Heroes of the Valley

  Aud yawned rudely. 'I can barely breathe for sheer terror, Halli. You're a born storyteller. What happened then?'

  'Er, that was it.'

  'What? That's your story? I've one word for you: wolves.'

  Halli sniffed. 'But this was the Trow moors.'

  Aud rolled her eyes. 'During your stay up there, did you see wolves?'

  'Yes, far off.'

  'Eagles?'

  'Yes.'

  'Then why assume Trows killed your sheep when the other options are there in front of you? Why make things more complicated than they are?' Aud's voice grew animated.

  'When I get an itch on my bum, I don't imagine a Trow's crept up and put it there, do I? I go for the simple explanation. Oh, Arne's blood, that's my father.' Ulfar Arnesson's voice could be heard calling loudly in the hall. 'I've got to go, and I'm still not packed. I'll see you before long anyhow, with luck – since your mother's invited me to stay this winter. But if you're passing Arne's House in the meantime, come and visit. We've got better beer down there than you serve, that's for sure.' She grinned at him a final time, waved and disappeared through her door, leaving Halli blinking after her in the silence of the passage.

  For two days Brodir's body lay upon a wicker pallet in the centre of the hall. Halli did not go to pay his respects. He had already seen his uncle dead, and the image was seared into his mind.

  On the third morning, when mists still hung upon the ground, the burial party assembled in the yard. As with every funeral it was Arnkel's duty to lead them to the ridge; now he stood at the hall porch, fumbling with the clasps on his coat. Behind him, Halli, Leif and Gudny watched as men emerged from cottages throughout the House. Each man carried a pick, a mattock or a spade. Grim the smith walked among them, taking stock of the blades' quality and removing some to his forge for hasty whetting; the rasp of his stone fell muffled on the ear.

  On the flagstones before the door, Brodir lay in his winding sheet upon a pallet suspended between poles.

  Another pallet supported the capstone for his cairn. The men talked in whispers, hoods shadowing their faces, breath pluming in the air. They held their hands inside their fleeces and stamped their boots on the stones like horses straining to be off. Arnkel waited; now Halli's mother, followed by Eyjolf and another servant, came slowly from the direction of the killing-shed, where a year-old ram had been led the night before. Each carried a parcel of meat wrapped in skin; these were passed to the burial party, who secured them on the pallet beside the stone.

  At last Grim came from the forge, carrying a small piece of shaped iron no longer than his forearm. This was Brodir's sword, to help him defend the valley. It would be placed upon his breast before the stones were piled on. Arnkel tucked it in his pack.

  From their windows and doorways the people of Svein's House watched silently as Arnkel and Grim hoisted the first pallet between them. The line of men began shuffling out of the yard towards the hill gate. They did not waste words; the hole had to be dug and the cairn constructed on the ridge before nightfall. It was no small job.

  As Halli washed and dressed soon after, he questioned Katla closely.

  'What was the meat for?'

  'You know this. Raise your arms. It is thrown onto the moor, to gain permission from the Trows to step across the boundary during the digging. Don't stint with your washing – these days you must scrub there too.'

  Halli wielded the cloth without interest. 'And do the Trows come straight out to take it? Will the men see them?'

  'Indeed not! The Trows do not come forth by day. They wait for dusk, by which time the men will be gone.'

  'What if no meat was left them?'

  'That would give the Trows power to break through Svein's boundary in their turn, to the ruin of us all.'

  'It would be interesting to see a Trow,' Halli remarked in a casual voice.

  Katla instantly performed a number of wards and hexes. 'Go to the trough right now and wash your mouth with oil and water.'

  Halli remained put, wrestling with his leggings. 'What is so bad about that? I could go up to help with the burial, then wait and watch. I would not cross the boundary, like that boy you told me of, but only spy from the other side of the stones when the Trows came out to eat.'

  Katla made a little whimper and placed a gnarled hand on his arm. 'Three reasons why that is a bad idea, Halli. Firstly, it would be dark – you would see nothing. Secondly, if you saw so much as a clawed toe, your eyes would drop out in horror and roll upon the floor. Thirdly, such an act of disobedience would annoy our blessed ancestors, who might chastise you.'

  'It's the Trows who are our enemies, Katla! What would our ancestors do?'

  'Best not to test them. They are harsh with their judgements and a little inflexible, possibly on account of being dead.'

  'I think you are growing addled, old nurse. No – not the slippers. I would like my outdoor boots today.'

  The old woman looked at him narrowly. 'I hope you are not fretting any longer about your uncle. He is with Svein now. And, if I might be bold, this tragedy is in some ways for the best. Brodir encouraged your recklessness, I believe.'

  'So my parents often assured me. Where is my fleece. Katla?

  The thickest one?'

  'On the peg by the door. Halli, don't forget that your parents love you! They care about your fate! The last thing they want is to see you swinging from the gallows.'

  Halli paused. 'What? How likely is that?'

  'Your recklessness so far has resulted in minor crimes, I grant you, but larger ones will follow if you are not corrected.' Katla sighed, her eyes misty with the past. 'You won't remember Rorik of Slees Farm. He began stealing eggs from his neighbours' coops. Just fourteen, like you. But his father didn't beat him sufficiently, so what was he to think?' She shook her head. 'Next thing we heard he'd killed a man in a fight over a milk-cow and was strung up at the Summer Gathering.'

  Halli stared at her. 'And him only fourteen years old!'

  'Oh no, he was thirty-odd by that time. The rot sets in early, that's my point.'

  Halli scowled. 'Thank you for the advice. I am going out now.'

  As he walked to the door, Katla spoke in some alarm. 'Halli. my dear, I hope – I hope you are not thinking of going up the hill. Only grown men can take part in a burial, as you well know. And if you think to see the Trows—'

  He laughed. 'Don't worry about me. Goodbye, old nurse.'

  Then he went out, leaving her frowning after the closing door.

  In the kitchen he stole a loaf of new bread, a whole round goat's cheese and a hunk of bacon wrapped in cloth. He took two hip flasks also, filling one with wine, the other with water from the well. All these he placed in his backpack. Then, with a wolf 's stealth, he went to his father's room.

  On the bench in the corner sat Arnkel's chest, of old black wood, bound tight with iron. Halli had looked in many times from early boyhood and knew what it contained. His father's field tools: a sickle for harvesting, a billhook for working on the hedges, crop-knives and sheep-shears – some forged by Grim, others handed down across the years.

  But there at the bottom was another knife, used only at formal banquets and at sacrifices. It was slender, long-handled, very sharp.

  Halli took it, closed the chest again, and went to the hall.

  All was still; on this melancholy day, most of the men were on the ridge, and the women worked elsewhere. There, behind the dais, was the wall of treasures – Svein's armour, Svein's weapons. Halli gazed up at the rotting bow and quiver, the broken shield, the dented helmet on its hook. The helmet transfixed him for a moment: sunlight glimmered on the scarred crown, the neck-guards and the nosepiece, but the eyeholes were black, cold, expressionless.

  Halli looked away; his eyes went to the stone shelf and the little box that rested there. He looked around. The hall was empty.

  Halli reached up on tiptoe and pulled down the box. It was heavier than he expected and he almost dropped it. The wood was dark
, pitted with age. Heart pounding, eyes darting, he pulled at the lid, feeling its resistance and the splintering of grain as it suddenly came away.

  Inside the box something gleamed.

  Halli glanced across the hall. He listened: somewhere close he heard Eyjolf scolding a servant, the hum of the looms from his sister's room, the laughter of children in the yard. For a moment he felt the pull of the familiar, the safety of his childhood home.

  His gaze drifted to a trestle standing in the centre of the room. It had a rumpled white cloth upon it, and was surrounded by dying flowers.

  Halli stared at the bier that had borne his uncle's body.

  Then he tilted the box and let Svein's silver belt fall into his hand. It was cold, heavy and tightly folded. Without pause Halli put it in his pack. Then he replaced the box upon the shelf so that all was as before, set his pack upon his shoulders and hurried from the hall.

  Halli left Svein's House by a back route, scrambling down the wall and splashing through silted mud and bristling reeds to reach the lower meadow.

  For a moment he glanced up towards the heights, where even now the digging would have begun. Then he turned his back, and without further regard for the ridge or the House nestled cosily beneath it, set off to kill the Hakonssons.

  8

  IN THOSE LAWLESS DAYS, travelling the valley was perilous. Not many men attempted it. Yet sometimes, when Svein grew bored of farming, he would take to the road, wandering where he would. Once he left home and went east by the cataracts to Eirik's lands. That year there were so many dangers abroad that the way was considered impassable, but Svein went alone with his sword tucked into his belt and a net in his hand. He entered the forest at a stroll, looking at butterflies and flowers. For three days distant watchers saw birds erupting from the trees in fright; they heard strange cries and bestial howls. On the fourth morning Svein emerged near Eirik's House, strolling peaceably, dragging a heavy net. In the net were eleven heads, belonging to five robbers, three wolves, two Trows and a hermit who had made an impertinent comment while Svein was bathing in a stream.

  The sun was bright, the sky the colour of eggshells. High clouds like twists of lamb's wool hung over the northern mountains, where pennants of wind-blown snow fluttered gently from the shimmering peaks. Every detail of the valley slopes was visible, everything gleamed: sheep backs, stone walls, the milk-white waterfalls on the crags above Rurik's House. Even the pine trees on the slopes of the Snag shone with dark lustre, mirroring the intentions of Halli's heart.

  When he was safely away from the House, and had built up something of a sweat, he paused in the shadows of a meadow beech to inspect the hero's belt.

  Daylight flashed on it as he drew it from the pack and let it unfurl between his fingers. The sight made him catch his breath: a chain of slender silver links, ornate and interfolded. Metal whorls looped like fern fronds, in places thickening to suggest sleek shapes of animal and bird. It was craft far superior to anything Halli had ever seen. He wondered briefly at the workmanship, at who had made it long ago. But that was not as important as the effect it had. Great Svein had worn it and, according to the tales, it had brought him luck.

  Halli took off his fleece and sleeveless jerkin and passed the belt around his waist. Slightly to his annoyance he found it was much too long. It appeared Svein had been a big man, as the legends said. Halli scratched his neck and pondered. Then he draped the belt over one shoulder, strapping it diagonally across his chest. Success – the belt was secure. When he put on his jerkin once more, it was hidden from view.

  Halli set off again, trotting through a sea of long, sweet grass. A clot of scrawny cattle moved slowly across the field, tails flicking patiently at flies. A buzzard passed high above, soaring on the winds. Whether it was the hero's belt he wore or the brightness of the day, with every step Halli's exhilaration grew. At last he had thrown off the stifling confinement he had endured for so many years! His House and family were left behind. He was alone, an adventurer in the world.

  In just such a way had Svein set out on journeys of his own. Halli smiled grimly as he strolled along. One day perhaps his story would be told just as Svein's were, recounted after feasting in the hall. Perhaps the very knife that he carried at his back would be up there, on display, or taken down to be passed wonderingly from hand to hand . . .

  With such pleasant conjectures to encourage him, Halli walked throughout the morning, taking an undulating course north-east across the lonely meadows. Ahead of him the Snag rose in the distance, grey and sheer. He saw no one, which was as he wished. It was likely, following his conversation with Katla, that people might guess he had climbed the ridge, drawn by his interest in the burial and the Trows. If they thought that, so much the better. The hunt would begin up there, on the slopes. By the time they guessed the truth – if they ever did – he would be halfway to Hakon's House, and the avenging of his uncle.

  Brodir had not been the easiest of men, and in the last days Halli had noted sourly that his loss did not hang heavy on many hearts. The murder had caused outrage, but most people shared his mother's view that an advantageous settlement would soon be won.

  For Halli the matter was quite different, his sorrow aggravated by a surreptitious guilt. Without his trick upon the Hakonssons he knew they would not have attended the Friendship Feast and so come into conflict with his uncle. True, it was Brodir's taunting and Hord's arrogance that had precipitated the fight, but Halli's original actions had played their part too. He could not deny the connection.

  Back at the House this knowledge had tortured him through several sleepless nights. Now, out in the open air, with grass underfoot and the mountains beckoning him on, his shame lifted a little. It was still there, though, just enough to motivate him.

  How exactly he would kill Olaf he didn't know, but it would soon be done. Halli's brows steepened darkly as he walked down the sunny hill. The killer, back within his House, would consider himself safe now; no doubt he was lounging in his hall, drinking deep and laughing at his escape. So what if he were fined a field or two? He was a wealthy man; this was a small price, and no claim on his honour. Let the Lawgivers do their worst – he cared not, secure in the greatness of his House. No doubt Ragnar and Hord laughed with him, heads back, eyes glinting, whiskered mouths agape. Well . . . perhaps they would die too.

  Giddy with an upsurge of rage, Halli continued on his way amid the upland silence, across fields, through copses, circling out of his way to avoid small tenant farms, following the gradient ever downwards towards the valley's central fold. He took lunch on a rocky outcrop in the centre of a meadow; then, his legs a little weary, lay back under the pleasant sun. He awoke from sleep to find the afternoon much older, with banks of dark cloud building up above the summits to the north; without further dawdling, he hastened onwards to come at last in sight of the valley road.

  It was a broad dirt track, laid with uneven flags of stone, but rutted and in mild disrepair. Halli was faintly surprised by the state of it: he had imagined something grander connecting his House with the lower valley. Still, it was exotic enough not to disappoint him: it would take him beyond the cataracts all the way to Hakon's and the distant sea. With a spring and a jump he scrambled down the last grass slope onto the stones.

  For the first time in his life he had left Svein's land. The road marked the boundary. To the north, beyond the hollow where he could hear the river running, rose the fields of Rurik's House. Halli stood still a moment, feeling the imminence of new things. Then he withdrew his father's knife from his pack and tucked it into the waist strap of his tunic, just below the silver belt. Let his enemies beware! Halli Sveinsson was coming! With swaggering stride, Halli set off east along the road.

  As evening drew in, grey clouds gathered overhead and it began to rain – a dreary insistent drizzle that pattered lightly on the roadside ferns and down the back of Halli's neck. Two oaks beside the way offered reasonable shelter. The ground beneath was dry. Halli halted, consideri
ng, then shook his head. Would Svein have let a little rain delay a quest? Hardly! He could do miles more before dark. Halli set his chin at a defiant angle and strode onwards, swinging his arms purposefully, daring the rain to do its worst.

  Now the road entered a treeless waste of beet fields and riverside scrub, without shelter of any kind. The drizzle intensified to heavy rain, then to a mountain downpour. Halli was drenched in seconds. Water buffeted his face; it ran across the road and collected in between the broken stones. Abandoning his easy stride, he scurried on like a rat, hopping and leaping to avoid the gathering puddles, until, in the half-light, he saw a yellow glimmering ahead.

  Halli splashed closer, to discover a dilapidated hut set back from the side of the road. A single flame guttered dimly at a window.

  Halli stumbled up the path and banged upon the door.

  A pause. In the hopes of escaping the worst of the torrent Halli pressed close against the door. He knocked again, harder. The reverberations dislodged a roof slate, which dropped in a nearby puddle, dousing him still further. A moment later the door swung abruptly open and Halli fell forward into the silhouetted figure of a bent old man, dressed in a ragged tunic. He was quite bald save for a jutting pair of bone-white eyebrows, tufted like thistles. Beneath these, two staring eyes looked on Halli with dumb horror.

  Halli collected himself. 'Good evening.'

  The old man said nothing. His gaze held a thousand accusations.

  'I am travelling down the valley road,' Halli continued brightly, 'and still have far to go. You will see that it is raining a little . . .' He gestured about him at the downpour. The old man's expression did not soften; if anything it grew more intense, more numbly aghast at what it saw.

  'I was wondering,' Halli went on, 'whether, since it is raining quite heavily, and since it is something of a lonely district in which to spend the night outdoors, I might perhaps . . . perhaps . . .' The implacable gaze befuddled him; he faltered, then finished in a sudden rush, 'I was wondering if I might shelter here for the night.'