Fate of the Gods

by Matthew J. Kirby

  “Take nothing for granted,” the Lawspeaker said, seeing right into Thorvald’s mind with his blind eyes. “Whatever these warriors believe, any battle can turn with the beat of a raven’s wing. Think of the dagger you saw. If it is what you fear, we may have already lost this battle, regardless of our cunning or our strength.”

  “I understand,” Thorvald said.

  “The time has come to bring Styrbjörn the judgment of the Norns. He must not ever again take up his sword or his axe.”

  “He won’t.”

  Torgny nodded. “If you find this dagger, bring it to me.”

  Thorvald grasped his mentor’s hand. “I will.”

  With that, he left the Lawspeaker in the war camp and made his way southward over the Fyrisfield. The moon had not yet risen, which meant he could avoid being seen, but raced through darkness. He had to rely on his Odin-sight, sensing more than could be had by his ears and eyes alone, following the contours of the land and avoiding its pitfalls and marshes.

  As he came upon a clutch of low boulders and leapt over them, his Odin-sight caught a glimmer near the ground, and he stopped to investigate it. A thick coat of moss covered part of the rock there, and as he peeled it away, he found a small piece of hack-gold encrusted with dirt. Thorvald stared at it for a few moments, puzzled, but then he remembered the story of Hrólf, who scattered his gold across the Fyrisfield to distract his enemies while he escaped. It seemed there might be truth to the legend, after all, and it gave Thorvald an idea. One final cunning strategy, perhaps the simplest of them all.

  He pulled out the pouches the king had given them, and inside he found a small trove of silver Arab dirhams. Hrólf would not have scattered such coins as these all those generations ago, but Thorvald did not believe that detail would matter to the Jomsvikings. He arranged the coins over one of the boulders, and then he pulled out another vial of the same poison he had given Östen. Very carefully, he laced each piece of silver with death, and after the poison had dried, he scattered the coins as he traveled the rest of the way over the Fyrisfield.

  When he reached the Mirkwood, he climbed up into the branches, and once again ran freely from tree to tree, passing unseen over the sentries, until he reached the heart of the camp. The cattle had done tremendous harm to the Jomsvikings. Many lay broken and dying, and though their brothers tended them, they would not live through the night. And yet the camp did not seem so different in spirit than Eric’s. After all of their casualties, the courage and will of the Jomsvikings had not yet broken, and Thorvald admired them for it.

  He eventually found Styrbjörn in council with a Jomsviking captain, while a shield-maiden dressed a wound in his thigh. The sight of the woman surprised Thorvald, because Jomsvikings allowed only men in their ranks.

  “They will sing songs about your feats this day,” the captain said, “and tomorrow, the Jomsvikings will fight and die by your side, to the last man if the gods will it. This is the oath we will take.”

  It seemed the courage and strength that Styrbjörn had shown now bound the Jomsvikings to him, with the loyalty that their code and their honor demanded. They truly would fight to the last man, which meant that Eric’s army would be left with no choice but to destroy them all.

  Thorvald watched as Styrbjörn dismissed the captain, and after some moments of silence, fell into conversation with the shield-maiden. The two of them spoke in low voices on the subject of marriage, surprising Thorvald once again. When they moved away from the encampment into the forest to make their vows, he followed them through the trees, observing from a distance.

  Eventually, they came upon a large, sundered stone, and Styrbjörn built a shrine before it, and offered up a gold ring from his arm to Frey. As he and the shield-maiden exchanged their vows and their swords, Thorvald considered striking them both down. It would be a simple enough task, distracted as they were by each other. But the Tenets that Torgny had taught him held him back.

  He did not know this shield-maiden. She could be no Jomsviking. Perhaps a Dane? She might even be an innocent, and if she was, the Creed of the Brotherhood forbade Thorvald from shedding her blood. Before he struck, he had to know who he would be killing.

  “Now the blood sacrifice,” Styrbjörn said below. “I will find us an animal—”

  “No,” the shield-maiden said. “We already have an offering that will please the gods.”

  Thorvald wondered what she meant, but then Styrbjörn pulled out his strange dagger and placed it on the shrine. In dedicating the offering to Thor, Styrbjörn called the weapon a relic of the Christ, which meant the dagger might be what Thorvald feared it was. But if that was true, why would Styrbjörn offer it up on the eve before a battle? Why would he give away the very thing that could secure his victory?

  After Styrbjörn had finished at the shrine, he placed the dagger inside the crack in the stone, piled up a few more rocks, and then he and the shield-maiden left in the direction of their camp.

  Thorvald waited a few moments to be certain they had gone, and then he descended from the trees to the boulder and the shrine. The golden arm ring held no interest for him, and he pushed it aside along with the smaller stones until he’d uncovered the large crack, and the hidden dagger within.

  Javier felt a thrill. “I have it,” he said to Griffin.

  Good. Very good. Stay with Thorvald. Let’s see where it goes from here.

  “Of course.”

  This is a whole branch of the Brotherhood I didn’t know about, Griffin said. It’s incredible. With your heritage, your blood, I know you have it in you to become a truly great Assassin.

  Javier didn’t know what to do with that. He liked hearing it, but he also fought against it within his mind as he dove back into the memory.

  The dagger was not an ordinary weapon. Thorvald could see that plainly. But that didn’t mean it was an ancient weapon of the gods. He had never held an Aesir blade before, so he couldn’t say for certain whether this was divine or not. But he believed it was, which meant that he needed to get it safely into the hands of the Lawspeaker.

  Styrbjörn’s death would have to wait.

  Thorvald ascended to the treetops once more, and he made his way back through the Mirkwood, and then over the Fyrisfield, where his silver glinted weakly in the starlight. The Lawspeaker had left his hovel near the temple and taken a tent within Eric’s encampment, and as Thorvald approached it, he found Torgny sitting outside near the fire with his chin buried in his chest, snoring.

  “Mentor,” he said, touching the Lawspeaker on the shoulder.

  Torgny looked up, inhaling deeply through his nose. “You have already returned? How long have I been in contemplation?”

  “Only you would know the answer to that.” He touched the dagger’s pommel and grip against the Lawspeaker’s hands. “I believe it is what I thought.”

  Torgny accepted the blade, and though he could not see, he turned it over and over in his hands, and Thorvald worried he would cut himself, but he didn’t.

  “I believe you are right,” the Lawspeaker said.

  “Can you tell what power it possesses?” Thorvald asks.

  “No. What of Styrbjörn?”

  “He lives,” Thorvald said. “He married a shield-maiden in secret as I watched. To kill him would have required killing her, and I don’t know her.”

  “You were wise to stay your blade,” the Lawspeaker said. “Better that our enemies go unharmed than we risk doing harm to our Creed.”

  “Eric will not be pleased.”

  “But we have this.” Torgny held up the dagger. “I think it will please the king.”

  “You’re going to give it to him?”

  “Not in the way you think. Let us go to him.”

  The Lawspeaker rose from the fire, and then Thorvald led him through the camp, which had grown much quieter as the warriors there labored at sleep, until they reached Eric’s tent. Two guards posted at the door allowed them entrance, but immediately inside they faced a huffin
g, snorting Astrid.

  “Steady,” Thorvald said to the mass of brown fur shambling toward him. “You know us.”

  “Eric,” Torgny said loudly and forcefully, and the king stirred with a snort.

  “What is it?”

  “Your house-bear,” the Lawspeaker said.

  “What? Oh.” He first sat up, and then climbed to his feet, his furs and blankets falling away. “Astrid, to me,” he said, tugging on her chain.

  The bear stopped her approach, but not her noisemaking, and turned to lumber over to the king, where she sat herself down and leaned against him.

  “Is it done?” the king asked.

  “No,” the Lawspeaker said.

  “No?”

  “We have something better.” He extended the blade toward the king, and Eric took it, frowning.

  “What is this?”

  “That is a Christ relic,” Torgny said. “Styrbjörn took it from Harald Bluetooth, who received it from the great Christian Father in Rome.”

  Now Eric’s frown turned to a sneer of disgust. “And why would I want this?”

  The Lawspeaker turned to Thorvald. “Tell him what you saw.”

  It became clear then that Torgny intended to wield the dagger as a symbol, so Thorvald said, “Styrbjörn thought he could obtain the favor of Thor by offering that relic to the sky god. But Styrbjörn was careless, and I have taken it from the shrine. If you were to offer this Christ relic to Odin, and dedicate tomorrow’s battle to him—”

  “I thought I was not to fight Styrbjörn,” Eric said.

  “That is still true,” the Lawspeaker said. “You are not to fight him. But your army will, and with Odin’s favor, their victory will be assured.”

  “The Jomsvikings have now sworn to Styrbjörn,” Thorvald said. “It will go better for your rule if Styrbjörn is defeated on the battlefield, in the open, rather than in the shadows. Let it be known among your army that you have Odin’s favor.”

  “But will Thor not be angry?” the king asked.

  “The offering was poorly done,” Thorvald said. “Thor’s displeasure will fall on Styrbjörn.”

  “And if Styrbjörn challenges me?” Eric said.

  “He must not be given that chance,” the Lawspeaker said. “You must stay away from the battle.”

  “No.” Eric shook his head, his cheeks glowing red. “I am no raven starver. I will not cower in my tent. I will fight with my people, even if it means my death.”

  “That speaks well of your honor,” Torgny said. “No one doubts your courage. But the people of this land need you to rule for many years hence.”

  And Thorvald knew that the Brotherhood had spent too many years establishing Eric’s rule for him to die the next day on the battlefield. And die, he would. Thorvald had seen Styrbjörn fight. The king would be no match for his nephew’s size, strength, and youth. There were few men who would be. But Thorvald thought of one.

  “The people of Svealand need me to lead them,” the king said. “On this, I swear your counsel will not sway me.”

  Thorvald could see that was true. “Then lead them,” he said, “but choose a champion. One who will fight Styrbjörn for you if it comes down to single combat. There is no dishonor in that.”

  “Perhaps no dishonor,” Eric said. “But neither is there honor.”

  “It must be this way,” the Lawspeaker said.

  “There is a giant in your army,” Thorvald said. “His name is Östen—”

  “By tradition, my marshal is my champion.”

  Javier remembered the way the marshal had tried to prevent the Assassins from entering the king’s war council, and so did Thorvald, who shook his head. “I know him, and he will surely fall. There is only one man among all the Svear I would send against Styrbjörn.”

  Eric laid a hand on Astrid’s head and scratched her fur as he studied the dagger. “A strange blade for a relic,” he said. “I will never understand these Christians. They offend me.”

  “They offend the gods,” the Lawspeaker said.

  “Then let us appease them,” the king said. “Let us offer this thing to Odin.”

  So they left his tent, and the three of them walked through the encampment at the midnight hour, with Astrid tethered by her chain to the king. Then they left the camp and traveled to the temple at Uppsala, where they entered that hall by the light of a single torch. Astrid came into the temple with them, and she sniffed the air, peering into the darkness outside the torch’s reach, where gods and heroes stood as sentinels, in silence.

  Torgny knew this place without torches, and without sight. He brought them before the wooden pillar of Odin, which had been carved into the trunk of an ancient ash tree and raised at one end of the hall. The Allfather stared out with his one eye, armed with his spear, Gungnir, which he would wield in battle against the Fenris wolf at Ragnarök.

  By torchlight, the Lawspeaker took the king through the blót ritual. They called on Odin to listen to their plea, and they asked for his favor in battle, but instead of offering up the life and blood of a horse, or a pig, they gave the dagger, and in doing so they pledged their worship to the Aesir over any other false god. The king took oaths, and swore his life to Odin, vowing to enter Valhalla ten years from that day. He dedicated the next day’s battle and all its dead to the Allfather. The mute figure of Odin towered over them in the quiet, darkened hall, half in shadow, and gave no sign that they had been heard.

  At the end of the ritual, Torgny guided the king from the temple without speaking, and behind them, Thorvald secretly recovered the dagger. After the three of them had returned to the king’s tent, Eric said to Thorvald, “Bring Östen to me. I would meet this champion.” Then he and Astrid went inside.

  “I’ll wait here with Eric,” Torgny said, moving toward the tent’s entrance.

  Thorvald left the Lawspeaker and went in search of his company. The men he had chosen to thwart and harry the Jomsvikings had remained together, even upon rejoining the rest of the army. He found their fire a short time later and easily spotted Östen’s sleeping bulk among them. Thorvald approached him loudly enough to wake him, and then called his name.

  Östen rolled toward Thorvald, his eyes only half open. “What is it, skald?”

  “Come with me,” Thorvald said. “You are needed by the king.”

  Östen’s eyes opened the rest of the way and he rushed to his feet, again surprising Thorvald with his speed, given his size. “The king asked for me?”

  “Yes,” Thorvald said. “And I can think of no one better. Bring your weapons and your shield.”

  They returned to Eric’s tent, and Thorvald led Östen inside. The Lawspeaker waited there with the king and his house-bear, and Östen bowed his head upon entering.

  “You have need of me, my king?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Eric said. “Though it is not by my choice. I’ve summoned you according to the counsel of others.” He turned to Torgny. “Skald?” he said, suggesting that the Lawspeaker should explain, and then he sat himself in his saddle chair.

  Torgny smiled. “Though I cannot see you, Östen, I can tell that you are a man of uncommon honor.”

  Östen bowed his head again. “I thank you for that.”

  “And a man of renown,” Torgny added.

  “Perhaps when I was younger,” Östen said.

  Thorvald stepped toward him. “Tomorrow we battle Styrbjörn to the end. It is likely that he will seek out his uncle, the king, on the battlefield.”

  “To challenge him,” Östen said.

  “Indeed.” Torgny placed his hands together behind his back. “As another man of uncommon honor, the king would of course accept such a challenge—”

  “He should not,” Östen said.

  The king leaned forward in his chair. “And why is that?”

  It must have seemed a dangerous question, for Östen bowed his head low, and dropped his shoulders, but still he seemed to brush the roof of the tent with his hair. “You would die, my king,�
� he said. “Forgive me for saying it, but I have seen Styrbjörn fight. You would not leave the battlefield, and Svealand would be lost.”

  Eric narrowed his eyes, and then leaned back in his chair. As Thorvald watched and listened to the exchange, he felt grateful that Östen had confirmed all the reasons for choosing him.

  “And you?” Torgny asked. “Would you fight Styrbjörn?”

  Östen turned toward him, and for the first time since Thorvald had met the giant, he saw fear at the tightened edges of his eyes. Östen didn’t answer the question at first. Instead, he looked down at the skein still tied around his wrist. Thorvald didn’t know what that thread might mean, but it clearly held significance.

  “I would fight him,” Östen said, firmly, but quietly.

  “If you stood beside your king in battle,” the Lawspeaker said, “and Styrbjörn rushed toward him, what would you do?”

  “I would engage Styrbjörn in bladework,” Östen said, “before he could reach the king to challenge him.”

  Torgny nodded. “It is as I said. A man of uncommon honor.”

  Thorvald clapped Östen on the back, glad to have judged him rightly. “From this moment forward, you will be the king’s spear and shield. You will remain at his side until this storm has passed. Do you accept this honor?”

  Östen took a deep, rumbling breath, sounding much like Astrid. “I accept.”

  “Odin will be with you,” Torgny said. “So let the morning come.”

  A low fog lay in wisps over the Fyrisfield in the hours before dawn, gathering more thickly in the folds and dips, and covering the grass with dew. Östen followed the king, who led his house-bear by her chain until he reached a stone enclosure. Someone had planted a heavy stake in the middle of it, and the king fixed Astrid’s chain to that stake. As they left the house-bear there, and closed the gate behind them, Östen grew curious enough to ask a question, one that David had wondered about also.

  “Would she fight in battle?”

  “Astrid?” The king looked back over his shoulder, toward the enclosure. “Yes, if I commanded it, she would.”

  “But you don’t want her to?”