Heroes of the Valley

  'Oh yes?' Derision entered Halli's voice. 'When it was you who—'

  'Can it be that your parents have never told you?' Skin shifted over the bones of the face; Olaf 's eyes crinkled with sudden merriment. 'Oh, dear me. I don't believe they did.' He pushed himself a little higher on the bed. 'Halli. my boy – what did Brodir tell you of his youth? Did he give you hints and clues, perhaps? Did he tell you what he did one night, how he lost a thousand acres of your House's land?' He waited; no sound came from the darkness. 'You may as well speak,' Olaf said. 'I know you're there. I can see your eyes gleaming in the corner like a wolf 's. No word for me? Would you like me to tell you Brodir's tale? You'll have to listen hard – the fever's stolen my voice.'

  'You know I won't believe you,' Halli said.

  'No, well. I don't believe most stories myself.' Olaf was sitting up now. The blankets had fallen from him. He wore a long nightshirt that shimmered on the margins of the candlelight; his limbs were very thin. 'But you'll find there's truth in this one.' He swung his legs round and out from beneath the blankets; his feet touched the rug below the bed. 'Ah, it's cold! By rights I shouldn't stir, but I feel an obligation' – he coughed, drew his nightshirt close about his neck – 'to open your eyes at last. Did Brodir not tell you how he killed a man? Not honourably, I mean – not in some man-to-man duel, as it was in Hakon's day, not in the heat of battle, but slyly, treacherously and unprovoked?'

  He stretched out a hand into the darkness and drew the wine cup from the table. Halli's heart beat against his chest. He wished to block his ears, to leave now before another word was said, but found himself transfixed. He neither moved nor answered.

  Olaf took a long sip from the cup, making hideous gulping, smacking sounds deep in his throat. He set the cup down. 'Well, it won't surprise you to hear that your uncle Brodir travelled far in his younger days, visited most Houses at one time or another, sometimes on family business, sometimes on a whim. He came here often, Halli – a wiry little mountain man, darkeyed and serious in pursuit of pleasure. We knew him well enough – too well, when the ale was in him. You'll know how he always became . . . boisterous at such times?'

  Halli said sullenly, 'That is no crime.'

  'True. It's a way of life for squalid upland Houses such as yours.' Olaf sat forward on the edge of the bed, his face in shadow. 'In those days Hord and I had a younger sister. Her name was Thora. She could have married anyone she chose, being a daughter of Hakon's House and very beautiful, and many men tried their luck with her, your uncle Brodir included. But Thora refused them all. Brodir wasn't so keen on that. He pestered her whenever he came here, and several times Hord and I had to step in and calm things down. Poor Thora – she disliked all the attention, and anyway, she loved another.'

  Olaf coughed again, slumping over, hands clasped between his knees, gazing at the floor. 'She loved a boy from this very House, a carpenter, handsome and golden-haired – I can see his face now, though I forget his name. It came about, little Halli, that your uncle was here on business one feast night, and news of Thora's carpenter came to his ears. This displeased him – his drunken pride was wounded. Know what he did?'

  Halli said softly, 'You're lying.'

  'He stepped over to the lad, where he stood talking, and without further ado struck him so hard that he fell to the floor. What happened? His skull hit the hearthstone and cracked like a snail shell. Nothing could be done – he died soon after. But when everyone stood back and looked for the man who'd killed him, your uncle was gone.'

  'Lies,' Halli whispered. 'Lies.'

  'Not at all. Ask your mother.'

  There was a silence. 'The Council – in their wisdom, in their desire for peace and harmony – didn't want to hang an Arbiter's son,' Olaf went on. 'They called it manslaughter, not outright murder. So your uncle lived.'

  'If true,' Halli said huskily, 'if true, it was a wicked act, but also an accident. An accident,' he repeated, 'and you got land for it. Yet you killed Brodir, long years later, to avenge someone whose name you can't recall!'

  'Not him,' Olaf whispered. 'I avenged my sister. Poor Thora, who loved that boy so fervently she hanged herself the night he died. My sister, who died because of Brodir. Your uncle was owed his death.' His head hung low; his voice barely carried to Halli's burning ears.

  For a time neither said anything. At last Halli stirred. 'You wouldn't have let her marry the carpenter.'

  Olaf looked at him.

  'Some common lad? I don't think so. She'd have been fixed up with the son of another House. Wouldn't she?'

  Olaf gave the slightest perceptible shrug.

  'There's no doubt of it,' Halli said. 'She'd have had her heart broken one way or the other.' He moved backwards towards the door. 'But thank you for the story. I'd been wondering why I failed to kill you and now perhaps I see the reason. There have been too many futile deaths already, and there's no honour in any of it. Well, if the fever doesn't take you, I'll speak against you at the trial and you'll lose land and face. There the matter will end. Goodbye.' He turned to go, but the back of the room was black, and he could not see the door.

  Behind him, Olaf 's whisper was amused. 'What an odd little fellow you are. Hasn't it occurred to you that without your testimony the case will fall apart? I'm hardly likely to let you go alive, am I?'

  Halli inched forward, feeling with his hands. 'Fine words. but you're a sick old man.'

  'Oh, well, you know – I'm not as bad as all that.'

  Halli heard a movement, the faintest rustling, as if a weight had suddenly been released from the mattress, letting the straw expand.

  He looked over his shoulder.

  And saw the candle guttering violently, its halo of light distorting and spinning above the empty bed.

  13

  FOR THREE DAYS SVEIN followed Kol's trail, neither eating nor sleeping, until he came to the outlaws' camp on a bluff close to the Snag. There were twenty men there, but Svein didn't hesitate – he leaped in, sword swinging, and the battle began. Soon eight outlaws lay dead, but now Svein was hard-pressed. He retreated up the track, still fighting, until he came to a little shepherd's hut. He ran inside and barred the door.

  Kol and his men took up positions outside the hut, waiting for Svein to come out.

  Inside the hut Svein found flints, a candle, and lumps of wood for the fire. He thought a bit, then set about whittling the wood into the rough shape of a man's head.

  That night the outlaws saw a light at the hut's window and Svein's shadow framed upon the wall beyond. They set a man to watch, and the rest lay down to sleep.

  Leaving the dummy where it was, Svein made a hole through the back of the hut and crawled out. Then he crept round and struck off the heads of Kol and his outlaws, one by one. He set them on stakes beside the valley road to discourage further nuisance.

  Halli lurched forward and his hands collided with the rough, cold plaster wall. Where was the door? As he scrabbled from side to side, he heard behind him the briefest scraping on the floor.

  The poker in the hearth.

  Halli's fingers met with wood, felt furiously for the latch.

  A waft of air. Halli ducked instinctively. With a cracking thud something crashed into the plaster above his head. Unseen fragments rained into his hair.

  A whisper in the darkness. 'Damn. I forgot you were so short.'

  Rattles, wrenching sounds: the poker being prised free. Halli found the latch and pulled at the door. Dim light burst on his eyes; he glimpsed the shadowed balcony and, beyond the balustrade, the hall's great emptiness, faintly glowing red. Halli sprang: as he did so, something struck him on the thigh with venomous force. An explosion of pain; Halli's leg gave way. He collided with the door frame, and collapsed upon the balcony.

  Halli looked up. Out from the darkness of the door came Olaf Hakonsson, slowly, slowly, a gaunt spectre in a woollen nightshirt. In his hands was a long black poker. His face was white, his eyes staring; the loose skin on his arms flapped as he raised
them high to strike.

  Halli rolled sideways, pushed with his good leg and clawed his way forward along the floor. Behind came the steady padding of a sick man's feet.

  Halli bent his back; on hands and knees, he strove to stand. One leg was numb, thin threads of pain playing upon his thigh; placing his weight upon the other, he staggered upright, then fell forward to lean against the balustrade.

  A glance behind: a livid face, a poker swinging.

  Halli lurched aside, towards the stair-head.

  The balustrade splintered. Pieces of wood fell spinning to the hall below.

  His leg was stiff and tender with each tread; hopping, limping, he reached the stairs and, grasping the banisters with both hands to prevent a fall, flung himself down. Something swished above him through the air.

  Olaf 's cry was a wheezing whisper, swallowed by the vastness of the hall. 'Hord! Hord! Ragnar! Wake up! An enemy is here! Ah, curse it – where is my voice ?'

  Down the staircase Halli hobbled, leaning on the banisters, swinging his bad leg out to the side, wincing whenever it touched down. He could not go fast, but nor could Olaf: he heard his pursuer's heels land heavily on each step, heard the rasp and rattle of his throat, the rustle of the nightshirt.

  Onto the half-landing. Below and to the left opened the cavernous space – black save for the glowing hearth and the hot coals of the roasting pit. The braziers on the walls were pinpoints of redness; a hundred cups and plates glinted sullenly across the tables of the empty hall.

  To his right, upon the wall, five spears in a fan. Halli stumbled across and seized one, sought to pull it free. He needed a weapon to defend himself – why had he dropped the knife? What a fool he was! He pulled, tugged, nearly plucked his arm out of his socket. No good – the spear was tightly fixed – and here came Olaf, eyes like grey hollows, shuffling across the landing with his weapon at the ready.

  Down the final flight of steps, careering, half tumbling, out into the belly of the hall. Halli veered slowly towards the central tables. Far to his right, at the end of the hazy line of columns, he saw the great doors to the yard. Even from here he could see the bar drawn fast across them.

  'Hord! Ragnar! Wake!' Again the tortured whisper. Halli, turning his head, saw Olaf negotiating the final step. His face was shimmering with sweat; matted hair half covered his eyes; his chest rose and fell in spasms.

  'Let's face it,' Halli said. 'They're asleep and snoring like the drunken hogs they are. Go back to bed while you still can. This chase will be the death of you.'

  Olaf grinned horribly. 'But Halli, Halli, how will you get out?'

  'I'll think of something.' Halli turned his head in the rough direction of the storeroom steps by which he had entered. Too risky: the outer door would be locked for sure, and he'd be trapped down there . . . The only option was to try the arches behind the Law Seats – look for a window, perhaps, or— A gasp of effort, a blur of movement on the fringes of his vision. Halli lurched aside; the poker stirred the air beside his shoulder and cracked onto the flagstones. Olaf swore.

  Halli said: 'That was a good try, but you're getting weaker. And my leg seems to be improving.' It was, too; it felt marginally less numb as he limped away towards the roasting pit, where the carcass of the ox – a ruined, glistening mass of bones and meat – still hung above the burning coals. The floor by the pit was drenched in fat; Halli slipped and nearly lost his balance. As he righted himself he saw two iron skewers resting against the lip; he bent, seized them and turned again as Olaf staggered near.

  Halli took one skewer in his right hand, one in his left. He waved them menacingly in Olaf 's direction.

  Olaf hissed derisively. 'Hakon's ghost, how terrifying! If I was a roast chicken, I'd be running for the door!'

  'Beware,' Halli growled. 'Up-valley, men fight with two blades.'

  'You look as if you're swatting flies,' Olaf said. 'It amazes me more and more that you came here at all. You cannot kill, you cannot fight – you're the most deluded youth I have ever met!' He swiped with the poker, knocked one of the skewers clean out of Halli's hand; it whipped through the air and stuck, quivering, between the rib bones of the ox.

  Halli, blanching, stepped back around the edge of the pit and hurled the second skewer like a spear at Olaf, who ducked aside; it struck the side of his face and clattered to the floor. Olaf straightened, fingering his cheek.

  'You dare strike a son of Hakon in his hall? If I was well . . .'

  'I'd still run rings around you, since I am a son of Svein, who incidentally threw your forefather arse-first into a thorn bush. Do you know the story? I only hope Hakon was wearing a longer nightshirt than you seem to favour.' Halli backed away across the hall, faster than before, his bad leg protesting.

  Whether it was rage or the pain in his cheek, Olaf too had put on speed. 'Ah, you coward! Look at you, running.'

  'Actually, it's called improvising.' Halli came abreast of a table, piled high with debris from the feast. He caught up a cup and threw it at Olaf, who dodged. Next he seized a plate, hurled that, and then a greasy ham bone. Olaf evaded the plate, but was struck on the head by the bone, drawing forth hoarse curses.

  Down beside the table came Olaf, with Halli backing steadily away, casting everything he could reach in the direction of his enemy. Cups, fruit, bowls, spittoons, chicken carcasses, table knives, certain spherical vegetables that had been cooked but left uneaten – all went flying in Olaf 's face.

  He dodged some, swatted away others, but was knocked and battered even so.

  Halli finished with a medley of soft plums.

  'Open your mouth a little wider,' he called. 'I'll try to get one in.'

  For the first time since entering Olaf 's room he felt exhilaration. Yes, he had failed to do what he had come for, and probably all was lost. But fighting for his life was a different thing to trying to kill a helpless enemy, and Halli found he much preferred it. Particularly since the numbness in his leg was definitely fading now.

  He glanced off down the hall: he was halfway to the dais and the arches. But Olaf was still close, and would soon awaken others if allowed to leave the room. Which meant Halli had to stop him.

  Here came Olaf at his hobbling run, poker raised high.

  Halli darted to the nearby hearth in search of other metal implements, but discovered nothing. Sweat broke out instantly on his face, for the central logs still burned beneath the dirt and the bone-white ash beneath his feet was hot.

  Olaf approached at speed. Halli scuffed his boots through the ashes on the stones and kicked a shower of it onto Olaf 's bare legs, causing him to prance about in pain.

  Projecting from the edges of the fire were several unburned branches. Halli pulled free the nearest, a long bent stick. Its end glowed white and red. Holding it in both hands, he swung it to and fro, eliciting a series of elaborate whistling sounds. For a moment Olaf hung back, daunted, then with an oath darted in, swinging the poker down wildly. Halli held up the branch to block the blow; the impact made the teeth jangle in his jaw and his knees give way. He dropped the branch and fell down amongst the hot white ashes, which plumed up in a mist around him.

  Olaf 's face was dreadful, a death mask, grinning madly. His lips were drawn back so far it seemed his skin must crack. He stepped over Halli and raised his arms.

  Halli sought to scramble free, but his legs were caught between his enemy's. He thrashed back and forth in a panic, writhing like an eel, knocking the inside of Olaf 's knees even as he drove the poker down. Olaf lost his balance; the poker struck the flagstones beside Halli's head with a clang that echoed to the rafters of the hall. Olaf fell beside Halli amongst the ashes, nearer the fire, where they were very hot.

  A moment more and both were on their feet again, their bodies white with ash. Halli's leg betrayed him: before he could escape, Olaf 's hand jerked out and caught him by the throat.

  The grip was like iron; Halli's eyes bulged. He struggled feebly.

  Olaf said: 'You surely know
better than to hope for mercy.' He raised his arm so that Halli's boots departed from the floor. He hung suspended by the neck.

  Halli gurgled and kicked. He could not breathe. His fingers tore at Olaf 's wrist. Olaf chuckled. 'No good doing that, my lad. I may be sick, but I won't let go. I've strangled bigger men than you this way.'

  Quite suddenly Halli stopped wriggling. He went completely limp. He raised a hand slowly and pointed – first at Olaf, then at the floor, the hearth and back to Olaf. After a pause, he did it again.

  Olaf narrowed his eyes. 'What? I don't understand you. What are you saying?'

  Halli, now purple in the face, repeated the performance with the same deliberate care.

  Olaf shook his head. 'Sorry. Makes no sense to me.'

  This time the gestures were accompanied by a prolonged and enigmatic gurgle and an ambiguous twitching of the eyebrows.

  Olaf scowled. 'Ah! This is hopeless! If you can't be clear, don't try.'

  Rather pointedly Halli indicated the fingers throttling his throat. Olaf rolled his eyes and slackened his grip a little.

  'Well?'

  A feeble croak. 'You're on fire.'

  Olaf stared at Halli. Then he gazed down to see long yellow ribbons of flame licking up from the fringes of his nightshirt. Even as he looked, the flames grew and spread eagerly, the wool strands within them flaring white, then black.

  Olaf gave a whispered howl of fear, flung Halli aside and danced away across the hall, patting desperately at his burning flanks.

  Rubbing at his neck, Halli stumbled in the opposite direction, pausing only to snatch up the smouldering branch from where it lay. He limped past the dais and underneath the balcony. Looking back, he saw Olaf blundering about – a thin black figure silhouetted in a fiery haze. Olaf fell against a wall tapestry, clawing at it, seeking perhaps some cloth to snuff the flames. Instead the dry threads of the tapestry ignited, sending yellow-orange spurts of fire licking up the wall.