Heroes of the Valley

  Halli heard the crunch of pebbles, a whisper of fabric moving against grass. His skin crawled. But he did not react, not yet; he wanted them close when the chase began.

  'In that case,' he said, 'I suppose it's no good me suing for peace now? No good me suggesting that we end this feud before things get further out of hand? Too many men have died already – and for what? What has anyone gained? Let us put old hostilities aside; why shouldn't we work together to spread harmony between our Houses? Would that not honour us more than killing?'

  The hulking figure on the earth bank stepped forward menacingly and a mailed fist clamped fast upon its sword-hilt. A growl emerged from the darkness of the helm. 'Ah, Halli! You have a nerve! You, who killed my brother, who burned my hall . . . to ask for peace! I shall twist your head onto a pole and fix it before Svein's gate!'

  'Right. So I suppose there's no point in saying I'm sorry?'

  'No point at all.'

  'No chance of me winning you over with fair words?' He heard boots slipping, sliding down the moat bank beside him, heard the clink of metal very near. He tensed his muscles, ready to move.

  Hord's snarl was scarcely intelligible. 'Halli, the time for fair words is past.'

  'Fine,' Halli said. 'In that case you're a beet-faced, pearbottomed oaf, a part-time glutton and full-time coward, a man whose women differ from upland cattle only in altitude and breadth of haunch.' He was turning as he spoke. 'Oh, and a stubble-chinned murderer of his own men, whose brother died dishonourably, and whose people will invent new jigs of merriment to celebrate when you drop d—'

  Out of the mists on Halli's right, with sudden appalling clarity, a warrior leaped, helmeted and mailed. Halli caught a flash of Ragnar's pale face, teeth bared in a grimace. His sword swung at Halli's head; Halli ducked, heard the blade whistle close above his scalp and, with his enemy momentarily unbalanced, kicked out viciously with the side of his boot, knocking Ragnar bodily into the reeds.

  Up on the earth bank, Hord's roar of fury shook the night; he sprang into the moat, a dark, malignant form, sword looping upwards in his outstretched hand.

  Halli had already turned and was scampering into the long reeds. To his left, another figure rose, his bow strung taut, an arrow nocked. The arrow point swung round, tracking Halli as he passed.

  Halli ducked low. The arrow cracked against the wall beyond his head.

  Along the moat, through the mist, back the way he had come along the old familiar trail. The pursuers, close behind him, found the going harder, the twists and turns more unexpected. Seemingly from all around came crashes, footfalls, vegetation brushed aside. Again he heard an arrow's whizz, Hord's distant cries of rage.

  He broke out of the moat near the orchard, close to the place where he had left the House. He glimpsed the torn net hanging between the walls, saw a man's body sprawled, arched and stiff, upon the tumbled stones. Sounds of pursuit were near at hand. Halli darted to the left, over the turf wall into the orchard. Mist clung about the trunks, and silvered moonlight shone through the branches. Halli crossed the orchard swiftly; at the far end, where a turf wall gave onto the field and the ground began its long, steady rise towards the ridge, he looked behind him.

  Nothing: the orchard was empty. Halli cursed to himself, chest rising and falling in savage strokes. What were the fools doing? Could they not even chase him properly? Would he have to go back, try to pick them—?

  Away among the avenues of trees, dark figures burst from the mist. Six of them, or seven: glints of moonlight shone on helms and naked blades.

  Halli's heart leaped in dark elation. Very good – the pursuit was on!

  Now he just had to get them to the ridge.

  Out onto the field he ran, away from House and trees, away from all perceptible forms. The field was fallow, grassy and wet with mud; sheep had grazed here after being let out of the pens. Night mist hung close above the ground, congregating in hollows and pockets, in other places fading almost to nothing. Halli ran as hard as he could. At times he broke into open air and glimpsed the livid moon, a silvered disc bright enough to blind him; then he plunged back into the mist's cold thickness, and could scarcely see the ground beneath his bounding feet. The grass was very uneven, choked with humps and tussocks, and many times he nearly fell.

  Behind him came the drumming of boots, the rhythmic clink of metal. They had him in sight, or almost so. This was important. It would be no good losing them.

  His idea depended on two essential things; three, if he wanted to survive.

  First, he must get them to the ridge – keeping them close, but not so close that they caught him. Strong as they were, and faster than he, they wore heavy mail and carried swords. Halli, whose legs already ached, devoutly hoped that the effort of climbing would sorely tax them.

  Second, he relied utterly upon the mist. If it broke or thinned before the ridge crest, his plan would come to nothing. The cairns would be clearly visible under the moon, and he would never lure them over. If it stayed thick, however . . . if he could draw them up beyond the hut, where the cairns were few and far between . . .

  Halli grimaced as he ran, cold dread flooding through him at the thought – if he got them up there, it was likely Hord and his men would get a bleak surprise. Halli, though, would have to find high shelter, far away from the soft, dark earth, or the chances were he would share their fate.

  On he ran, and now the field was steepening sharply. Somewhere ahead, concealed in mist, a stone wall marked its boundary; beyond was the track that wound up to the high pastures. The going would be smoother there, better than the field. Halli broke out of a plume of mist; moonlight bathed him. Far off, to his right, he saw the hoped-for wall. Changing tack slightly, he angled for it, forcing his limbs on.

  Behind came a shout, a yelled command.

  With sudden instinct, Halli zigzagged to the side. He took three further paces.

  Something struck hard against his shoulder-blade, making him swivel, lose his balance and fall heavily to the ground. He felt a dull, persistent pain. Struggling to his feet, he felt for his shoulder, found an arrow shaft protruding there. Snarling with anger, he pulled at it, crying out as it came away. Warm blood ran between his fingers.

  Out of the mist, twenty yards distant, a warrior plunged, bathed in sudden silver. His sword was a narrow shaft of white. Seeing Halli, he gave a yell, increased his pace—

  Stumbling, tripping, Halli ran for the wall. One hand grappled for his knife, sought to wrest it from his belt. Pain flared in his shoulder. He knew already that he would not reach the wall, that the enemy behind would catch him; in sudden hopelessness he knew that he would never reach the ridge.

  Ahead, a low dark shape: the field wall blocking off escape. The harsh breathing of his pursuer took on a sudden new intensity – he too sensed the end was near.

  If Halli had been taller, if he had been less tired, perhaps he could have vaulted the wall and bought himself more time. He did not even try. Half falling against the stones, he tore the butcher's knife from his belt and flung himself round to face his foe.

  And the warrior was upon him, running full pelt, sword outflung to the side.

  Halli raised the knife, spitting defiance.

  He saw the pale face, the familiar squared jaw.

  With a cry of triumph, Ragnar Hakonsson swung the sword at Halli's head.

  It didn't connect. There was a clash of metal, a violent impact that sent white sparks flickering against Halli's face. He had ducked to the side, expecting the fatal blow; now, from the corner of his eyes, he saw another sword-blade wedged against Ragnar's, locked against it, straining.

  Halli lunged forward with his knife, stabbing Ragnar in the upper arm.

  A wail of pain. Ragnar leaped backwards, dropping his sword. In the dark holes of his helmet, his eyes were wide with shock. He cried out into the mist: 'Father!'

  Close by came answering shouts.

  'Get his sword,' a voice said tersely.

  Halli tu
rned. His gaze followed the sword's length back to the wall above him, where Aud crouched, long hair whipping in the wind.

  'Well, get a move on,' she snapped. 'We've got a hill to climb.'

  28

  WITH THE HEROES DEAD and the Trows driven back, things became quieter in the valley. People were tired of the old ways and wished for a calmer, more peaceable time. No sooner had the heroes' cairns been raised upon the heights than their widows came together to discuss the situation. This was the first Council of Lawgivers, which established the laws we follow today. Feuding was forbidden, trade promoted, and the seasonal Gatherings begun.

  To further promote peace along the valley, marriages took place between the twelve young widows and certain eligible men from other Houses, who became the new Arbiters. What Svein and the other heroes would have thought about this innovation is not entirely clear, but the system worked well enough. Within two generations the last feuds were finished and swords were outlawed in the valley.

  It was the work of a moment to snatch up the sword; the work of another to scramble over the wall and fall down upon the hard dirt track. The mist clung thick about them; off in the field Ragnar's voice could be heard lamenting shrilly, accompanied by deeper, angrier exclamations. They began to climb the track, following its steady gradient. They did not go fast: Halli was light-headed from his flight, and somewhat out of breath; Aud limped a little as she jogged beside him.

  'What . . . ?' Halli gasped. 'What are you doing?'

  'Save it.'

  'Go – go back.'

  'Shut up.'

  'It's not right for you – for you to do this. I told you to – to stay—'

  'Stay with Leif and all those other brutes and fools, with you out alone here, trying to save our skin? No thanks.' Her voice was scathing. 'I'd rather die than live with that.'

  'But the Trows—'

  'I'll chance it.'

  'Your leg—'

  'Will hold.'

  Halli bit his lip. The recklessness that ruled him paid little heed to his own survival. but he could not extend such disregard to Aud. He would have stopped then and there to argue, but he could hear wall stones being scuffed, chain mail clinking, boots dropping hard onto the track behind. He only said, 'Please. Aud. I 've got to do this, but you don't have to.' He waited. Aud said nothing. 'Don't you understand?' Halli said again, a slight catch in his voice. 'I should do this alone. I'm fated.'

  A rude snort sounded in the darkness.

  'I don't want you with me when the Trows come.'

  'Tough.'

  'I – I don't want you dying with me.'

  Fingers gripped his arm, not gently. Aud's voice was a ferocious hiss. 'Well, you'd better make sure we both live – hadn't you?'

  They clambered up in murky whiteness. All at once the shimmering light that illuminated the mists went out. The moon had been swallowed by the clouds. They crossed to the edge of the track and kept on climbing, feeling their way by touch along the wall. The mist's chill wetness drifted against their skin.

  'How did you find me?' Halli panted.

  'Knew you'd head for the track; it's the quickest way. I sneaked out by the south gate, guessed where you'd be. I was too high at first, but then I heard your gasps and wheezes, got down to meet you just in time. Oh – listen to that.'

  A little way below them on the hill, a voice like a wolf 's howl echoed in the night: 'Halli! My son's blood is on your hands! I will follow you for ever!'

  'Not for ever,' Halli said, under his breath. 'But a little longer would be nice.'

  'To think I might have married Ragnar,' Aud growled. 'His sword strike was like a woman's. D'you think you killed him?'

  'Pricked him a little, that's all.'

  His left arm bloodied, weak and numb, Ragnar Hakonsson trudged up the track in his father's wake, with three warriors beside him. The moon was gone; the blackness of the mist was absolute. They climbed like blind men, driven by their leader's fury. Ragnar held his long knife outstretched, fearful of the dark; the others tapped the ground with swords. Every few moments, at Hord's growled command, they froze and listened. Always they heard the scuffling of their quarries' boots not far above.

  The men at Ragnar's side cursed and muttered as they went. One said: 'Don't know where they think they're going. Any higher and they'll reach the cairns.'

  'Then we'll have them, won't we?' Ragnar said savagely. 'Shut up and climb.'

  Small drops of blood fell from his sleeve, leaving a trail behind him on the earth.

  Onwards, upwards, for an unknown time; for Halli it began to seem as if the ascent had gone on for ever, that he had been born to it and would die still climbing. Existence boiled down to certain dull sensations: darkness swirling at his eyes; the repetitious rasp of his boots on stone; the corresponding noises behind them on the track. He heard Aud's breathing near at hand, and felt the pulsing pain within his shoulder. The sword he carried weighed his good arm down. He began to grow sickened by the strain.

  With each step his fear rose in him too; subtly at first, concealed amid the physical effort of the climb. Little by little it grew and strengthened, washing through his leaden limbs, clasping tight at the back of his throat. The marks on his neck flared and itched; his eyes stared blankly at the dark. Somewhere close, the cairns were standing; somewhere beyond, a terror waited in the earth. Halli listened to the silence of the mists, every sense straining with anticipation. This was surely how Svein had felt standing on the rock that fateful night, hearing nothing, but knowing an attack would come.

  In their wake he heard Hord shouting, cursing bloody vengeance on their heads. Such clamour meant nothing.

  Halli listened to the silence up ahead.

  He and Aud climbed on.

  Hord Hakonsson was scarcely out of breath – the climb had angered rather than exerted him. One of his warriors kept pace alongside; the rest – his misbegotten son included – trailed in his wake. Their weakness was another irritation. He followed the unseen wall as swiftly as he could, pausing every dozen paces to listen. Whenever he stood still, hearing Halli's footsteps close above him on the path, he rubbed the chain mail of his sword-arm, feeling the place where the blacksmith's hammer had struck. Sore, but it would heal. So too the other knocks from the fight between the nets. Hord ignored them all. Great Hakon had frequently suffered injuries and fought on unconcerned – he had trailed his enemies for days with a colourful variety of wounds! As always, Hord would do as Hakon did, though he anticipated this particular chase would not take quite so long.

  Halli was weary, Halli was wounded. Neither he nor his accomplice could run for ever. They would come to the boundary in the end, and turn at bay. And then . . .

  Hord's lips parted at the thought – he would bring the matter to its end.

  High overhead, the moon emerged from behind the mass of cloud, shone for a dozen heartbeats, and was gone. Grey-white mist blossomed, darkened, faded into black.

  Halli said softly, 'I saw the hut, I think. Over to the right.'

  'So soon?'

  'Can't you feel the track's gone? We're on grass. We're at the upper pasture.'

  'The cairns will be just ahead, then.'

  He took her hand. 'That's what we want. Let's go.'

  As they shuffled along disconsolately, Ragnar and his companions almost collided with his father, standing motionless, staring into the dark. Ragnar spoke with a touch of petulance. 'What are you doing? You startled me.'

  'Be quiet. I'm trying to hear.'

  'They're onto grass now,' a warrior said.

  Ragnar sniffed. 'We'll never find them.'

  'Be silent.'

  Wind from the high moors rolled over them, six men standing in the mountain mist.

  From some way off: a sudden wail, a desperate cry of pain.

  They listened.

  Trailed on the wind came a sad lament. 'Ah! Ah! My leg . . .'

  Ragnar said: 'That's Halli.'

  Hord's voice was gleeful. 'Injured
, maybe. Come on.'

  They had crossed onto the moors now; they knew it even without sight. The ground had risen sharply, then levelled at the boundary. To their relief they had not stumbled into a cairn.

  'What if Hord realizes?' Aud whispered. 'What if the moon comes out?'

  'The mist'll still block his view. He'll follow us across as long as he doesn't stop to think. Shall I shout again?'

  'Not yet. Let's go a little further, find a crag.'

  'All right.' He hesitated. 'Aud.'

  'Yes?'

  'Keep listening.'

  'Careful, Father,' Ragnar said. 'There's a pile of stones here; some old wall.'

  'Ground's rising,' a warrior remarked.

  Another said: 'Hord, we must be very near the tops.'

  'What if we are?' He spoke from up ahead again. They heard him ploughing onwards.

  'The cairns . . .'

  'We must be sure to—'

  'There! I hear him!' Hord's frantic whisper cut across them like a knife. The men fell silent. Out in the darkness, just as before, they heard the fugitive's mournful wail.

  Hord laughed. 'He's lamed himself, the fool. This is good; we're close behind. A final push, my lads, and we shall have him.'

  One by one, with varying degrees of doubt and hesitation, six men pressed onwards through the mist and darkness. One by one, with equal blindness, they passed within an arm's length of a cairn.

  Halli said: 'They're right behind us, speeding up.'

  Aud said: 'Arne's blood, where's the crag?'

  'It'll be here somewhere . . .'

  'If only the moon would . . . We might see it then, despite the mist.'

  'It's somewhere close, but—' He stopped.

  'Halli . . .' Aud said.

  'I know.'

  'I think – I think I heard—'

  'Don't. Don't think anything.' His voice was high and stretched. 'Thinking about things is bad right now. We mustn't stop. Keep going.'

  'Stop, all of you,' Hord hissed, 'and listen.'

  Ragnar and the others halted. A warrior said, 'I hear scraping.'