“Hm. Maybe you’re not all bad.” He shuffled toward a table by the far wall, grabbed two mugs, and dunked them in a mead barrel. He turned, smiled, and pointedly took a sip from each mug. Then he slammed the mugs on the table and sat down. “So tell me. What do you want?”
Valgard did not move. “What do I want?” He smiled. “I only want what’s right—”
“Big breath for bad words. If I was—”
“—for the old gods.”
Hakon Jarl frowned. “What?” Valgard met his gaze. “What do you mean?”
“What I say,” Valgard said.
Moments passed like winter nights.
“I am listening,” Hakon said at last.
“King Olav has given me fifty of his best men to go ‘collecting.’ He has told me that we are to find anyone who worships the old gods and gut them on the spot for not paying their taxes.” Hakon Jarl’s grip on his ax tightened, but he didn’t say a word. “I want another fifty of your trusted men to come with me. I want to have them dispose of Olav’s murderers in their sleep, then go around the valleys and the highlands to raise an army for you. I will deliver your message. You are the ruler Trondheim deserves, and I believe you should have all the help I can give you.”
“Hmh,” Hakon Jarl said. “And what would you do with an army raised in my name?”
Valgard looked straight into the ice-blue eyes of the old chieftain. “Kill King Olav,” he said.
Botolf watched as the silent workers finished packing bags and preparing the last of the horses. The trek-master, an ugly, fish-faced man named Ormslev, waved a hand in his direction, then headed off with his men.
When Skeggi finally arrived, Botolf was alone.
“So, what’s this?” the big raider growled.
“What’s what?”
“This.” Skeggi pointed at the horses, laden down with baggage.
“Looks like horses,” Botolf said.
“Fucking cute. Where are you going?” The big man stalked toward the tethered animals.
Botolf stepped to the side. “Pleasure trip. Thought I’d see the countryside since I’m this far north.”
“Don’t lie, you skinny turd.” Skeggi walked around the horses, inspecting packs. “You don’t need this many blades to go and see anything. Unless you intend to kill it.”
“Don’t spook the mares, now,” Botolf said.
“Fuck you. I’ll spook anything I want. Always have.” Skeggi stepped in between the animals and tugged at a saddle; the horse snorted and tried to step out of the way. The other animals shifted and stamped.
“I know,” Botolf said softly. He moved around toward the horses. When he got to the animals beside Skeggi, he reached for the reins.
“So what’s going on?” Skeggi snapped over his shoulder, ripping open a saddlebag and growling at the frightened horse. “Whatever it is, you’re not going without me. I can smell it on you, you little bastard. You’re on to something. You’ve got a plan—a scheming weasel plan. You’re going for an easy kill somewhere. What is it? Tell me!”
He didn’t see the loops until they fell over his head.
The horses whinnied and reared to get away from the pain in their mouths as Botolf gave both sets of reins a sharp tug. Skeggi’s face went red, then purple, as the ropes pulled at his neck from both directions. He kicked, hissed, and spat, clawed at the ropes digging into him, and tried to loosen them, but that only made the horses back up harder. The tortured wheezes from his crushed windpipe grew fainter. His eyes rolled up into his head, and the life left his body.
The horses still tossed their heads and snorted, tugging on the lifeless body until precise strokes from Botolf’s sword cut it loose.
As Skeggi’s corpse hit the ground, Botolf started muttering soothing noises to the startled animals.
They settled down once he’d dragged the heavy body away, and none of them reacted when he brought out a wooden mallet and a horseshoe from the back of the barn.
NORTH OF TRONDHEIM, NORTH NORWAY
NOVEMBER, AD 996
The lines of smoke were only visible when the grayish-blue sea was behind them. Trondheim was already fading into nothing, just dots of brown and green on a vast white carpet that sparkled with the early rays of morning sun.
“Fucking shithole,” Thora muttered. She staggered and righted herself, swinging her bound hands for balance.
“Where are you from, then?” Valgard asked.
“Another fucking shithole,” she snapped.
The snow hung heavy all around them, piled on the green branches of pine trees, covering rocks and potholes, muffling sound, and throwing