Blood Will Follow by Snorri Kristjansson Page B

we could rely on you.” Botolf smiled and nodded back. “I suppose you can send them to prepare the Njordur’s Mercy .”
    “Thank you,” Botolf said. “I will go with them, if you don’t mind.”
    “Go a-ahead.”
    Around them, the stream of warriors was continuous. Two horsemen for each ship, three for the larger ones. An even mix of archers and foot, with a smattering of pike for good measure. Theyhad decided to divide evenly on all boats, minimizing the risk of losing all the archers, for example. It worked because Jorn had succeeded in breaking up old alliances; there were no old feuds to settle anymore. They were all part of King Olav’s army.
    For a little while longer, at least.
    Runar had no problem spotting Skeggi’s approach. A shout of protest was soon followed by a growling argument, and the men in front of him were shoved out of the way.
    “You pussies can all rest easy. We’re here now,” he said. No one around him spoke. He turned to Runar. “We’re here—my ten.” None of the men in his retinue had Skeggi’s finesse, but from the looks of them they could be counted on for a healthy dose of violence. With cold, fear-borne clarity, Runar considered that he might be closer to death now than ever before.
    “Go aboard the Njordur’s Mercy ,” he said. “And welcome.
    “Hah! Welcome, he says!” Skeggi guffawed. A rumble of laughter traveled through his collection of companions. “You say that, but you’re going on my boat, remember?”
    “The king’s boat,” Runar reminded him.
    “The king’s boat!” Skeggi roared. This time all the men laughed with him. “Come on, boys! Let’s go and serve the king!” the big chieftain shouted and pushed Runar aside. His men followed, shouting vaguely comprehensible insults to no one in particular.
    Runar clenched his wooden tablet until his knuckles turned white.
    “A bit of a handful, isn’t he?” a familiar voice said by his shoulder.
    Runar turned around and stood face to face with Valgard. “H-he-he is,” he managed. “A-and . . . he may be a b-b-bastard—”
    “But he’s our bastard,” Valgard finished for him, smiling.
    “Yeah,” Runar replied.
    “He’s the kind of man you want on your side when things go wrong,” the skinny healer said.
    “Ah-ah-absolutely.”
    Valgard smiled again and bowed with mock courtesy. “With your permission, my good man, I would like to go aboard the Njordur’s Mercy and oversee the ‘preparations’ of our highly capable traveling companions.”
    Runar smirked. “G-go ahead. J-j-just try and ah-avoid t-t-t-too much conversation,” he said.
    Valgard winked at him. “I’ll do my best.”
    As he moved toward the biggest ship in the harbor, Runar watched the healer. Maybe he’d been wrong about him. Maybe he’d tell Jorn to spare the scrawny bastard’s life later today.
    And maybe not.
    Runar’s mouth twitched toward a smile. Power felt good.
    The wind snapped and bit at the sails. The clouds were few and far between, and the waves sat at their back, pushing them on.
    From his place midway between the mast and the aft of the ship, Jorn looked back. The view took his breath away.
    Sixty ships spread out behind them, a wake of wood and wind and blades.
    Stenvik was somewhere behind them, a shell of a town.
    While he’d questioned the wisdom of setting off with winter so close, he had to say that it felt good to be on the move. Runar had suggested that when they beached after King Olav had been taken care of, he should pin the murder on Botolf and Skeggi and let the fanatics do what they wanted. Like all of Runar’s ideas, it was solid.
    They were a good team. A good team that was going to run the country a whole lot better than King Olav would, standing at the bow with Finn and his slimy adviser. Praising the White Christ for his benevolence, no doubt.
    They were flying before the wind. The oars were up. It was time.
    Jorn caught Runar’s eye and nodded. The archer shifted to his left,