Blood Will Follow by Snorri Kristjansson

wagon toward the funeral ship and motioned for two of his own men to follow. He could hear King Olav continuing behind him: “. . . has rejected them! Because the Lord does not accept just anyone! You have to be chosen to enter Jesus the White Christ’s halls! And the Lord chose you !” A cheer went up from the crowd as Finn’s men clambered aboard, carrying the bodies. “The Lord chose you to fight for his realm on earth!” Another cheer. “Hurry up!” Finn hissed under his breath as one of the bodies was unceremoniously thrown on top of the pyre. The other soon followed, and Finn’s men retreated, grabbing oars as they went. Behind them, King Olav’s voice was rising to a crescendo. Finn reached for his fire-steel.
    “The Lord will send you—”
    Sparks flew and caught on broken twigs, crisp leaves, dried grass.
    “To do his bidding—”
    Finn knelt and blew on the embers, gentle as a lover. A tiny flame rose to meet him.
    “He will send you across the sea—”
    Finn moved away. Rejected, the flame sought food for its hunger.
    “With steel ”—a cheer—“and faith —”
    Crackling and hissing, the yellow-white tendrils gusted through the grass, bit into the wood.
    “Push!” Finn hissed. His helpers used the oars to push at the solid hulk of the ship; gradually it started inching along, picking up speed.
    “And he will send you to watch Trondheim burn !”
    The old ship picked up momentum and floated clear of the harbor just as the first flame breached the barrier of wood, licked the cold, dead bodies and reached for the sky. An animal roar went up from the mass of men; the flame fed on it. Rising like dragon’s teeth, it fed on the air, on the wood, on itself, on the world. Finn and his helpers disappeared into the darkness created by the spectacle of moving flame; the men on the quayside stood transfixed by the gliding fire. Here and there in the crowd Finn saw men he didn’t recognize who stared at the flaming ship as if they were seeing ghosts—tough men, some of them older, one of them shading a single good eye to see better—but the vast majority of the crowd looked energized by the burning, heated by the flame, malleable as a blade in a smithy.
    Slipping through the crowds, Finn hurried toward the north road.
    The shadows of Stenvik Forest clawed at the north road. Valgard led the horses at a walk, waiting for Finn to catch up. Convincing King Olav to use the deaths of Sigurd and Sven as a rallying display for the soldiers had been easier than he’d expected. Now he just needed to find the right place . . .
    The forbidding barrier of trees appeared to open up to him, and a path became visible. Valgard nodded, reached into his sack and withdrew a knife with a curved blade.
    “If you only knew what your favorite weapon was being used for, Father,” Valgard muttered as he hacked a wound into a tree next to the trail. The horses followed him readily enough.
    It didn’t take him long to find the glade. The green-black shadows of the towering pines dropped away in a soft curve around the pond, making a dark sickle on the surface of the water. The rest was dusted by the reflection of stars.
    Valgard smiled.
    When he’d found the right place, a little square of green just off the water’s edge, he tugged gently on the reins and dismounted when the horse stopped. Reaching for the sack, he pulled out a shovel and started marking out the holes.
    The air was cold, but not unpleasant; the forest enveloped him. Smell of bark, earth, and rotting leaves mixed together to form autumn. The stillness was absolute—after the siege, no one had really gone into Stenvik Forest.
    His back started aching very soon. He could feel the muscles locking up, feel the joints scraping against each other. His hips seized as well. Valgard leaned on the shovel, gritted his teeth, growled, and kept on digging. The square shape started taking form.
    He saw Finn before he heard him. Not for the first time, Valgard