Heroes of the Valley (12 page)

From time to time, in his lonely evenings in the woods, chewing on a pilfered chicken bone or scrap of meat, Halli mulled on what he saw. Despite his many days of travelling, despite the strangeness of the buildings he passed, with their steeply arched gables, their bright red tiles, their whitewashed plaster walls; despite the oddly dyed clothes that people wore, and the obvious bounty of the lowland fields, Halli was struck by the essential familiarity of it all. Houses, fields, livestock – and the cairns upon the hill. Trows above, people below.

As if from long ago, he heard his uncle Brodir speaking.
The valley isn't as big as you suppose
. . .

Still, there were some new wonders to be absorbed. He saw Battle Rock from a distance in the centre of the plain – a jutting black pyramid set among dark trees – but, owing to a local hue and cry involving a missing piglet and a leg of pork later spotted on his person. was unable to spare the time to visit.

Then there was the prospect of the sea. All his life Halli had wished to glimpse it. Now, as the miles passed steadily under his boots and he neared his destination, he noticed a salt tang on the air, borne by a fresh new wind. It whipped about his face and deep into his lungs, invigorating him even in his weariness. He began to spy white birds far out above the flat centre of the valley, banking and gliding, spiralling down out of sight. The river was now separated from the road by marsh flats and reed-beds; he glimpsed it only occasionally – a great white-blue expanse, dappled with specks of sunlight. Once or twice he saw things on it: low, flattened crescents with poles and sails, drifting up-river with the tide – the first true boats he had ever seen.

For days the way had been heavy with traffic: carts, riders, men and women going about their business; every field seemed to have its cottage, every mile its farm. Presently Halli came to a crossroads where the road – now twice as broad as in the upper valley, and in excellent repair – split decisively in two. A pair of hero posts stood facing each other, freshly carved. Wooden beards jutted, sightless eyes gazed fiercely, hands stayed frozen on the pommel of their swords. One post was dyed a warm, rich purple, the other a livid orange-red. Halli thought he knew both Houses.

'Yes, this is the boundary of Arne's and Hakon's,' a young woman said. She had stopped her ox-cart at the junction and was sipping water. 'Two miles through woods to Arne's House; three miles beside the river to Hakon's. Which do you make for?'

Halli did not reply at first. In his mind's eye he saw the face of Aud Ulfar's-daughter, and in his weariness and hunger felt a strong temptation to seek her out . . . He sighed; his jaw tightened. No. His quest was not complete. Much as he might wish it, it could not be done.

'Hakon's,' he said firmly. 'I go to Hakon's.'

'Be warned,' the woman advised, surveying Halli shrewdly, 'they don't welcome beggars there. Wastrels, tramps and other misfits are tied bare-bottomed to the market post and soundly whipped. Hord's orders. He is a strong, hard man.'

'Oh, I know he is,' Halli said. 'Incidentally, I am not a beggar.'

But the woman had already flicked her switch and headed on her way.

Three miles to Hakon's. A little further on, with darkness falling, Halli camped for the night in a copse beside the road. As he lay shivering beneath his meagre blanket of fallen leaves, fierce excitement surged within him.

Tomorrow, at long, long last, the murderer Olaf would be within his reach. Halli needed to spy out the land, of course, but the basic strategy was clear. Reach the House, find a crumbled bit of Trow wall, hop over it and hide. At night, raid the smithy or one of the outhouses for a knife, then locate Olaf 's room. Probably it would be at the back of the hall: perhaps there would be a window . . . If not, he would be forced to wait, kill him at dawn when he came out to use the privy or wash in the yard. When it was done, a quick departure – back over the wall and away across the fields. Above all, he must not be seen.

Whether it was his agitation, the cold, or the hunger in his belly, Halli did not sleep well. Towards dawn he fell into a fitful slumber, and when he awoke, the sun was fully risen. Brushing himself down, he hurried on, impatient to see his destination.

And, shortly afterwards, he saw it.

The road, which had topped a little rise, ran down towards the House of Hakon as if reaching it had been the sole aim and purpose of all its distance. On one side patchwork fields of wheat rolled away, golden-brown and silent, shimmering in the breeze. On the other, green meadows declined into grey-black mudflats spanned by a maze of brightly coloured jetties; these reached out into the margins of the river, now so broad it stretched almost to the horizon. Halli saw huts lining the jetties, boats moored below them, and people, people everywhere – on jetties, in fields. working with hook and net, with winnow and scythe: more people than he ever dreamed could belong to a single House.

And beyond it all rose a great stone stockade, girt by a broad black saltwater moat, fed by channels from the estuary. The walls were more than twice as high as a man, windowless, close-fitting, dour and grey near the water, whitewashed higher up. At no point were they even remotely crumbled. The road climbed an earthwork ramp towards the House and crossed the moat by way of a broad wooden bridge. Above the walls the tops of many buildings could be seen, most of them two storeys or more, their roofs arched and gabled. Chief among them stood a soaring hall, painted white and shining in the sun. From every gable orange-red flags fluttered with imperious splendour.

Hot-eyed, dry-mouthed, Halli stood motionless in the dust of the road. For the first time he understood the utter remoteness and true insignificance of Svein's House. The knowledge wedged like a stone in his throat.

His shoulders slumped, his pack slipped to the ground. In silent weariness, Halli flopped down onto the grass and rested his head in his hands.

T
HESE WERE SVEIN'S TREASURES
: his drinking cup, hollowed from a dragon's tooth, which gave his ale a smoky quality; his necklace strung with a Trow girl's finger-bones, which rattled and tugged against his neck when Svein stooped near the earth; the silver belt that brought him luck in battle; his chain-mail armour, its loops as delicate as snakeskin; and above all else, above any of the wonders that he gathered in his years of greatness: his peerless sword.

This sword was given to Svein when he was six years old. It was an ancient blade. Some said that five strips of metal, each one flexible as sinew and hard as hill rock, had been melded together to make it. The sword's edge was thin as a grass stem, sharp as a wolf's tooth; there was a serpent pattern down one side, thinly incised, so that blood ran into it and made the serpent glisten whenever Svein made a killing. The mere sight of it struck terror into Svein's enemies and unmanned them.

Many times during his journey Halli had imagined ways in which he might kill the Hakonssons. He had swung on ropes from pine trees as they passed on horseback, decapitating Olaf during the outward pass and Hord and Ragnar on the return. He had run down their hall as they sat drinking, plucked a boar-spear from the wall and, without breaking stride, impaled all three with a single cast. He had shot them with arrows, crushed them with boulders and, in an entertaining sequence dreamed up in the hazy moments between wakefulness and sleep, drowned them side by side in a giant keg of beer.

Now, with the hard reality of Hakon's House laid out before him, all such fancies turned vaporous and vanished. So too did his blithe assumptions of the night before. He could not scale walls of that size; he could not cross the moat. The gate was the only entrance, but that meant crossing the bridge in full view of all. Not just ordinary people, either – he saw guards or lookouts stationed on the wall. At night the gates might well be closed; he had to do it in the day.

Halli did his best to suppress the hunger gnawing in his stomach and the leaden feeling in his limbs. Yes, it was a formidable obstacle. Yes, the place was bigger than he'd guessed. So what? Would Svein have balked at it and scurried home? No. He would have found a way.

He thought hard. Down-valley folk were fair-haired, pale-skinned; as a rule they were tall and slender too. A short, squat, black-maned stranger would stand out a mile if he tried waltzing up to the door. Somehow he would have to hide as he passed the gate. In a cart, perhaps – under corn, vegetables, even manure . . . Halli set his jaw, grim-faced. Whatever it took, it must be done. Hakon's people were violent, aggressive and suspicious; one sight of him and he would be seized and dragged to the whipping post, even before they guessed his mission. Halli clenched his fists at the thought of their cruel vindictiveness. No matter: soon he would slay Olaf and there would be wailing in their hall!

'You all right there?' a cheery voice said. 'Anything I can do?'

Halli looked up: a man had appeared over the brow of the hill. He was tall and strapping, in early middle age. His fair hair was tied back, his beard shaved short and squared under the cheeks. His tunic had orange-red slashes on the shoulder, indicating his House affiliation. The bronze circlet in his hair shone in the morning sun. He had an open, pleasant face, flushed with walking.

Halli cleared his throat. 'Er, no, no – I'm fine.'

'Thought you looked a little worried about something. Can't have that on Hakon's Day!' The man slung a bag down from his back and wiped his brow with a sleeve. 'It's a hot one, this late in the year! How far've you come, then?'

Halli hesitated. 'Well . . .'

'You're not from these parts, I can tell.'

'No . . .'

The man smiled. 'Ketil's, is it? Egil's maybe? We get a few beggars coming down from Ketil's after the floods they had in spring.'

'Egil's House,' Halli said, at random. 'And excuse me, but I'm not a beggar.'

'No?' The man stepped back a little. 'I hope you haven't got a plague. If it's dank mottle, you shouldn't be out of your pen.'

'I'm not a beggar, not ill, just a little jaded.' Halli gestured irritably at his filthy, ragged clothes. 'It's been a long journey, that's all.'

'Well, welcome to Hakon's lands!' The man patted Halli's shoulder in a friendly manner. 'I'm Einar. Hungry? You look as if you could do with something.'

'Oh. Yes, please.' Halli watched agog as the man produced bread, cheese and a skin of wine from his bag. He tried hard not to snatch them from his hand; as it was, he ate and drank with unseemly haste.

'You're in rough shape,' Einar observed. 'They ought to treat you better up at Egil's. Here at Hakon's, our Arbiter, Hord, distributes grain to all when times are hard. Even in bad years we get on fine.'

Halli nodded, grunted, sucked at the wine skin.

'Yes, great Hord is a fine leader,' Einar went on. 'A hard, strong man, brave and resolute. He's brought wealth back to this House, as you can see just by looking. He's got big ideas, has Hord, and the energy of the heroes!' He glanced pleasantly at Halli. 'But, still. we can't all be great men, can we? Each of us must travel his own small path. What brings you down this way, then?'

Halli stuffed the last of the cheese into this mouth and swallowed. He was a little out of breath. 'I . . . I just wanted to see this famous House, maybe find work.'

'Well, I don't know about work, but if you want to see Hakon's you've come on the right day. It's the anniversary of our Founder's triumph at Battle Rock! There'll be Trow shies and drinking and . . .' The man waved a hand in the direction of the House. 'Look, come on with me and see it for yourself.'

Halli blinked. 'Will I be allowed in?'

'Of course. Why not? All friends are welcome. Even ones as ragged and pitiful as you. Besides, it is a day for charity. Would you like me to help you with your pack?'

'No. No, thank you.'

Down the road they went together, towards the looming House. Up the long earth ramp, high above the fields and salt flats.

Halli said: 'It is an impressive place.'

'Isn't it? Hord has had the walls raised and reinforced. He has men patrolling them night and day. It was lax in his father's time.'

'Who does he fear?'

Einar the lowlander laughed. 'No one! But this is how it was in Hakon's day, and Hord wishes to emulate him! Many of us menfolk practise the old skills – we play with staff and arrow, we go hunting on the heights.'

'Past the cairns?'

Einar's eyes were wide; he made a protective sign. 'What? Are you mad? Now, see here – the new House gates, made of oak and iron!'

They had crossed the bridge, following a steady flow of people. Under a great arched gate they went, into a narrow street. Instantly the light was dimmer, all blue-grey shadow, with narrow triangles of brightness on the flagstones where the sharp blue sky showed through. The buildings hugged close together, white plaster on wood, flowers hanging from the eaves. Halli walked up a little rise, cool now, out of the sun, where the stones were smooth and curved with the feet of years. The food and wine had done their work: he felt newly eager, strong with purpose. Even so, the scale of it all astonished him. He passed open shop-fronts – a cooper, a leatherworker, a man making toys, a potter, a weaver, a stall with necklaces and brooches glinting in the shade. At Svein's House all this was done too, but only in the cottage backrooms when men came in from the fields; goods were exchanged informally in the central yard, not presented so splendidly for sale.

The way opened out, the buildings drew back. Ahead of them stretched a wide space, as filled with people as a spring meadow is with flowers. At its far end, sheer and tall as the bluffs above the gorge, rose Hakon's hall. The doors at its centre, sheltered beneath a gabled porch held up by great wood pillars, were themselves almost as high as the hall at Svein's. Halli's neck ached as he gazed up at the distant roof.

He blew his cheeks out, scowling. Yes, it was big. Yes, it was imposing! But none of that mattered. He would do what he had come to do.

So far all was well. He had gained entry to the House with unexpected ease. Now for the next stage. He scanned the yard, narrowed eyes passing across the crowd, noting with surprise the mix of folk within it – there were plenty of wiry, dark-haired upland men and women dotted amid the taller, fleshier local throng.

Here and there about the yard stood booths with scarlet awnings, where people played games of chance and skill, took drinks or listened to storytellers and balladeers. Everywhere was laughter, faces flushed and merry. Halli watched it all, unsmiling. It would be easy enough to detach himself from Einar, disappear among the crowds: but what then? Find somewhere to hide till dark?

Einar nudged him with his elbow. 'How's
this
for a House, friend? Free beer and entertainment! As people finish their work, they gather. And tonight those of us who are invited will toast our Founder in the hall!'

'A feast?'

'You won't see it, I'm afraid. No foreigners in the House after dark. They'll have sent you out by then.'

'Will Hord and Olaf be there?' Halli asked carelessly. 'And Ragnar Hakonsson?'

'Hord and Ragnar, for sure. Not Olaf though. He's sick.'

Halli looked at him, heart pounding. 'Sick?'

'Trow-stricken. His horse stumbled near the boundary and Olaf was touched by the shadow of a cairn.' Einar made another sign. 'May Hakon help him recover! Like his brother, he is a noble man.'

'Poor, poor fellow.' Halli ran his tongue across his lips. 'I suppose he will be in bed. Where would his room be, do you think? In the hall?'

But Einar was suddenly distracted. His eyes sparkled; he craned to see above the crowd. 'My friend, you are in luck! Here comes our Arbiter now!'

Halli's eyes widened; he turned and saw, far off amongst the thickest mass of merrymakers, the figure of Hord Hakonsson. His head was easily visible, for he was taller than the rest. His broad, bear-like shoulders swung from side to side. All gave way wherever he went, clapping backs, clasping hands, roaring out greetings to acquaintances he spied.

Einar said: 'Is he not an impressive man?'

Halli spoke uneasily. 'Very.' He pulled the hood of his fleece over his head.

'Perhaps you'll get to meet him for yourself. He is heading our way.'

Halli stepped back a few paces, gaze flicking left and right in search of escape. What Einar said was true: Hord was approaching. He wore a fur-rimmed cloak, held at the neck by a gold swan clasp. His voice, his swagger, the very drift of the cloak – all were heavy with latent power.

'Hey, friend,' Einar said. 'Where are you going? He'll speak with you.'

'No, no, I am not worthy.'

'Oh, don't say that. On Hakon's Day even great Hord will look kindly upon your wretchedness. Here, I'll draw his attention to you.' He raised his voice. 'Arbiter—!'

'No, please—'

'Arbiter!'

Peering out frantically from deep within his hood, Halli saw Hord look up towards Einar and raise a hand in greeting. He began to approach, only to be intercepted by three squealing women of the House.

Einar grinned at Halli. 'Don't fret. He will be over in a moment.' He grasped Halli's cringing arm. 'Do not be so shy. I hunt with him and know him well. Do not be abashed, despite your squalor. He is honourable to his friends.'

Halli pulled desperately at the hand upon his sleeve. 'No, listen! I must not go near him!'

Einar's smile flickered. 'But why?'

'I – I . . . You were right before, I do have several curious ailments that should not be spread around, least of all to a great man such as Hord.' Halli was retreating as he spoke. 'Suppurating sores, that sort of thing. You won't want to hear the details. So I should stay well clear.'

Now the smile was gone. 'Wait! You were happy enough to be intimate with me.'

'Ah, yes, but I – I took good care to remain downwind of you as we walked. The breeze blew the corrosive stench of my afflictions out to sea. Here, where it is so close and humid, I can promise nothing. But what do we care? Let's get some ale, link arms together and drink to our friendship from each other's cups.'

Einar's face had become a trifle pale. 'Thank you, no. Perhaps it would be best if you left our House.'

'Yes, yes. I will.' Halli backed away. 'Thank you for your help! Goodbye.' Einar was lost to him amid the crowd.

There was no time to waste. With Hord – and perhaps Ragnar – prowling about the yard, it was not a place to linger. Halli angled his way amid the fair-booths towards the corner of the hall. Somewhere in that great white building Olaf would be abed. A sickly, helpless, Trow-stricken Olaf. Halli smiled thinly. It sounded as if his job was more than half-done.

Still, it was no small matter to get inside the hall, carry out the killing and escape unseen. He reached up a hand and touched the silver belt beneath his jerkin. As always its cold weight reassured him, and at that very moment he saw, a short way off along the side of the hall, another smaller porch and door.

Halli flitted closer, weaving his way among the crowd. He saw a man in servant's wear rolling a small barrel in through the door. Now it was empty, left ajar.