“I cannot be your escape from your father’s court anymore,” said Ragnvald. “I will win Ardal, and be a farmer.”
“You will be more than that.”
Ragnvald shivered in the damp evening air. It sounded like a curse. “What men?” he asked.
“Dagvith, of course,” said Oddi. He named other men, from both Hakon and Harald’s camps. Men with whom Ragnvald had sparred and bled. “They are not filled with admiration for Harald and Hakon now either. You do them a disservice to leave them behind.”
The scar on Ragnvald’s hand ached. Ronhild had scolded him, as he lay recovering, for not telling anyone about it, for pridefully enduring alone. He wanted to be gone, but it warmed him that Oddi and others might want to fight by his side.
“Then I shall not,” said Ragnvald. “What—how should I ask them?”
Oddi laughed. “I already asked them for you. Delay for a few hours, and you shall have twenty men, in the ship my father gave me, ready to take Ardal with you.”
*
It took nearly a week of sailing to reach the western end of Sogn Fjord. The weather was chill and threatening, but did not impede their cautious progress. Ragnvald kept watch for squalls and other threats while replaying Heming’s trial in his mind. He remembered all of his words as though they had been carved in stone, and each time he imagined saying something different, something that forged peace between Hakon and Harald. Part of him wanted to turn around, to see if he could find a way to make it right, to speak some of the better speeches he had since composed. Then he thought of Harald telling him to go, and it fed the anger that drove him north.
Oddi was the ablest pilot of the group, and he grew worn and nervous as the days passed. They beached the ship to camp each night on sheltered islands, well before nightfall.
The last night, they camped on the rocky beach that sloped up toward the lakes and hills of Ardal. Ragnvald looked around. It soothed his eyes to rest on hills whose contours he knew so well, where every path that cut over mountain and field had known his feet before. He glanced at his men, still disbelieving his fortune that they had chosen to accompany him and Oddi. Oddi was the type that made friends easily. Ragnvald was even more grateful for that now.
Some he had not known well; he had only learned more of them over the journey. They were independent-minded, all of them, and had not liked the way Harald and Hakon had dealt with Ragnvald. He remembered them for deeds of bravery in Hordaland, and many had further stories to their names that they shared on the voyage.
“Olaf has few men to defend him,” said Ragnvald to the men after they had eaten. “A dozen farmers’ younger sons, who have picked up a hoe far more often than they’ve picked up a blade.” This drew some appreciative chuckles.
Ragnvald described the layout of Ardal, using rocks on the ground to indicate buildings. He did not voice his fear that Solvi might have sent reinforcements to Olaf.
“They won’t be prepared to fight, and most of them like me better. The only kin he has is his son Sigurd.” Ragnvald tried to picture Sigurd’s face, at the other end of his sword, and could only call to memory his shock of blond hair, his slouching posture. “Sigurd is no swordsman, and I don’t want him killed. Unless he insists.” His last words were almost drowned out by the sound of the surf on the shore rocks. Ragnvald cleared his throat and spoke louder. “A half day’s walk, fifteen minutes of fighting, and then a night of feasting. Sleep well tonight, so you are rested for the celebration.”
“You want Olaf for yourself, I remember,” said Dagvith, the fair, friendly giant Ragnvald had met at Yrjar. Ragnvald felt a pleasant, foolish affection for him and all of these men.
“Yes,” said Ragnvald. “I have stomached the memory of his insults for long enough.”
Ragnvald, of course, did not sleep that night. He tossed and turned until Oddi kicked him out of the tent they shared, and then went to sit by the shore, pacing around when he grew cold. When he saw the first gilding of orange in the southern sky, he fed the banked cooking fire back to life, and heated some dried fruit and meat for his men’s breakfast. They ate quickly, and by sunup were tramping across the frozen fields in the valley that led to Ardal.
The path led up a steep slope until they drew even with the tops of the cliffs that lined Sogn Fjord. Below, an overhang hid his ship. Gray clouds scudded across the sky, threatening snow. Though it was early in the season, a few farmers were out in the fields, inspecting fences. They could not have mistaken Ragnvald’s warriors for anything but what they were—men bent on killing and destruction—but none raised an alarm. They watched Ragnvald’s party pass, and then turned back to their labors. Ragnvald resolved that when he ruled these lands again, his tenants would be required to light beacon fires if they saw marauders. Olaf should have known better.
Ragnvald set a harder pace than he should have, eager to meet whatever this day would bring. Sweat dripped down his neck and froze on his back, and he had left the other men far behind him. He waited until they all reached the base of the last small hill that hid them from the hall at Ardal. Then he told them to walk farther apart, so he could call a warning if he walked into a trap.
The farm at Ardal stood still and peaceful in the midmorning light. A plume of smoke issued from the forge—Einar, hard at work—and another from the kitchen. Ragnvald drew his sword.
Ragnvald had so long perfected the practice of avoiding Olaf that he imagined he could sense where Olaf was now. He should be returning from his morning ride on his prize and only stallion, Sleipnir. Ragnvald looked forward to taking the horse from him. A mud track through a snow-covered field showed the path he had followed.
Ragnvald saw no guards. He waited until his men caught up with him again, and whispered to them that they should hide themselves near the stone fence around the yard where Sleipnir’s barn lay. Olaf would return there soon. Instead, they surprised young Svein, one of Olaf’s guards, as he was bringing the carrots and barley Olaf would want to feed Sleipnir when he returned. Svein opened his mouth to sound a warning, but Ragnvald caught him quickly around the neck and clapped a hand over his mouth, wedging his jaw shut with his other forearm so Svein could not bite him.
“Hush, it’s me,” he said. “Stay quiet.” Svein continued struggling. “I’ll break your neck if you scream,” said Ragnvald, putting a warning pressure on Svein’s throat. He slowly released Svein’s mouth, but kept his grip around Svein’s neck.
“You were what Olaf said we should guard against,” said Svein.
Ragnvald smiled slowly. “Did he?” Of course—Olaf had tried to have him killed. Now that Ragnvald was surrounded by men who would kill for him, Olaf’s fear was a pleasant draught indeed.