Fate of the Gods

by Matthew J. Kirby

  It was difficult to be certain in the darkness, but it appeared that every Dane ship had broken away from Styrbjörn’s fleet and now rowed back the way they had come. David and Östen marveled at how well Thorvald’s strategy had worked. All the labor hewing and placing stakes in the Fyriswater had been rewarded, and Styrbjörn’s army had now been greatly reduced before the fighting had even begun.

  “Now our work begins in earnest,” Thorvald said to his company. “But from this night it will be bladework.”

  There were thirty of them gathered around the skald, men he had chosen from among those gathered under the ledung. Östen had been the first, followed by Alferth and Olof, and from there they had moved from camp to camp across the Fyrisfield, taking with them only the strongest and fiercest they could find. It had also been important to Thorvald that all of them were Svear and men of the land.

  “In the coming days and weeks,” Thorvald now said, “you may find your sense of honor challenged, for we will not meet Styrbjörn in the open. Not yet. We will strike, and then we will vanish, and then we will strike again. I have kept our number few, because we are not the axe and shield. We will be the knife in Styrbjörn’s back, and it is very likely that many of us will not return to our homes. If you want no part of that, you may leave now and return to Uppsala. I will not hold it against any of you.”

  None moved to leave, but that did not surprise Östen.

  Thorvald had proven to be a strange man, but a capable one. He was not large, but he was incredibly strong, and though he was a skald, he possessed a warrior’s spirit. He also possessed a cunning mind the like of which Östen had never encountered.

  “Rest for an hour,” Thorvald said. “Styrbjörn marches tomorrow, and we must be well ahead of him.”

  “What if he orders the Jomsvikings to clear the river instead?” Alferth asked.

  “He won’t,” Thorvald said. “Especially now that the Bluetooth has abandoned him. His rage will not sit still long enough to clear the river.”

  The skald had been right about Styrbjörn up to now. Östen trusted him in this, and moved to find a bed place and take what sleep he could. They had made no fire, and would leave no sign behind, nothing to betray their presence to the Jomsvikings. Olof and Alferth followed him, the three of them having formed a loose bond, and as they settled into their cloaks, Alferth spoke with a voice as low to the ground as a shadow.

  “I don’t like this.”

  “I’d prefer a fire as well,” Olof said.

  “No,” Alferth said. “I don’t like all this sneaking about. I’m not a thief or a murderer. When I kill, it is in plain view of the gods.”

  “You could have left just now,” Olof said. “Why didn’t you?”

  “Because then I would have looked like a coward.”

  “Then you made your choice,” Östen said. “The greater dishonor now would be to fail in it.”

  “Why are you here?” Alferth asked Östen. “We’ve all heard your name. This work does not seem fitting of your reputation.”

  The thread tied around Östen’s wrist had somehow survived the previous day’s labor in the water and mud, and though it was now crusty and soiled, it held fast. “And what reputation do I have?” Östen asked.

  Alferth said nothing. He seemed caught in a net that Östen had not meant to cast, afraid to answer in a way that would offend.

  Östen decided to let his friend escape. “I once fought for my glory and honor,” he said. “But now I fight for my family and my farm, and I will defend them in whatever way brings victory to Eric.”

  “I respect you for that,” Alferth said. “But Odin calls up the slain from the battlefield, not from the darkness and obscurity of ambush.”

  “My farm is not large,” Östen said. “But it is mine, and Eric has never envied it. He has been fair in all his dealings with the landowners. Olof’s land sits next to mine, and he also knows this to be true.”

  Olof nodded.

  Östen continued. “Eric’s brother was not so honorable. The assassin who poisoned him did a service to the Svear. If Styrbjörn returns, I fear he will take after his father, and we will return to the old ways.” He paused. “If bladework in Thorvald’s company means I give up my seat in Valhalla, it is so my family will keep our land when I am gone.”

  Alferth said nothing, but he nodded deeply.

  In the quiet that followed, David felt pride in his ancestor, but also confusion. How could Östen stand so strongly for freedom, but have a thrall at home working on the same farm he fought to defend? It was a confusion that could desynchronize David if left unchecked, so he went back to what he had decided earlier. He didn’t need to justify or agree with Östen to understand him.

  “What is that?” Olof asked, a new, reddish glow against his face.

  Östen looked southward toward its source, where great flames had erupted along the shore of Mälaren. From this vantage and distance, it was difficult to see what burned, but that close to the water’s edge there was only one thing it could be.

  “By Odin’s beard,” Alferth said.

  “He burns his ships,” Olof said.

  Alferth sounded ready to laugh in disbelief. “He’s a madman.”

  “No,” Östen said. “The Jomsvikings covenant never to retreat from a battle. With this act, Styrbjörn has insured they keep their oath better than Harald Bluetooth kept his.”

  Olof nodded in agreement. “They will be more determined now.”

  Alferth grunted. “And I won’t sleep now.”

  But Östen lay back down and closed his eyes. This changed nothing for Thorvald’s company. The Jomsvikings would be a fearsome enemy whether Styrbjörn burned their ships or not. Better to take what rest could be had, while it could be had. He closed his eyes, and not long after that, David entered a fragmented dream space within the simulation.

  You are doing well, Victoria said.

  “Thanks,” he said. “How’s Grace doing?”

  She’s fine. Monroe actually just let me know she’s in the simulation with Natalya and Owen.

  “Oh.” David had imagined Grace waiting outside the Animus this whole time, watching for him to mess up in case she needed to step in again. He didn’t know if he felt better or worse knowing she wasn’t there. Maybe both.

  I also heard from Griffin and Javier. You might be interested to know that Thorvald is Javier’s ancestor.

  “That’s Javier?”

  No, remember? Javier is in a separate simulation. But he is experiencing some of the same events you are from a difference perspective.

  “We’ll have to compare notes later.”

  Yes. In the meantime, I believe your ancestor is waking up.

  David returned to Östen’s conscious mind as Thorvald roused him, and even though David looked at the skald a bit differently now, he did nothing different about it. Östen sat up, wishing for another hour of sleep before they marched, but in the next moment he discovered it wasn’t yet time for the company to depart, and that everyone else still rested.

  “What is it?” he asked Thorvald.

  “There is a task I must complete,” he said. “I am leaving you in command.”

  “Is your task a solitary one?”

  “It is.”

  “And you’re going now?”

  “I am.”

  Östen nodded. He did not want to ask what the task might be, preferring not to enter that far into Thorvald’s purposes. But there were other, necessary questions. “What should we do in your absence?”

  “Take the company north,” he said. “When you reach the Mirkwood, I want you to lay traps.”

  “We can’t trap an entire army,” Östen said.

  “Of course not. You will simply lay enough traps, in enough places, to slow the army down. If Styrbjörn’s men are searching the trees for signs of danger, they’re taking their mind from their march.”

  “I see.” Östen thought about his own experience fighting. “If we injure one man in t
wo dozen, that should—”

  “Kill,” Thorvald said. “Not injure. You must kill one man in twenty.”

  “That will be difficult.”

  “Not with this.” Thorvald pulled a small bundle of oilskin out of his pouch, which he carefully unwrapped to reveal a fine bottle of glass filled with a viscous pale liquid. “This poison is extremely potent. A few drops will kill a man.” Thorvald looked up at Östen. “Though perhaps not a man of your size.”

  “How should I administer this poison?”

  “It will kill quickly if eaten or it gets into a wound. So lay your traps to injure, and this will do the rest. It can still kill if it touches the skin, but more slowly. Also, water won’t destroy it, but whatever you apply it to must be dry.” He rewrapped the bundle and handed it to Östen. “I suggest you wear gloves when you handle it, and then take care with those gloves.”

  “I understand,” Östen said, tucking the bundle away.

  “If your task is well done, the Jomsvikings will make camp for the night in the forest, to tend their poisoned brothers. You and the company will use the cover of darkness to harry them in their sleep. Strike from the trees, deliver a blow—a killing blow if you can—and then vanish. Offer them no respite.”

  This plan was not only cunning, but merciless.

  “I’ll find you when my task is complete,” Thorvald said. “But if I should fail, continue north to the Fyrisfield with as many as yet live.”

  Östen nodded.

  “Farewell.” Thorvald pulled a hood over his head, concealing much of his face, and he turned to leave. But he had only an axe at his belt and nothing else.

  “Where are your weapons and shield?” Östen asked.

  “I have all that I need for my task,” Thorvald said, and then he was gone.

  Östen woke Olof and Alferth, and the three of them got the company under way, racing north much faster than Styrbjörn’s army could march. Not long after sunrise, they reached the southern edge of the Mirkwood that lay between them and the Fyrisfield. Its expanse of towering spruce and pine stretched east and west far enough that Styrbjörn would have no choice but to march through it.

  Olof organized their company into smaller parties, and then sent them off in all directions to lay snares and traps among the ferns, brush, and moss-covered stones. They armed their traps with thorns and splinters of wood. Östen went around to each of them and applied a few drops of the poison to the barbs and sharp points, and when he had finished, the company hurried on a good distance and did the same again. In this way they proceeded north, turning the forest as they went into a place where death might be waiting around every tree and at every step.

  Östen worried about the many farms and villages the Mirkwood touched. The poison would kill a Svear out gathering wood or berries as easily as a Jomsviking. But the people of the countryside knew of Styrbjörn’s coming, and Östen could only hope they had already sought refuge elsewhere.

  Toward afternoon, the company stopped to take some food and rest near a marshy meadow on the Fyriswater. The flowers growing there reminded Östen of his daughters, who would plait each other’s hair with them.

  “Styrbjörn must have entered the Mirkwood by now,” Olof said. “Which means the unluckiest of his men are already dying.”

  “Let us hope,” Östen said. But he realized they needed to know for certain if, and how well, their strategy had succeeded, especially if they were to attack the enemy camp that night as Thorvald had ordered. “I will go back to see where they are,” Östen said. “The rest of you remain here.”

  “Be careful you don’t get poisoned by one of our own traps,” Alferth said.

  Östen nodded, and then he left the company, heading south into the woods. He traveled as quickly as he could, leaping over fallen trees and streams, using the brush and terrain as cover to keep himself hidden. The traps he had just poisoned were still held in his mind, so he was able to avoid them easily enough. But the farther he went, the slower he had to go, to make sure he didn’t end up a casualty of Thorvald’s cunning.

  As evening approached, Östen finally heard something up ahead. He ducked behind the wide trunk of a tree, listening and waiting.

  They were men’s voices. The Jomsvikings. They called to one another through the trees as they moved through the forest, sometimes shouting that they’d found another snare and rendered it harmless, and the way was clear. But sometimes one of them would cry out in alarm and pain, and Östen counted each of those as a death.

  The enemy’s ranks moved slowly, as Thorvald had predicted they would, allowing Östen to stay ahead of them, and hidden. But he prayed to the gods that the Jomsvikings would at least reach the end of the snares and traps before making their camp. It would not be wise for Östen and the company to go raiding at night through poisoned woods. A short while later, the gods answered him, and the Jomsvikings halted their march in safe territory.

  Östen returned to the meadow where he had left the other men, and after reporting the location of the enemy encampment and what he had observed, Olof again assisted by dividing the company. Then, when night had fallen completely in the Mirkwood, Östen gathered them all to give them their orders.

  “Let none of you think you fight for your honor,” he said. “In this night’s bladework, you are nameless. You are an apparition. You appear from the forest, you strike, and then you vanish. Our purpose is to leave confusion and fear behind us. This is what Thorvald ordered.”

  “Thorvald isn’t here,” said Alferth. “And I am not a thief in the night.”

  Östen marked him with a nod, but continued. “If you tarry, if you think to stay and look your enemy in the eye to watch the life go out of him, I hope your honor will comfort you in your death.”

  Alferth folded his arms, appearing unsatisfied, but Östen could not force him to understand. Each man had to fight in his own way.

  “Return here while the sky is still black,” Olof said, at Östen’s side. “We leave at the first sign of blue.”

  “Pray to the god you favor,” Östen said. “Then do the work of trolls.”

  The company disbanded, and each party stalked away into the night. Östen led three men, including Alferth, along the Fyriswater toward the western side of the Jomsviking camp. The night gave them little guidance, save the stars reflected in the water, but soon they smelled wood smoke and spied the yellow flicker of firelight off in the trees. They crept forward, slowly and silently, and chose the nearest of the fire rings. Each man drew his weapon, whether axe, sword, or knife, and at Östen’s whispered command, they charged.

  The trees flew by, nothing more than black stripes as the fire grew nearer and brighter. Östen kept his eyes from looking directly at the light, and focused instead on his target, a man sitting on a small rock, his knees up near his chest.

  When Östen burst from the trees, some of the Jomsvikings looked up in surprise. But that’s all they had time to do. From the edge of his sight, he glimpsed Alferth and the other two men rush in behind him. Östen neared his target, caught him hard in the head with his axe, and continued running, quickly leaving the circle of light behind him. The first shout of alarm didn’t rise up until he and his three men had regrouped some distance away, watching the results of their sortie from the darkness.

  Östen’s man lay dead or unconscious. So did another. Two more men staggered, while several of their companions rushed to give them aid, shouting and cursing. Two men ran from the fire, deeper into the encampment, no doubt to raise the wider alarm.

  Then they heard similar, distant shouts from other points in the forest, and Östen could feel the chaos rising.

  “Again,” he whispered.

  Then he and his men rushed the same fire ring. The Jomsvikings were better prepared for this attack, and they clashed with them, but only briefly. Östen struck one of the men already injured, and he went down. Then Östen returned to the forest.

  His companions were slower to join him, but eventually free
d themselves of the firelight. Östen now saw three Jomsvikings on the ground, with two more wounded.

  “Let’s move on,” Östen said.

  They crept back toward the river and followed it a little farther south, until a different campfire came within view. Most of the men around it looked to be wounded already, lying on the ground or leaning against the trees.

  “Poisoned,” Alferth said.

  Östen nodded. “Focus your attacks on the men tending them.”

  Then he led the first charge, and the second, until the fire ring held more dying men than it had but moments before.

  The sounds that echoed throughout the forest spoke of disarray in the Jomsviking encampment. But that tide would turn soon. Order would be restored. Östen sensed they only had one more raid before their enemy would be too prepared, and he selected another campfire farther south than the last.

  They charged, and Östen’s axe bit hard to both sides as he tore through the enemy ring. He had crossed the border, back into darkness, when a towering figure burst into the red light. He was a young man, a strong man, and he exceeded even Östen in height.

  “Styrbjörn!” someone roared.

  On the other side of the camp, Alferth leapt out of the forest, and Östen could do nothing to stop him.

  The fight lasted only a few moments. Styrbjörn laid waste to Alferth’s body. Östen had never seen such ferocity and power, and he could only hope that a passing Valkyrie had witnessed the end of his friend. The other two warriors in Östen’s party then rushed from the shadows, apparently thinking to attack Styrbjörn simultaneously. An arrow struck one of them in the neck, shot by an archer just emerging into the light. Styrbjörn dealt with the second man as easily as he had Alferth.

  As Östen watched this, his rage grew into something almost unstoppable. He tightened his grip on his axe and prepared to charge. But then he felt the gentle tug of the thread around his wrist. He could barely see it in the darkness, but it was still there. His talisman calling him home. He thought of his wife and his children, and he lowered his axe, even as Styrbjörn stood over the bodies of three good men of Thorvald’s company. Men who—