Free Blood Will Follow by Snorri Kristjansson Page B

blankets, and three horses. Now,” he snapped.
    Finn appeared to come alive. His chest puffed out and his back straightened. His eyes were still glazed, but there was more soldier to him.
    “Yes,” he said and bowed out of the hut.
    Valgard turned to the two graybeards. They looked oddly peaceful on his muddy floor, like they were just in a deep sleep. “Right, you two,” Valgard said. “We’re nearly ready. I just have to fetch some things first. Don’t go anywhere.” He slipped out of the hut, smiling to himself.
    Finn was already waiting outside with the cart and three placid horses when Valgard returned. “What’s in there?” the big soldier said, pointing to the large sack Valgard had slung over his back.
    “Never you mind. Help me load up,” he snapped. Finn merely nodded and set to work. The two men in armor were soon up on the cart. Ducking into the hut, Valgard signaled for the big man to follow him. When they were out of sight, he fired off instructions to Finn. “Wrap them in the rugs—like that, good—and tie the ends. Good. Now let’s make packhorses out of the remaining two.”
    When they were ready, Valgard soothed the two horses, but he didn’t need to; Finn had chosen well. The beasts were placid and took calmly to their new role. “You’ll drive the cart; I’ll ride out on the north road when I see people moving south. Once the king has started talking, you make your way north and come find me. Understood?”
    Finn nodded. As vacant as he looked at times, Valgard didn’t worry for a moment—the big man was good with instructions. Moving slowly, but with focus, he soon had the horse before the cart trundling down toward the harbor.
    Valgard stroked the two remaining horses and their cargo, wrapped in blankets and slung like sacks over the animals’ rumps. “It’s maybe not what you imagined, Father,” he said, “but it’s what you’re getting.” He rubbed at his shoulders and tried his best to crack his joints. Now all he could do was wait.
    No one called for quiet.
    It just spread, like blood on stone, as the orders were given. A rowing crew moved the king’s longship out of the way. Another crew maneuvered a big, stocky boat in; an icebreaker from the far north. A line of workers formed—some carried logs, others hefted bundles of kindling. As the pyre rose, layer by layer, more and more men drifted to the edges of the half circle of stone by the harbor. The sense of occasion spread, but there were no shouts, no summons—all over Stenvik, men just laid down their tools and moved to the harbor.
    Finn watched them. He saw wary eyes, distrust, and worry. They could see what was happening, and there was tension in them; tension that needed to be directed.
    The slow clop-clop of metal on stone sounded ponderous, almost unreal in the silence—and then the crowds parted for King Olav Tryggvason.
    He walked his horse into the half circle and surveyed the assembled men, standing crammed in between Stenvik’s broken houses, in among shattered walkways and burned frames. Finn watched as a charge went through them—now they stared intently at the king, waiting for him to explain.
    “Today I have had to make a choice,” King Olav said. His voice was soft, but it carried far. “Two men I respected and hoped would be our allies, Sigurd Aegisson and Sven Kolfinnsson, today lost their fight with battle fever, caught after injuries sustained fighting Skargrim and his raiders. And I did not wish to give them a . . .” The king swallowed, then continued, “a burial dedicated to the old gods.” The men exchanged glances. “But,” and the king’s voice grew in power, “I sought counsel!” He looked to the skies and made the sign of the cross. Moving hands caught a soldier’s eye, and Finn noted several of the men reflexively signing themselves. “And the Lord told me that we could give back to the old gods what was always theirs.”
    Finn didn’t need a signal. He led the