the loneliest portion of the gorge, in the blackest hour of night, we fought. Suffice it to say, I slew him. Your people need fear his crimes no longer. Now, I am weary and wish to enjoy the refreshments of your House. One of those plums will do to begin with. 'With a wink and a grin, he took one and bit into it dashingly.

The woman stared at him, slack-jawed. 'A trader, you say?'

'That's what he
claimed
. In reality he peddled sham artefacts and curios, wooden hairgrips and the like. And a hedge-thief also. Shall we go?'

'Wooden hairgrips, you say?'

'Yes, yes.' Halli smiled round at the other women, now steadily approaching from all directions. 'Dear me. I hope not everyone at Eirik's House is so dense!'

The urchin was hopping at the woman's skirts, plucking at her sleeve. 'The wallet, Ma – take a look at the wallet!'

Halli scowled. 'You have had one coin already. Must I pay for this interrogation too? The wicked Bjorn was scarcely any greedier than you.'

The woman gave a little gasp, echoed by several others round about. 'Bjorn, you say?'

Halli rolled his eyes. 'Yes! Bjorn!' He hesitated, suddenly cautious. 'What of it? It is a common name.'

With a wail, the woman dashed her palms against her forehead. 'My husband! You have killed my husband.'

'He had Papa's wallet, Ma! He did, he did!'

'My poor fat Bjorn!'

Halli noticed the women of the orchard pressing close on every side, hefting gleaming fruit knives in their hands. He spoke with agitation. 'Are all you lowlanders hysterical? There is not a shred of proof that the man I killed has anything to do with this Bjorn of yours. Your husband is probably drunk under a hedge. Now—'

The boy gave a cry of woe and recognition. 'Look! There! Grettir!'

Everyone looked back along the road. The old horse, having no doubt eaten its fill of roadside grass all day, had completed its descent of the gorge and now appeared, trotting homeward with a clear sense of purpose and familiarity. Amid dead silence it ambled past Halli, straight up to the boy, and nuzzled his hand fondly.

Everyone stared at the riderless horse. Everyone stared back at Halli.

Retreating slowly, he raised his hands in protest. 'He was a robber! An outlaw!'

'No! Bjorn Eiriksson was a respected man!'

'A pillar of our House!'

Halli backed away along the road. 'But, ladies – he tried to rob me, kill me!'

'Why should he do that? What could he want with a vagabond like you? You lie!'

'Murderer!'

'Killer!'

'Catch him! Blow the Trow horn! String him up!'

Halli abandoned all attempts at suavity and persuasion and ran away at speed along the high road, with the women of Eirik's House hard at his heels. They proved fleet of foot and looked set to bring him down until he dropped the contents of the wallet on the ground. Gold coins spun and rolled in all directions, causing the bulk of the pursuit to halt. Even so, Bjorn's wife remained close behind, screaming and clawing at him with long fingernails until he was obliged to push her into a ditch. After that he drew clear, but was pelted with plums and other fruits until he rounded a corner in the road.

The following days did not go well for Halli. The search parties from Eirik's House proved diligent, and he was forced to hide in a festering reed-bed, nose-deep among the thick black mud, until they at last gave up the hunt. Trudging forth again upon the road, he seemed more like a limping vagrant than an avenging hero, his food waterlogged, his skin flasks punctured by leeches, his coins lost, his clothes ragged and soiled.

Without provisions, without the money to pay for them, Halli was forced to resort to behaviour he had not anticipated when he began his journey. Instead of a stately procession through the lower valley, stopping at every House he passed for shelter and gentle conversation, his days became filled with surreptitious skulking in ditches, with acts of thievery at lonely farmsteads, by constant evasion, concealment and close pursuit. Hungry and exhausted, he was forced to steal food to stay alive, and while his spoils were drearily uniform – stale bread, cheese, a little fruit – the consequences had uncomfortable variety. He was chased by farmers with pitchforks and old men with sticks; by washerwomen with flailing flannels and by children with spinning discs of cow dung. On one occasion a band of infants put him to flight with stones after he tried to spear their cakes from a distant bush using the Trow's claw fixed to the end of a pole. There was little time any longer to dream about fame or the honour he would win. He concentrated on mere survival.

Yet always his determination drove him on. It would have been possible, at any moment, for Halli to turn round and head back on the long journey to Svein's House, to the old life he had left behind. But despite his troubles, his desire to avenge his uncle remained steadfast, constant. Little by little, painful day by painful day, he drew closer to the House of Hakon and the sea.

Eirik's lands fell behind; the road took him through rich meadows belonging to Thord's and Egil's Houses. By now the valley was broad and generous; the river, a glimmering ribbon, wound back and forth across the plain. The ridges on either side were lower now than Halli had ever imagined, the mountains beyond them reduced to brown-grey foothills. But still, particularly when the sun was low, it was possible to see the cairn lines running unbroken, marking the edge of the habitable land.