Path of Gods

by Snorri Kristjansson

  Sven moved up to their station. ‘Well done, boys,’ he said. ‘You’re on track.’

  Ulfar leaned over to the old man. ‘Why are we doing this?’ he muttered. ‘None of the others are up.’

  ‘Which is exactly why we’re doing it,’ Thormund said from two tents over. ‘We want the young king and all of his men to see us, sitting and waiting for them. Makes us look serious, and if they’ve got any sense or shame they’ll tighten up some.’

  Sven grinned. ‘See? The old boy still knows his stuff.’

  ‘So we gather,’ Ulfar said.

  ‘Step to it,’ Sven said. On some invisible signal he turned and shouted ‘Ready!’ across their camp, and soon Oskarl shouted back from the far end.

  ‘Go!’ Sigurd bellowed from the centre and in a sudden flurry of activity tents and shelters simply melted away as they shrank into their component parts.

  Audun had to elbow Ulfar, who was gazing at the spectacle. ‘Move,’ he hissed.

  Ulfar shook his head a couple of times, then kneeled down to help Audun bundle the sticks into the sheet and wrap it up tight. ‘That’s as sharp as anything I’ve seen,’ he said as they worked.

  ‘I only knew them from Stenvik,’ Audun said. ‘It’s like I only saw a very small part of what they were.’

  ‘You’re not wrong there,’ Thormund chimed in as he tossed his tent-pack, neatly trussed up, on the ground. ‘Ready to go?’

  Audun gritted his teeth and forced his cold hands to work faster. There! He yanked the string and the knot slid into place. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, then you’d better be ready to sit and wait for a while. To be fair, though, Sigurd’s got what he wanted.’

  The old horse thief glanced over at Jolawer Scot’s camp. Farmers, pot boys and soldiers alike were working hard to escape the attentions of Alfgeir Bjorne, who waded through the disorganised groups of tents cursing and shouting at anything that moved and shouting more at anything that didn’t. A flurry of activity followed in his path. ‘And look,’ Thormund added, ‘there’s your friend.’

  Karle stood at the edge of the camp, glowering and pointing, yelling commands.

  ‘Looks like someone didn’t get all the sleep they wanted,’ Ulfar said. ‘Thank you. I feel better now.’

  Soon a column of tired and grumpy men was marching through new-fallen snow. Audun cleared his mind. Left, right. Left, right. Marching was all right, once you fell into the rhythm – you could let your legs walk and your mind wander.

  ‘Listen,’ Ulfar said, coming up beside him, ‘tonight, we’ll go somewhere quiet and have a talk about . . .’

  ‘. . . our friend,’ Audun replied.

  ‘Yes,’ Ulfar said.

  Audun nodded. ‘Anything else you want to tell me?’

  Ulfar frowned. ‘Not really. Why?’

  ‘Because those two’ – he glanced towards the middle of the column – ‘have been turning around from time to time and staring straight at you.’

  Ulfar scanned the line. When he found the people Audun had mentioned, he let loose a string of curses under his breath. When he’d composed himself he said, ‘I might need you to watch my back when we camp.’

  Audun shrugged. ‘If I must,’ he said with a hint of a grin.

  They marched on.

  *

  The world was nothing but white, grey and black. The treeline to the left of the marching column towered over them like a fortress wall, and giant wolf-shaped clouds chased across the grey sky. To the right the trees were starting to thicken, forming a corridor of white between the shadowy pines.

  ‘Who are they?’ Audun glanced at the couple over Ulfar’s shoulder as they walked.

  ‘He is Ivar, and her name is Greta,’ Ulfar said wearily. ‘They are brother and sister. He stabbed me in the leg in Uppsala. I am pretty sure Karle put them up to it. Shortly after that I was poisoned.’

  ‘What did you do to her?’ Audun asked.

  Ulfar threw his hands in the air. ‘Why is it always sure to be my fault? Why is everyone so certain that I—?’ He caught sight of Audun’s face. ‘Fine. I promised her I’d wed her, shagged her and left.’

  ‘I see. No wonder the brother is upset.’

  ‘A bit too upset, if you ask me,’ Ulfar mumbled.

  Snow drifted gently down, melting on their faces and settling on their shoulders. They marched in silence for a while, settling into a rhythm that cost as little energy as possible.

  ‘Hey!’

  Ulfar was jarred out of his walking half-dream by running into the man in front of him, who had stopped. Behind, the line was slowly doing the same.

  ‘Listen up!’ Alfgeir Bjorne’s voice rang out. ‘Men of the Dales! Northlanders! To me!’

  Beside him, Karle shouted. ‘Southern boys! Lakefolk! To me!’ The two men then strode in opposite directions.

  The men of Stenvik waited to be told where to go, but no instructions came. Instead, as Jolawer Scot’s men drifted to either side, grumbling under their breaths, a thin line of cold and tired warriors was left in the middle.

  ‘Now what?’ Audun mumbled.

  ‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this,’ Thormund mumbled.

  ‘I’m beginning to think you have a bad feeling about everything,’ Ulfar said.

  ‘And what of it?’ Thormund said. ‘I am old and alive, which is rare. Shut up.’

  Up ahead, Sven barked out orders. ‘Right, boys: we’re going for a little meeting. We’re going up front with the king, as we figure if we show ’im the ugliest bastards first he’ll laugh so hard it might soften him some.’

  ‘Who the hell are we meeting?’ Mouthpiece whispered behind them.

  Ulfar frowned, then caught Thormund’s eye.

  ‘Told you,’ the old man mouthed. Beside them, Alfgeir and Karle led their groups to the sides, off the road and into the woods.

  ‘Square UP!’ Oskarl shouted up ahead.

  *

  The line spread all the way across the road and ran at least ten deep. Men clad in furs over chain mail and leather armour; lines of spears, lines of shields.

  ‘Old boy’s looking good,’ Sven said.

  ‘He always did,’ Sigurd said. ‘Took great care to make sure. Win the battle first—’

  ‘—then fight it,’ Sven added.

  Jolawer Scot stood between them, staring at Sweyn Forkbeard’s army. ‘That’s at least, what . . . ?’

  ‘Fifteen hundred, I’d guess,’ Sven said.

  Sigurd nodded beside him.

  ‘So what do we do now?’ Jolawer Scot said.

  ‘We do to him exactly what we did to you, and hope our surprise works,’ Sven said. ‘I’ll make sure the men behind us line up right.

  At that, a hint of a smile crept up on the king’s face.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  *

  The men of Stenvik moved into formation, making a square behind Jolawer, Sigurd and Sven. In the middle, standing half a head taller than most, Oskarl shouted orders and encouragements.

  ‘Notice how his limp is gone?’ Audun said.

  ‘I think he’s just having too much fun,’ Thormund said. ‘He’s genuinely happy, I think. Like a dog with a purpose. Lob him a chunk of meat once a day and that one would follow Sigurd into Hel.’

  ‘I fear that we might have to test that,’ Audun said.

  ‘Heads up,’ Mouthpiece hissed next to them.

  At the front, Sven was signalling for halt. The square stopped and hands tightened around pommels and spears.

  Up ahead stood an unmoving wall of Danes and death.

  ‘We seek an audience with Sweyn Forkbeard!’ Sigurd shouted out.

  No response.

  ‘Forkbeard! Come out!’ Sven shouted.

  Still no response.

  King Jolawer Scot stepped forwa
rd. One step, then three, then five – until he was standing well ahead of the square. He spoke softly, but his words carried on the wind. ‘King Jolawer Scot, Lord of the Svear, ruler of Uppsala and all of its lands, seeks parley with King Sweyn Forkbeard, Scourge of the Seas and ruler of Denmark.’

  Then he simply stood and waited.

  Ulfar caught Sven and Sigurd exchanging glances, but the two old warriors snapped back to guard duty remarkably quickly.

  There was a brief ripple of motion in the centre of the line and a gap opened up. A man of middle years stepped out. He was dressed simply, but there was a way about him that made the men behind him look smaller, somehow. He carried no weapons and wore little in the way of decoration. His thick brown beard was woven in two long braids.

  A woman strode behind him. She was taller than him by half a hand, but she did not need the height to look down on the world. In the dusky light the blonde hair that fell straight down to her shoulders looked almost white.

  This time Audun was prepared. As he knelt with the rest of the men he wondered whether that meant he was learning something about the world.

  ‘Speak,’ Forkbeard said.

  Undaunted by the superior force, King Jolawer Scot weighed up his counterpart. ‘There are challenges to driving a force of men through the land of the Svear,’ he began. ‘And easy to see how a few bands of angry soldiers could peel off the main force and go raiding, and there would be nothing even the strongest of kings could do about it.’

  ‘Oh, he’s good,’ Thormund muttered.

  Beside Audun, Ulfar nodded.

  In front of them, King Jolawer Scot continued, ‘So I do not come here to speak of that. I bring you news of a mutual threat that, if left unchecked, will wash over both our lands like a plague of vermin. I invite you to join forces with me.’

  Audun stole a look at Forkbeard, who was looking at Jolawer without even a flicker of interest. ‘Why should I want to “join forces” with your sad little group?’ he said, almost wearily.

  King Jolawer Scot did not rise to the bait. Instead, he raised his arm. Audun didn’t need to look to know what was happening about a hundred yards behind them.

  Led by Alfgeir Bjorne on the left and Prince Karle on the right, hundreds of men were walking very calmly out of the woods, filling the enclosed space with bodies. The fact that they were very carefully spaced out to appear twice as many mattered less than the surprise.

  When King Jolawer lowered his hand, all his men banged their shields twice and screamed ‘SVEAR!’ at the top of their lungs, as planned. The noise sent a wave of black birds flying out of nearby trees.

  There was a note of amusement in Forkbeard’s voice. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Let’s talk.’

  As one, the men of Stenvik rose. King Jolawer gestured, and Sven and Sigurd stepped up behind him. ‘These are my advisors, and they will stand beside me.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ the tall woman spat. ‘Sweyn, you’re not going alone against three men.’

  ‘Sigrid—’ Forkbeard began.

  ‘It’s nonsense,’ she said. ‘And you know it.’

  Sigurd leaned in and said something to King Jolawer Scot, who nodded sagely. ‘My advisor suggests that we could go to one side and they would be most happy to wait with your wife,’ he said.

  ‘That will do,’ Forkbeard said.

  The tall woman’s face turned sour in the blink of an eye and she stormed off to her left. ‘Fine. Do what you want,’ she hissed. Sigurd and Sven sauntered after her.

  Forkbeard sized up his opposing number and nodded to the right. ‘Come on then. Tell me about this “threat” of yours.’

  The two men walked off to the side.

  ‘What do you make of this?’ Audun said to Ulfar.

  The tall Swede watched the kings for a moment. ‘There’s two ways this could turn out,’ he said after a while. ‘Either we fight now – or we fight later.’

  ‘Just my luck,’ Thormund muttered.

  *

  Karle and Alfgeir caught up with them just as King Jolawer Scot returned. Sigurd and Sven were just a step behind.

  ‘Well?’ Sven said.

  ‘Forkbeard accepted the truce,’ the young man said. He looked like he’d aged about five years since they saw him last. ‘I told him of King Olav, the northern chieftains and the risk he posed. To my surprise, he agreed. It didn’t even take a lot of convincing.’

  ‘I bet it didn’t,’ Sven said with a smirk.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Jolawer Scot said, glancing at Alfgeir Bjorne, who looked bemused.

  ‘Before he was king and before she’d earned her nickname, Olav and Sigrid were to be wed,’ Alfgeir said. ‘Then he ran off to go a-Viking.’

  ‘Judging by what we heard,’ Sven said, ‘Sigrid the Haughty has very little good to say about King Olav Tryggvason.’

  King Jolawer Scot raised an eyebrow. ‘And none of you thought to tell me this before I talked to the man?’

  The mirth vanished from the group and suddenly the terrifying warriors looked vaguely embarrassed.

  ‘Well, we . . . um . . .’ Alfgeir searched for words that didn’t come.

  ‘Long time ago,’ Sigurd muttered to no one in particular.

  ‘Wouldn’t have done you any good,’ Sven said. ‘Might have clouded your judgement.’

  Jolawer Scot spoke next. ‘Fine. But don’t let it happen again. Next time I wish to have all of the available information.’

  The urgency of the nods and murmurs all round made Ulfar smile. If a man had to choose a king to march with, he might as well pick one who could do that to these men.

  *

  That night the two armies camped together, but kept a distance. ‘But really, though: who’s in charge? Who decides what goes where?’ Ulfar asked Thormund as he inched closer to the sad little fire they’d managed to make with the soggy firewood they’d scrounged.

  ‘Just kind of happens, doesn’t it?’ Thormund said without looking up. ‘Get enough lads together who know what they’re doing and no one needs to shout much.’ His fingers worked constantly, twirling horsehair into rope.

  The rhythmic metal scraping next to them stopped. ‘Jolawer, then Alfgeir and Sigurd, Prince Karle, Sven and Oskarl,’ Audun recited. ‘That’s who’s in charge.’ The scraping resumed as another blade hit the whetstone.

  ‘Hm,’ Ulfar said, frowning. ‘I suppose that means if I wanted to go and have a look at the other camp I’d have to find them, in that order.’

  ‘Yes,’ Audun said.

  ‘Excellent,’ Ulfar said as he got to his feet. ‘I will do that then.’

  ‘Good,’ Audun said.

  ‘Good,’ Ulfar said.

  Thormund looked up as Ulfar left the light of the fire and headed to his tent. ‘He’s not going to do that, is he?’

  ‘No, he isn’t,’ Audun agreed.

  Moments later Ulfar came out with a square board and a leather bag that rattled when he walked.

  ‘He’s just going to walk right into Forkbeard’s camp?’ Thormund said.

  ‘Yes, he is,’ Audun said.

  Thormund coiled a long string. ‘Hm. I hope he lives. I was starting to like him.’

  The two men both went back to their craft, working their hands in silence.

  *

  King Forkbeard’s camp was laid out simply, the rows of tents and lean-tos separated by broad walking paths. The tents formed a square with minimal distance from the far corners to the centre. Cook-fires had been erected in four different places, and people lingered close to the warmth and the light.

  Ulfar sauntered up to the nearest one.

  ‘I don’t suppose there’s any stew going?’ he asked.

  ‘Get your own, Swede,’ the cook snarled back. ‘This is for Danes only.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Serves me right. No Dane would
ever give anything away.’

  ‘Din’t say that,’ the cook grumbled. ‘Just said you can’t have any.’

  Ulfar paused, as if he was thinking. ‘Do you know Tafl?’

  A while later a small crowd had gathered.

  ‘You’ll have the shirt off my back next,’ Ulfar said as the cook moved his king out of trouble. ‘My position is clearly lost.’

  ‘Let’s say that, shall we? You win this one and I get your shirt. It’ll be great for cleaning out my pots. And if you win, you can have all the stew you can eat.’

  There was a cheer from Forkbeard’s men.

  ‘I wouldn’t do that,’ a woman’s voice said.

  ‘Why?’ the cook shouted into the crowd. There was some movement and a short blonde woman appeared.

  Ulfar’s heart raced but he fought to keep his face calm.

  ‘Because I know him,’ Inga said. Behind her, Ulfar could just about make out the shadow of Arnar.

  ‘Oooh! It’s all coming down on you now, Swede!’ the cook said. ‘And how do you know him, girl?’

  She looked deeply at Ulfar, searching for something in his face. When she was satisfied that it wasn’t there, she put on a coy smile.

  ‘None of your business, old man,’ she said to the cook and the crowd at large. ‘But let’s just say he knows how to take care of his pieces.’ Catcalls and whistles drowned out the sound of Ulfar’s next move.

  ‘Pah,’ the cook exclaimed, ‘he’s not as good as he thinks he is. His position is—’ The move was quick, obvious and— ‘. . . shit.’ Wrong. He’d walked straight into the trap.

  Ulfar looked him in the eye. ‘By rights I could now take your entire pot.’

  ‘No! I said all you could eat!’ the cook wailed.

  ‘Well, yes,’ Ulfar said. ‘But you didn’t specify a time, and I am pretty sure I’d get through it eventually. However, I doubt your men would love you well if you told them that you’d gambled away their stew, and I am nothing if not a kind soul. I’ll take a bowl for me and one for each of my friends here.’

  The cook huffed, and scooped the thick reindeer stew into three bowls. ‘Here you go, Swede,’ he growled.

  ‘Thank you,’ Ulfar said. ‘And for what it’s worth, you had me for a while. At least the first five moves.’ He dodged a lazy ladle swing without tipping any of the bowls and retreated. ‘See you later,’ he said and then turned to Arnar and Inga, who had lingered after the crowd dispersed. He handed them a bowl each and sat down.