the men as they loaded horses and packed bags; his chest grew tighter still. This was it. He was setting out to find the source of whatever had nearly brought Stenvik to its knees.
Inside, the men worked in silence. No one asked, no one commanded: they all knew what they needed to do, and they were going about it with quiet efficiency. It had taken three days to assemble the group. Some he’d known already, some had come from Botolf, and Finn had supplied a few. While there had been those more than ready to leave Trondheim, others had needed a little more convincing.
A shape moved in the shadows on the edge of his vision. “Good morning to you,” Valgard said.
“Hmph,” Botolf said as he appeared out of the darkness.
“Not a friend of the dawn?”
“Stupid time of day,” Botolf grumbled.
“Depends,” Valgard said.
Botolf spat and stepped forward. “We’ll need more men.”
“These are the ones our lord gave me. Why do we need more? They look hard enough.”
“We’ll lose some,” he muttered.
“Lose some? Why? To what?”
“The cold. The north.” The lanky chieftain looked him up and down, then looked away again. “I forget. You’ve not done much of this.”
Valgard pursed his lips and swallowed the first three things he wanted to say. At first glance, he and Botolf weren’t that different in shape, but he’d seen enough murderers in his time to know that size would count for little when the blades came out. “No, you’re right. We need more men. I’ll go and see what I can do. Maybe we can ask him,” Valgard said, gesturing through the open door at a scrawny youth with his face pressed up against the wall, peering in through a crack.
Botolf glanced and frowned. “Skeggi’s pot-boy. Hmph.” He cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders. “If you need to go away and do something, maybe talk to someone for a while, now would be a good time.”
When Valgard looked outside again the pot-boy was gone.
“Why?” King Olav’s eyes narrowed. He shifted in the high seat, trying and failing to find a comfortable position.
Valgard cleared his throat. “I need to extract some information—you know, about the best places to collect taxes.” He teased out a sly, knowing wink and managed to keep his eyes from straying to King Olav’s sword, resting in its scabbard by the throne. One step, one word, and . . .
“It would be better if I go. He might let something slip.”
“I see. Taxes. Yes.” A flicker of a smile flashed across the king’s face.
He looks tired, Valgard thought. Worn out.
“You make sure you collect the king’s taxes. Not too much—avoid unnecessary killing. Just gather the information.”
“I will, my King. I will. Where is he?”
“He’s taken to hiding in the chambers of his old mistress, says it helps him think.”
“If that’s where he does his thinking, I can see why he didn’t see us coming.”
The king smirked, pointed toward a door at the back of the hall, and promptly appeared to forget about him.
Without waiting for further permission, Valgard hurried out of King Olav’s sight.
So far, so good.
Beyond the door, steps led to a long earthen corridor that had fallen into disrepair. Chipped struts and skewed slats made it look like an old jawbone. Rubble covered the floor. “Into the belly of the beast,” Valgard muttered as he picked his way along.
The corridor ended in steps leading up to a thick bearskin covering the entrance to Hakon’s rooms. Valgard pushed the fur aside, and warm air flowed out to meet him, carrying with it the smell of old sweat and bad blood.
Hakon stood in the middle of the room, one hand on the hilt of a long-hafted ax, watching him. He still struck a formidable figure, but the shoulders sloped, the hands trembled ever so slightly, and there was more white than gray in the beard.
“I thought he’d send them in the night—and I thought they’d be bigger. And louder. What do you want?” the old chieftain snapped.
Valgard stopped, one hand on the bear pelt. “I want nothing,” he said. “Well, almost nothing.”
Hakon sneered at him. “You’re not offering me anything to eat or drink, Healer, that much is certain.”
“Because you’re neither a halfwit nor a suckling,” Valgard shot back. His stomach sank as the words left his mouth. There was nothing for it, then. This was how it would have to be played. He watched Hakon’s feet for the first signs of the swing.
Nothing happened.
He looked up at Hakon’s face; there