‘So. You’re here,’ he said.
‘So are you,’ Inga said. Arnar sat next to her, frowning deeply. ‘What happened back in the marshes?’
Ulfar looked at both of them in turn. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, ‘but if what he said was true, Loki possessed Goran when he’d been fatally wounded, and then came to me to convince me to lead an army against Jolawer.’
This time they both frowned.
‘Do you expect us to believe that?’ Arnar rumbled.
‘I don’t know if I believe it,’ Ulfar said, sighing. ‘But Audun – my Norse friend – is in the same boat. He’s over in Jolawer’s camp.’
‘Humph,’ Arnar said, but he didn’t move away.
‘How did you come to be here, then?’ Ulfar chanced.
‘We ran into Forkbeard’s men soon enough after leaving you,’ Inga said. ‘They took us in. Arnar fights, I mend things.’ She scraped up the last of the stew, then put her spoon down. ‘I really don’t know what to think about you. On the one hand I saw you murder a friend. On the other, Lilia loved you truly. I guess we’ll find out soon enough what you are. See you around, Ulfar.’ With that she got up and left, Arnar following soon behind her.
Ulfar watched them leave. ‘That went well,’ he muttered. Then he finished the stew and licked the spoon clean. Around him, snow fell gently on the rows of tents. Ulfar didn’t notice the tall, hooded figure almost gliding through the camp; he didn’t notice how Sweyn Forkbeard’s men found urgent reasons to be somewhere else.
Suddenly a soft voice behind him asked, ‘Who are you?’
Ulfar spun around, his hand unconsciously reaching for the hilt of his sword.
‘Drawing iron in here would be a bad idea,’ the figure said, with a hint of a smile to the voice. She was a woman, clad head to toe in light blue, with a fur-lined hood, and almost Ulfar’s height.
He drew a sharp breath and forced the hand away from the blade.
‘You are not one of ours,’ she said.
When he finally identified the voice, Ulfar felt the hairs on the back of his hands start to rise. ‘No, your Majesty,’ he said.
The woman drew back her hood and blonde hair fell over her shoulders. Her pale skin seemed to shimmer in the cold. She smiled at him, and Ulfar fought the urge to retreat.
‘Please. Call me Sigrid.’
THE FAR NORTH
DECEMBER, AD 996
Grey skies. The black trunks of snow-covered trees. Jagged mountain ridges in the distance. Valgard scoured the horizon for any movement at all, but there was nothing alive for miles around, save for him and his fellow travellers. The first time he’d seen the fleeing animals, the day they’d set off from Egill Jotun’s valley, he had been shocked. Now he would have been more surprised to see any animals at all.
After Loki had told him where to find the runes, Botolf Arnarson had been a good one to try them on – he’d been dying anyway. The results had been, for want of a better word, eye-opening. The others had been stunned into a fearful silence, which had allowed him to keep reading the old runes out loud, and with every pass the words had fit better in his mouth, sounded better coming out. He’d still lost a few to mispronunciations and skipped words; the results of that had not been pleasant.
He considered his travelling companions. Botolf had already started growing and was easily a head and a half taller than him now. Ormslev just seemed to firm up, somehow; he was as close as they’d get to a walking wall. Skeggi’s skin had turned white as the snow, then taken on the bluish tinge of a frozen lake. A strong man to start with, he now looked like he could wrestle a bear and win. Skeggi’s two young toughs, Ormar and Jori, who had survived the caves, were also growing bigger, broader and taller by the day. And they all did what he told them – no potions, no tricks, just command. He didn’t understand it yet, but it was working.
Valgard winced as his back reminded him just how much he’d walked. He had considered using the runes on himself, but something made him hold back. He’d heard the echo of a whispered voice in the back of his mind, the voice he’d heard since very early on. The voice that dripped with contempt at the sight of the big, strong raider-boys showing off, laughing at him for being a cripple. The voice that had kept whispering, saying he was different from the others. Better. ‘I’m special,’ he said, smiling to himself. The others heard him but didn’t speak. They hadn’t, in fact, for a while. They spoke when spoken to, but speech didn’t seem to be high on their list of needs. ‘Let’s move,’ Valgard said.
They continued walking south, back the way they’d come a long, long time ago, towards Trondheim.
Chapter 4
JOLAWER’S CAMP, SOUTH OF SWEDEN
DECEMBER, AD 996
Audun applied the final touches to the last blade.
‘Your man has been gone a while now,’ Thormund said.
‘He’ll be fine,’ Audun said. ‘What could happen to him, anyway?’
Thormund did not reply but glanced off to Audun’s right.
Audun looked up. In front of him stood a rather haggard young man who wore his years badly next to a young blonde girl with hard eyes and a mean mouth. There was a distinct similarity to their features. Cousins, he thought, or something like that, anyway.
‘Is Ulfar here?’ the young man asked.
‘Good evening to you too,’ Audun said, and received a mute stare in return. ‘No, Ulfar is not here,’ he continued.
‘Well,’ the boy said, and when the girl elbowed him none-too-subtly in the ribs, added, ‘Tell him that – that Greta and Ivar wish to see him. To apologise.’
‘I will do that,’ Audun said.
Without a word, the pair turned and walked away.
When they were out of earshot, Thormund turned to the darkness behind them. ‘You can come out now,’ he said.
Ulfar walked into the circle of firelight. ‘Apologise. Don’t believe it for a moment. But consider me told. We’ll see what’s what in daylight.’
‘They’re quite a pair, them two,’ Thormund said.
‘They are,’ Ulfar said. ‘Sometimes I think she’s more dangerous than he is.’
‘Women can be very dangerous indeed,’ Thormund said.
‘They can,’ Ulfar said. ‘And on that subject . . .’
‘Oh – now what?’ Audun said.
The stars twinkled up above as the lanky man sat down by the fire. ‘I think we may have a little bit of a problem,’ Ulfar said.
*
Prince Karle clambered out of his tent just in time to catch the very first rays of weak sunlight creeping over the horizon. He stretched, grimacing all the while, and rolled his shoulders. ‘Damn that, damn all of this and damn all of you,’ he muttered to no one in particular.
He looked around at the camp gradually waking up around him. Alfgeir Bjorne was already stomping around the tents, growling and threatening. If the big man noticed that Karle wasn’t where he said he’d be the night before, he didn’t say. ‘Bah – he can do the morning rounds.’ He pulled his cloak tight around his shoulders to fend off the morning chill. ‘Galti!’ he snapped.
Within moments, Galti’s angular form was close enough for conversation. ‘Yes, my Prince?’
‘Walk with me. I’m bored. Tell me what the men are saying,’ Karle said as he stepped onto a path between the tents.
‘Well,’ Galti said. ‘Ehm. Well. I think – I think the men are content, more or less.’
‘Galti,’ Karle said, a note of warning in his voice, ‘we talked about this. How many people are listening?’
‘None, my Lord.’
‘And what do you say then?’
‘Everything, my Lord.’
‘So what are the men saying?’
‘They’re tired and cold,’ Galti offered.
Karle shrugged. ‘Better, but that’s the dea
l, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘Food?’
‘Stew and roots,’ Galti said. ‘The old Stenvik bastards always seem to have extra. The men love them for it.’
Karle looked to the skies, took a deep breath and eased his clenched fist open. ‘I suppose,’ he said, ‘that that is a good thing.’
‘Only if you allow them to do it,’ Galti said, a glint in his eye.
‘What?’ Karle said.
Galti smiled. ‘You could suggest to Jolawer that all food should be shared equally, by his decree. That way the men of Stenvik cannot argue and cannot use their surplus to buy the men’s affections, everyone loves Jolawer and you look good.’
Karle looked at Galti. ‘That’s . . . a very good idea,’ he said. ‘What’s got into you?’
‘I’ve been watching you lead,’ Galti said. ‘It’s . . . inspiring.’
Karle couldn’t help but grin. ‘I’m impressed. Now leave. I’ll have to find some humility to approach his baby-faced Majesty.’
‘As you wish,’ Galti said, walking away. Karle watched him pick his way towards the camp. When his assistant was halfway there he stopped, looked back and scratched his head. Karle waved him on, and the angular young man turned again, heading in the direction of Jolawer’s tent.
‘Weakling,’ Karle spat. ‘One good idea and he thinks he can speak to me like an equal.’ He’d have to watch the boy, see if his new-found confidence and flair for mischief was there to stay. Karle walked on, further away from the camp, dropping the sneer and trying on a bashful face. ‘Your Majesty, it occurred to me . . . no. What do you think about . . .’ He walked further into the forest, looking for game and muttering deference, trying to get used to the taste.
A while after he’d spoken to Galti he saw a big black fox in the forest, but his arrow missed its mark and the fox was gone.
*
‘Oh, you absolute cock,’ Sven said, pulling his herb-pouch shut, then grabbing a nearby branch and rising to his feet with some difficulty.
Behind him, Ulfar shuffled nervously. ‘I didn’t know what to do,’ he said. ‘She’s very . . .’
‘Terrifying?’ Sven offered. They could just hear the sound of the camp in the distance. Further into the woods the hunters were doing their work and the sounds of animals dying regularly rang through the trees.
‘Yes,’ Ulfar muttered. ‘She’s . . .’
‘One of the most dangerous people you’ll ever meet and no mistake,’ Sven said. ‘Our boy Jolawer has done well diverting Forkbeard, who has never and will never be stopped. And for all of his power, old Hair-face does what she tells him to.’
‘He didn’t when we met him,’ Ulfar said.
‘Oh, but that’s not the only place a husband and wife negotiate,’ Sven said, a twinkle in his eye. ‘She’ll run him from pillar to post if she feels like it. If he looks like he is in command, it is because she allows him to be.’
Ulfar frowned. ‘Why does he?’
‘Because she’s captured his heart,’ Sven said, ‘with silk and steel. Now tell me what happened.’
‘She came up to me,’ Ulfar said. ‘She surprised me – I almost pulled a blade on her.’
‘Hah!’ Sven said. ‘You’d be fantastically dead if you had – little Canute would have gutted you, if no one else.’
‘Canute?’ Ulfar said.
‘Her son. They say he’s theirs, but I think she birthed him on the world by herself out of spite. They left him at home, watched over by a great wyrm. He’s only small now, but he’ll be a proper menace when he grows up, you mark my words.’
‘Well, she made me feel like I was a pig at a market. She looked me up and down. I had to check if my clothes were still on.’
‘Maybe she was just looking for a little fun,’ Sven said. He bent down again and started clawing with bony fingers at the dirt by the roots of the pine. ‘So were they?’ he added.
‘What?’
‘Your clothes,’ Sven said.
‘Yes,’ Ulfar said tersely. ‘We were outside. It was cold, okay? I don’t run around like I used to. But she looked at me like she was wondering whether I’d be . . . useful. I get the feeling that I might be her midnight snack in a couple of days’ time.’
‘Hah,’ Sven snorted, crouched on the ground. ‘That’s my Sigrid, all right.’
‘How do you know her?’ Ulfar said.
‘Oh, back in the day,’ Sven said, waving a hand at nothing in particular. ‘We all knew each other. The young royals wanted to go and claim glory, and for that it made sense to hire the hardest crew around. Which was us,’ he added with a hint of pride in his voice.
‘You, Sigurd, Skargrim . . .’
‘Old Thormund as well, whiny little bitch that he was,’ Sven said. ‘And there were others, too. Most of them are dead now. Being hard doesn’t make you immortal, sadly.’
Ulfar swallowed. ‘There’s . . . there’s something I need to tell you,’ he said.
Sven moved towards the next tree and crouched down, again sweeping away snow and rooting around in the damp earth. ‘Apart from you almost stumbling into Sigrid’s arms? This morning round is turning out to be quite eventful,’ he said over his shoulder.
Ulfar followed at a distance. ‘We – me and Audun – think King Olav may not be the most dangerous thing in the North.’
Sven’s hands slowed down, then stopped. For a moment the old man didn’t move. ‘What do you mean?’ he said quietly.
Ulfar was sweating, despite the cold. This was it. ‘We think Valgard may be stirring up some stuff.’ Silence. ‘And we fear the gods might be helping him. Well, one god.’
‘Which one?’
‘Loki,’ Ulfar whispered.
‘Oh fuck,’ Sven said. Slowly, his hands started moving again, rooting mechanically through the dirt, pulling up fledgling green shoots.
Ulfar hovered behind him, waiting for more. ‘Is that all you have to say?’ he eventually stammered.
‘What – do you want more swearing?’ Sven said.
‘No – I, um—’
Sven still didn’t look at Ulfar. ‘If you’re wrong, it doesn’t matter. If you’re right and that weak boy I took on and saved from certain death many years back – my son - has turned into something else, then that’ll need to be dealt with. And regardless of whether you’re wrong or right, everything suggests that we’re going to need more herbs for poultices. So if I were you I’d stop talking and get digging.’
Ulfar’s words caught in his mouth.
Sven turned and looked up at him. His voice was cracked around the edges, but surprisingly gentle. ‘Now would be as good a time as any,’ he said.
Within moments, Ulfar was down on his knees and rooting around under Sven’s direction.
Later, when they returned, the camp had been packed up and only the cook-pots remained, surrounded by cold, hungry people awaiting their turn.
‘Something’s different,’ Sven said under his breath.
‘What?’
‘I suspect we’re about to find out.’
They marched to the Stenvik camp, only to be met by a fuming Oskarl. ‘They took our food,’ the big Eastman grumbled.
‘Who did?’ Sven said.
‘Alfgeir. Said the king had decided all food should be shared equally. But we were sharing plenty,’ Oskarl said. ‘Maybe we should share something else.’ He cracked his knuckles absent-mindedly.
Sven’s grin was cold and unpleasant. ‘That’s not old Alfgeir’s decision, and your type of sharing won’t be necessary. We will all get what we deserve in the end.’ Around them, pots clanged as the armies of Jolawer Scot and King Forkbeard fed for the march.
THE FAR NORTH
DECEMBER, AD 996
Night fell. The whipping wind was a freezing fire on his face, drying out his eyes and cracking his lips. Valgard could taste s
alt and water, blood and iron: the flavour of frost. Of course they didn’t feel it. His army. His men – could he even call them men any more? He glanced at Botolf, striding through the snow like a plough horse. There was something relentless about him, something indomitable: the river in spring and the wind in autumn. He was walking towards Trondheim and when he got there he’d destroy everything.
Valgard smiled. That would do nicely. He turned to Skeggi. ‘What is it like, in there?’
‘In where?’ the big troll rumbled.
‘Inside you, I guess,’ Valgard said. He had briefly considered having one of the big brutes carry him, but in the end he’d decided there was something fundamentally undignified about that. He was no one’s potato sack.
Skeggi wrestled with the question. ‘Me?’ he said. ‘I do not understand.’
‘I suppose something has to give way,’ Valgard mused. ‘What do you remember?’
‘Cold,’ Skeggi said. ‘The cold that lives in the Halls of Hel. A cold embrace, a cold pain, a cold suffering.’
‘Mm,’ Valgard said. His own dull and predictable aches suddenly felt much more manageable. ‘And nothing else?’
‘Your voice,’ the troll muttered. He sounded even less happy about that than the cold.
‘That’s right,’ Valgard said, ‘my voice. And what did I tell you to do?’
‘Go to Trondheim. Kill King Olav,’ the trolls around him chanted in unison, their voices almost too deep for hearing.
‘Well done. Now keep going,’ Valgard said. ‘I worry that you’ll scare away any chance of a decent conversation.’ He scanned the wasteland around them. The snow coated everything in the same bluish-white sheen. Trees in the distance looked like dark scratches through cloth. Far away he could see clouds; he knew they would be over the sea. They would be louring over Trondheim. They would be sitting on top of King Olav, who’d allowed others to insult and sneer at him, who’d been all too happy to listen to every single word of slobbering praise and who would, with his wild-eyed fervour, definitely make an awful king.
Path of Gods Page 6