our time in Stenvik?” King Olav raised an eyebrow. “Yes. Well . . . when I overheard Jorn and Runar talking and came to you, I asked . . . I asked for—”
“You asked for men.”
“Well—yes—cast-offs. Those you can spare.”
“I know. I gave you the girl and the bastards. Why?”
“I need more.”
The walls of Hakon’s hall appeared to be moving in, all of a sudden. Valgard became uncomfortably aware that the king was carrying his sword.
“Why?” The king’s voice was cold.
“Because a small group of well-trained people working alone and reporting only to me can see and hear things that your men cannot, go where your men cannot, and bring back information your men could never get close to. And that information saves lives—yours included.”
“So you want me to spare you fighters?”
“Not necessarily, no.”
King Olav’s eyebrow rose again.
“They must be able to take care of themselves, but I don’t need all of them to be like Finn.”
“Good,” King Olav said.
Something in the finality of the king’s tone worried Valgard, but he plowed on. “I have some people in mind; I have suggested something of the sort to a few of them. I thought we could go around saying we’re collecting taxes.”
King Olav looked at him for a long time. The silence was turning quite uncomfortable when the king finally spoke up. “Well. You have proven that you can be trusted. Take your people. Do what you think best. But you can’t have Finn.”
“I understand,” Valgard said quickly. “You will not live to regret this.”
“Make sure I won’t. Now go and find Finn and tell him to come see me.” The king waved him away, and Valgard walked to the door, heart hammering in his chest.
He’d got them. He’d really got them.
Now he just needed to decide on the best way to use them.
Most of the fighters who would walk again had already walked out of Valgard’s tent by now, so there was little to do. The girl had come to a day ago and cried since; the boy fussed over her, brought her broth, and held her when she needed to be held. The old woman had just shrugged; like Valgard, she’d seen worse.
Finn came striding down the street from Hakon’s hall. When he reached the tent, he had to pause to get his breath back.
“He’s—he’s—I’m going back.”
“What?” Valgard said.
“Stenvik. I’m going back to Stenvik. Me and a third of the men. Not enough provisions here; not enough men there.”
Valgard frowned. On the surface it was a moderately sensible decision—but it wasn’t his decision, and it wasn’t convenient for him. “Hm. Well, you’ll be a fine chieftain,” he said.
“Don’t make fun of me,” Finn said. The burly warrior looked almost frightened. “How am I to order men about? I am not a leader.”
“Oh, but you are, Finn. Just imagine . . .” Valgard drew a deep breath to still the laughter in his throat. When he’d found his serious voice, he tried again. “Just imagine that King Olav speaks to you: decide what needs to be done, say it to yourself in his voice, and then tell others.”
Finn stared mutely at him, but then like clouds from the sun, confusion lifted and he understood. “Thank you!” A bear-paw hand slammed down on Valgard’s shoulder, squeezing it. The large warrior beamed at him. “Thank you. You are a true friend. I will miss you.”
Valgard winced, expecting the snap of dry bone at any moment, but Finn eased off on the grip and started pacing. “I’ll have to make sure there are rotations and rations, put the south coast boys somewhere apart from the Dale boys, and—”
“You’ll do fine,” Valgard said between gritted teeth. “Now go and prepare. Be a leader. Be the best leader you can be—and remember the voice,” he added.
Finn grinned, hailed him, and strode off.
Valgard scowled at Finn’s back. Then he swiveled and walked into the tent, straight for the girl’s corner. “Up!” he snapped. The boy, who had been lost in thought while combing the girl’s hair, almost jumped out of his skin. “What are you doing?” The boy stammered and tried to start a sentence. “Shut up. Don’t speak unless you know some words, you witless annoyance. Go and fetch me herbs.”
“W-w-which herbs?”
“All of them,” Valgard snarled. “And don’t come back until you’ve got a bagful.”
“Eb-eb-but—”
“Go. Now.” The backs of Valgard’s eyes hurt. He wanted to hit something, bludgeon it, break something. The urge to cause pain was overwhelming him. There was a throbbing pressure in