Free Blood Will Follow by Snorri Kristjansson

inside the hut, kneeling down to feel their throats.
    Behind him, King Olav entered the hut.
    “Dead. Cold, no pulse, no breath,” Valgard said.
    “Fine. Bring them to your hut, Valgard. Take Finn—prepare them for sea and fire. Quickly. They will meet their gods tonight.” King Olav turned to face him. “Is my army prepared, Jorn?”
    “Almost, my Lord.”
    “Get to it,” the king snapped. “We sail tomorrow morning.”
    He only just managed to step out of King Olav’s way as the king stormed from the hut. The king’s fury was a tangible thing.
    Runar weaved his way between skeletal huts and burned-down houses toward the harbor. The biggest ships had been moored at the docks, but to each side of the wooden structures beached boats were being inspected, repaired, and even loaded. Experienced men helped the less proficient, barked on by veterans, who in turn answered to their chieftains.
    He found a vantage point just at the edge of the half-moon that had served as quayside and town square in the Old Town. A constant line of men carried supplies to the square in preparation for tomorrow morning. There were sacks of dried beef and barrels of drinking water—and large bundles of throwing spears, lest he forget the purpose of King Olav’s “delegation.” A group of men carrying firewood and kindling moved to the edge on the other side of the square and started stacking it haphazardly. In the oddly coordinated chaos of the harbor, the impossibility of mobilizing an army struck Runar. How did it ever work? So many men working toward a common goal. The fact that there had been only four fights so far among the thousand men at work was nothing short of remarkable.
    A slim, scarred man sidled up to him, apparently out of nowhere. “Tomorrow,” he said.
    “Botolf.” Runar said. “Well met. Are you r-ready for tomorrow?”
    “We are.”
    “On the boat, we want—”
    “I know what you want. But we haven’t talked about—”
    “R-r-reward?” Runar said.
    “Correct,” the slim man replied. There was a glint of greed in his eyes as he brushed thin strands of black hair from his face. “And the Prince of the Dales is ready to promise, is he?”
    He might be the ruling lord of large parts of the southern coast and a powerful ally, but Botolf Ornsson thoroughly repulsed Runar.“Y-you will b-b—” He fought back the fury, drew a deep breath, and looked Botolf straight in the eye. “You will be rewarded.”
    The chieftain smiled and nodded. “I just wanted to make sure we’re clear on this. I know the Dalefolk well, cousins on my mother’s side, but I know my men better. And I’ve never seen anyone block a dagger with a favor.”
    Runar smiled back. “Acts of faith are rewarded, Botolf.”
    Botolf’s scars danced on his face as he smiled. For a moment, Runar thought he saw something in them, some kind of emotion, but it was gone in an instant. “Let’s hope so, Runar,” he said.
    “B-b-battle nerves,” Runar muttered to himself as Botolf sauntered away without a care in the world. “Of c-course he’s concerned. After all, what we’re going to do . . .” Thinking about the moment made him smile. The moment when King Olav would realize that he was not among his imagined true believers after all. The moment when the king’s men would become Jorn’s men, take up pikes and swords, spear the king like a pig, slit his throat, and throw him overboard. The look on his face—
    In the distance, he noted that Botolf had stopped by a house and appeared to be addressing someone out of sight within. Moments later Skeggi emerged, clasped Botolf’s arm in a warrior’s grip, and turned toward Runar’s vantage point.
    Runar watched him approach. Where Botolf was all slinking menace and fox-like grace, Skeggi was the bull in the field. The likes of him were precisely why King Olav had done what he did—small kings who ruled with an iron fist and a generous helping of dimwitted cruelty. It was only animal