Halli took the wallet and all of Bjorn's remaining food and wine. He flung the panniers away among the pines. Then he stamped out the fire and went over to the old horse, still tethered on the margins of the glade.
'I haven't the heart to ride you,' he told it. 'For what it's worth, you're free of him. Go where you will.'
He slapped its rump gently; after some consideration, the horse ambled away and down the cliff road. Soon it was lost among the trees.
As Halli followed it out of the clearing, his eye caught sight of something black sticking out of the grassy bank: the supposed Trow claw, driven into the earth with vicious force. With difficulty he prised it free and, on examination, found to his surprise that the craftsmanship was excellent – the wood smoothed to a polish, harder and heavier than he had imagined. It was sharp too, ripping the cloth of his pack as he pushed it in. Well, that was all to the good. It would do for protection until he bought a knife.
The remainder of his journey down the gorge was uneventful. Steadily the cliffs drew back and the gradient lessened. The road emerged from the pinewoods into a landscape of broken rocks and scattered debris – the beginning of the lower valley. The river returned to meet it with a succession of rapid loops and turns. Already it was broader than on the heights above; in places it raced down shallow terraces of stone before tumbling over into deep, dark pools. Halli began to see cattle on the slopes below the cliffs; goats too, penned in stony fields. Little by little the soil grew noticeably better, the grass a richer green. The numbers of cattle increased. The walls of the valley drew away from him; there was a sense of space and air. The sun burned the mists away, and far off he saw a gap between the hills – a curious flatness of horizon, where he knew the sea must be.
Warmed by the sun, free of the dour seclusion of the gorge, Halli felt his spirits rising with every step. The horrors of the night receded, and he began to view his actions as less desperate and more considered than they had seemed before. He chuckled as he went. How cleverly he had led that villain to the cliff edge!
Beside the road a wooden hero post – an ancient figure, worn and shapeless, but daubed with bright blue dye – marked a boundary. Away across the fields, beyond a band of trees, a number of curious red-tiled roofs showed. Flags flew from the gable ends, a sure mark of a great House. Good – there he could buy food, a knife and other things, and – why not? – spread word of his recent victory. No doubt Bjorn had robbed many folk on the lonely roads. News of his death would be welcomed: with luck Halli would not even need to pay for his provisions.
Lost in pleasant reveries, Halli arrived at a place where the road forked around a pillar of stone; the right-hand way led along a broad path lined with fruit trees towards the distant House. Here and there about the orchard, women stood on ladders, collecting plums. A small sandy-haired, brown-limbed brat, wearing nothing but a long twill shirt, sat beneath the pillar in the dust of the road. He eyed Halli with listless curiosity.
'Good day, my boy,' Halli said. 'What are those roofs away among the trees?'
'Eirik's House, as everyone knows,' the boy replied. 'Shouldn't your legs be longer? Did a tree fall on you?'
Halli said: 'Would you prefer a gold coin or a slap about the head? Think hard.'
The urchin considered, picking his nose the while. 'The coin.'
'Then refrain from rude comments and run at speed to your House. Alert the people. Tell them a hero has arrived.'
The boy looked in awe to the four points of the compass. 'Where?'
'Here.' Halli spoke with some asperity. 'No – here. Me. I'm the hero.'
The boy's face fell. 'Give me the coin before I go. In fact give me two. I get a beating whenever I tell palpable untruths, so this must be made worth my while.'
Halli stepped closer. 'Do you dare to doubt my word? I have just slain a foul robber in the vastness of the gorge, while you dawdle purposelessly in the dirt. You should be leaping to do my bidding!'
The boy slouched to his feet. 'As to my purpose, I am waiting for my father. As to leaping, I have no energy for that. My mother and I have had little to eat these last few weeks, while Papa has been away. If he does not come soon, with money from his travels, we both shall surely starve.'
Halli took the cloth wallet from his bag and selected a coin. 'There, there! A nice gold piece to ease your woes. Now then, stop gawping at my wallet. Hobble off as best you can and spread the word. I will follow on behind.'
The boy moved off, slowly at first and with many backward glances. To Halli's displeasure he did not head up the road, but scampered over to one of the nearby trees, where a scrawny red-haired woman stood with a basket, collecting plums passed down from above. An animated conversation ensued, the boy pointing in Halli's direction. It ended with the woman hurrying forward, her colleagues watching from among the trees.
Halli drew himself up. 'Now then, good woman, I bring important news—'
The woman spoke anxiously. 'My son here says you have come down from the upper valley.'
Halli bowed. 'I have.'
'You are brave indeed to travel alone through those desolate wastes.'
'Well, they're not that desolate. Except the gorge, of course, where—'
'I wonder,' the woman went on, 'whether you met with anyone on your way? Please, my lad and I are worried sick about my husband, who—'
Halli raised a gentle hand. 'Madam, I regret I have seen no other travellers. However, I did fall foul of a wicked trader, who attempted to rob and kill me. Ah, he was vile – a vast, corpulent beast of a man, utterly without virtue. Fortunately I am not easily cowed – in the loneliest portion of the gorge, in the blackest hour of night, we fought. Suffice it to say, I slew him. Your people need fear his crimes no longer. Now, I am weary and wish to enjoy the refreshments of your House. One of those plums will do to begin with. 'With a wink and a grin, he took one and bit into it dashingly.
The woman stared at him, slack-jawed. 'A trader, you say?'
'That's what he claimed. In reality he peddled sham artefacts and curios, wooden hairgrips and the like. And a hedge-thief also. Shall we go?'
'Wooden hairgrips, you say?'
'Yes, yes.' Halli smiled round at the other women, now steadily approaching from all directions. 'Dear me. I hope not everyone at Eirik's House is so dense!'
The urchin was hopping at the woman's skirts, plucking at her sleeve. 'The wallet, Ma – take a look at the wallet!'
Halli scowled. 'You have had one coin already. Must I pay for this interrogation too? The wicked Bjorn was scarcely any greedier than you.'
The woman gave a little gasp, echoed by several others round about. 'Bjorn, you say?'
Halli rolled his eyes. 'Yes! Bjorn!' He hesitated, suddenly cautious. 'What of it? It is a common name.'
With a wail, the woman dashed her palms against her forehead. 'My husband! You have killed my husband.'
'He had Papa's wallet, Ma! He did, he did!'
'My poor fat Bjorn!'
Halli noticed the women of the orchard pressing close on every side, hefting gleaming fruit knives in their hands. He spoke with agitation. 'Are all you lowlanders hysterical? There is not a shred of proof that the man I killed has anything to do with this Bjorn of yours. Your husband is probably drunk under a hedge. Now—'
The boy gave a cry of woe and recognition. 'Look! There! Grettir!'
Everyone looked back along the road. The old horse, having no doubt eaten its fill of roadside grass all day, had completed its descent of the gorge and now appeared, trotting homeward with a clear sense of purpose and familiarity. Amid dead silence it ambled past Halli, straight up to the boy, and nuzzled his hand fondly.
Everyone stared at the riderless horse. Everyone stared back at Halli.
Retreating slowly, he raised his hands in protest. 'He was a robber! An outlaw!'
'No! Bjorn Eiriksson was a respected man!'
'A pillar of our House!'
Halli backed away along the road. 'But, ladies
– he tried to rob me, kill me!'
'Why should he do that? What could he want with a vagabond like you? You lie!'
'Murderer!'
'Killer!'
'Catch him! Blow the Trow horn! String him up!'
Halli abandoned all attempts at suavity and persuasion and ran away at speed along the high road, with the women of Eirik's House hard at his heels. They proved fleet of foot and looked set to bring him down until he dropped the contents of the wallet on the ground. Gold coins spun and rolled in all directions, causing the bulk of the pursuit to halt. Even so, Bjorn's wife remained close behind, screaming and clawing at him with long fingernails until he was obliged to push her into a ditch. After that he drew clear, but was pelted with plums and other fruits until he rounded a corner in the road.
The following days did not go well for Halli. The search parties from Eirik's House proved diligent, and he was forced to hide in a festering reed-bed, nose-deep among the thick black mud, until they at last gave up the hunt. Trudging forth again upon the road, he seemed more like a limping vagrant than an avenging hero, his food waterlogged, his skin flasks punctured by leeches, his coins lost, his clothes ragged and soiled.
Without provisions, without the money to pay for them, Halli was forced to resort to behaviour he had not anticipated when he began his journey. Instead of a stately procession through the lower valley, stopping at every House he passed for shelter and gentle conversation, his days became filled with surreptitious skulking in ditches, with acts of thievery at lonely farmsteads, by constant evasion, concealment and close pursuit. Hungry and exhausted, he was forced to steal food to stay alive, and while his spoils were drearily uniform – stale bread, cheese, a little fruit – the consequences had uncomfortable variety. He was chased by farmers with pitchforks and old men with sticks; by washerwomen with flailing flannels and by children with spinning discs of cow dung. On one occasion a band of infants put him to flight with stones after he tried to spear their cakes from a distant bush using the Trow's claw fixed to the end of a pole. There was little time any longer to dream about fame or the honour he would win. He concentrated on mere survival.
Yet always his determination drove him on. It would have been possible, at any moment, for Halli to turn round and head back on the long journey to Svein's House, to the old life he had left behind. But despite his troubles, his desire to avenge his uncle remained steadfast, constant. Little by little, painful day by painful day, he drew closer to the House of Hakon and the sea.
Eirik's lands fell behind; the road took him through rich meadows belonging to Thord's and Egil's Houses. By now the valley was broad and generous; the river, a glimmering ribbon, wound back and forth across the plain. The ridges on either side were lower now than Halli had ever imagined, the mountains beyond them reduced to brown-grey foothills. But still, particularly when the sun was low, it was possible to see the cairn lines running unbroken, marking the edge of the habitable land.
From time to time, in his lonely evenings in the woods, chewing on a pilfered chicken bone or scrap of meat, Halli mulled on what he saw. Despite his many days of travelling, despite the strangeness of the buildings he passed, with their steeply arched gables, their bright red tiles, their whitewashed plaster walls; despite the oddly dyed clothes that people wore, and the obvious bounty of the lowland fields, Halli was struck by the essential familiarity of it all. Houses, fields, livestock – and the cairns upon the hill. Trows above, people below.
As if from long ago, he heard his uncle Brodir speaking. The valley isn't as big as you suppose . . .
Still, there were some new wonders to be absorbed. He saw Battle Rock from a distance in the centre of the plain – a jutting black pyramid set among dark trees – but, owing to a local hue and cry involving a missing piglet and a leg of pork later spotted on his person. was unable to spare the time to visit.
Then there was the prospect of the sea. All his life Halli had wished to glimpse it. Now, as the miles passed steadily under his boots and he neared his destination, he noticed a salt tang on the air, borne by a fresh new wind. It whipped about his face and deep into his lungs, invigorating him even in his weariness. He began to spy white birds far out above the flat centre of the valley, banking and gliding, spiralling down out of sight. The river was now separated from the road by marsh flats and reed-beds; he glimpsed it only occasionally – a great white-blue expanse, dappled with specks of sunlight. Once or twice he saw things on it: low, flattened crescents with poles and sails, drifting up-river with the tide – the first true boats he had ever seen.
For days the way had been heavy with traffic: carts, riders, men and women going about their business; every field seemed to have its cottage, every mile its farm. Presently Halli came to a crossroads where the road – now twice as broad as in the upper valley, and in excellent repair – split decisively in two. A pair of hero posts stood facing each other, freshly carved. Wooden beards jutted, sightless eyes gazed fiercely, hands stayed frozen on the pommel of their swords. One post was dyed a warm, rich purple, the other a livid orange-red. Halli thought he knew both Houses.
'Yes, this is the boundary of Arne's and Hakon's,' a young woman said. She had stopped her ox-cart at the junction and was sipping water. 'Two miles through woods to Arne's House; three miles beside the river to Hakon's. Which do you make for?'
Halli did not reply at first. In his mind's eye he saw the face of Aud Ulfar's-daughter, and in his weariness and hunger felt a strong temptation to seek her out . . . He sighed; his jaw tightened. No. His quest was not complete. Much as he might wish it, it could not be done.
'Hakon's,' he said firmly. 'I go to Hakon's.'
'Be warned,' the woman advised, surveying Halli shrewdly, 'they don't welcome beggars there. Wastrels, tramps and other misfits are tied bare-bottomed to the market post and soundly whipped. Hord's orders. He is a strong, hard man.'
'Oh, I know he is,' Halli said. 'Incidentally, I am not a beggar.'
But the woman had already flicked her switch and headed on her way.
Three miles to Hakon's. A little further on, with darkness falling, Halli camped for the night in a copse beside the road. As he lay shivering beneath his meagre blanket of fallen leaves, fierce excitement surged within him.
Tomorrow, at long, long last, the murderer Olaf would be within his reach. Halli needed to spy out the land, of course, but the basic strategy was clear. Reach the House, find a crumbled bit of Trow wall, hop over it and hide. At night, raid the smithy or one of the outhouses for a knife, then locate Olaf 's room. Probably it would be at the back of the hall: perhaps there would be a window . . . If not, he would be forced to wait, kill him at dawn when he came out to use the privy or wash in the yard. When it was done, a quick departure – back over the wall and away across the fields. Above all, he must not be seen.
Whether it was his agitation, the cold, or the hunger in his belly, Halli did not sleep well. Towards dawn he fell into a fitful slumber, and when he awoke, the sun was fully risen. Brushing himself down, he hurried on, impatient to see his destination.
And, shortly afterwards, he saw it.
The road, which had topped a little rise, ran down towards the House of Hakon as if reaching it had been the sole aim and purpose of all its distance. On one side patchwork fields of wheat rolled away, golden-brown and silent, shimmering in the breeze. On the other, green meadows declined into grey-black mudflats spanned by a maze of brightly coloured jetties; these reached out into the margins of the river, now so broad it stretched almost to the horizon. Halli saw huts lining the jetties, boats moored below them, and people, people everywhere – on jetties, in fields. working with hook and net, with winnow and scythe: more people than he ever dreamed could belong to a single House.
And beyond it all rose a great stone stockade, girt by a broad black saltwater moat, fed by channels from the estuary. The walls were more than twice as high as a man, windowless, close-fitting, dour and grey near the water, whitewashed higher u
p. At no point were they even remotely crumbled. The road climbed an earthwork ramp towards the House and crossed the moat by way of a broad wooden bridge. Above the walls the tops of many buildings could be seen, most of them two storeys or more, their roofs arched and gabled. Chief among them stood a soaring hall, painted white and shining in the sun. From every gable orange-red flags fluttered with imperious splendour.
Hot-eyed, dry-mouthed, Halli stood motionless in the dust of the road. For the first time he understood the utter remoteness and true insignificance of Svein's House. The knowledge wedged like a stone in his throat.
His shoulders slumped, his pack slipped to the ground. In silent weariness, Halli flopped down onto the grass and rested his head in his hands.
11
THESE WERE SVEIN'S TREASURES: his drinking cup, hollowed from a dragon's tooth, which gave his ale a smoky quality; his necklace strung with a Trow girl's finger-bones, which rattled and tugged against his neck when Svein stooped near the earth; the silver belt that brought him luck in battle; his chain-mail armour, its loops as delicate as snakeskin; and above all else, above any of the wonders that he gathered in his years of greatness: his peerless sword.
This sword was given to Svein when he was six years old. It was an ancient blade. Some said that five strips of metal, each one flexible as sinew and hard as hill rock, had been melded together to make it. The sword's edge was thin as a grass stem, sharp as a wolf's tooth; there was a serpent pattern down one side, thinly incised, so that blood ran into it and made the serpent glisten whenever Svein made a killing. The mere sight of it struck terror into Svein's enemies and unmanned them.
Many times during his journey Halli had imagined ways in which he might kill the Hakonssons. He had swung on ropes from pine trees as they passed on horseback, decapitating Olaf during the outward pass and Hord and Ragnar on the return. He had run down their hall as they sat drinking, plucked a boar-spear from the wall and, without breaking stride, impaled all three with a single cast. He had shot them with arrows, crushed them with boulders and, in an entertaining sequence dreamed up in the hazy moments between wakefulness and sleep, drowned them side by side in a giant keg of beer.