Path of Gods

by Snorri Kristjansson

  Valgard’s eyes twinkled as he looked up. He liked those clouds.

  *

  It was Ormslev who found the stag. Well, maybe ‘found’ was a bit generous. Valgard winced at the snap as the troll, who could not weigh less than half an ox by now, stepped on the snow-covered antlers and broke them. They hadn’t seen a single animal in days, so this one had to have been old, Valgard reasoned. Maybe its heart had given out as it was running away from the scent of the walking six leaving it here, sprawled and half-frozen.

  Valgard looked down at the animal and tried to think back. When had he last eaten? He couldn’t remember. Did he need to eat now?

  Not really.

  ‘Move on,’ he said. The words almost caught in his throat.

  As the blue-skinned giants set off, Jori caught a root with his toe and went toppling over and crashing into Skeggi who snarled and pushed him away. Jori flailed back at him, swung off-balance, missed and connected squarely with Ormslev’s face. A meaty forearm swung back and hit Jori in the chest, sending him crashing back towards Botolf.

  The words were out of Valgard’s mouth before he could think. ‘NO!’

  All five trolls stopped on the spot.

  ‘Now stand back,’ Valgard growled, buzzing with anger. He walked towards Skeggi and looked up. ‘You. Don’t do that.’ The big troll looked at him with undisguised hatred, but did not move. Valgard turned to Ormslev. He was aware that his back was exposed, but he didn’t care. Fury was his shield. ‘And you. Don’t hit other trolls. Understood?’ The pot-bellied troll looked at him dully and shrugged. ‘Good. Now let’s get moving. I’ll tell you who to hit and when. Try to stay on your feet,’ he said to Jori.

  Before long they’d fallen into rhythm, the brief flare-up forgotten. They’re like children, Valgard thought. Massive, scary children. He thought of Harald, and how he would have fitted right in. Only these ones do exactly what I tell them to. There was a pleasant buzz in the core of him, almost like he was drunk on summer wine. So this was what real power tasted like.

  The snow didn’t bother him so much any more.

  THE SOUTH OF SWEDEN

  DECEMBER, AD 996

  White and grey, cold and wet.

  The army marched north, then north-by-northwest. Forests of snow-covered pine gave way to white fields, sinking ever deeper into winter. They marched as far as they could in the dusk, but when the dark crept over them the cry went out and the army made camp in a big field close to the woods.

  The men of Stenvik stood by their own camp and watched as Jolawer Scot’s men assembled theirs quickly and effectively.

  ‘Look at that!’ Sven said.

  ‘Told you,’ Sigurd muttered.

  ‘They’re getting better,’ Oskarl said. He thought for a moment. ‘If we can challenge King Olav to a camp-making contest, we should be fine,’ he continued.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Ulfar said. A stick of a man was striding across from Forkbeard’s camp, heading towards Jolawer’s tent.

  Sigurd and Sven shared a glance. ‘Some business happening, no doubt,’ Sven said. ‘Probably nothing to worry us.’

  Forkbeard’s messenger ducked into Jolawer’s tent. A very short while later, Alfgeir Bjorne came out with him. They shook hands and the messenger returned to the other camp.

  ‘Or maybe I’m wrong,’ Sven muttered. ‘Maybe I’m very wrong indeed.’

  Alfgeir turned towards them and walked with a purpose. ‘Good evening, men of Stenvik,’ he said. ‘Sigurd, I need a handful of yours to go help me. They need to be strong and handy with an axe.’

  ‘Of course,’ Sigurd said. ‘I’ll do what I can. Might I ask what we’re doing?’

  ‘We’re going to start a fire,’ Alfgeir said as he walked off.

  *

  The dark shapes of log stacks were surrounded by flickering flames of white-gold set to dancing by gusts of wind. Built a hundred yards apart, the pyres had been raised in a race between the two camps. Jolawer’s men had won, after a fashion, but Forkbeard’s stack was neater and better crafted. The result was that the space between the two camps was now illuminated by two burning wooden towers. Forkbeard’s men sat on one side, Jolawer’s on the other.

  Alfgeir Bjorne stepped into the light. ‘Men of the North!’ he shouted. Slowly the murmur died down and he had the eyes and ears of every man and woman around the two fires. ‘We live in dangerous times. This is an age for the brave!’ A cheer rang out. ‘And before we march to the North, to show King Olav who owns these northern lands, your kings – Forkbeard and Jolawer’ – the cheers turned to roars and water-skins full of sour, strong mead were passed around – ‘have decided that we should have a contest!’

  Sitting far enough back so that the heat from the fires was comfortable, Ulfar glanced at Audun and Thormund, then pointed at Sven and Sigurd, who were deep in conversation.

  Alfgeir Bjorne, standing between the two armies, continued, ‘The King of the Danes and Scourge of the Seas, Sweyn Forkbeard!’

  Half of the assembled fighters roared their approval as Forkbeard stepped out into the circle. Dressed in a simple warrior’s garb, he still radiated enough authority to turn thousands of men silent. ‘In the world, we are known!’ he began, with a voice that had clearly carried across a battlefield or two. ‘They fear us for we come in the night with fire and sword. They fear us for we come in the day with powerful sails and death on the edge of an axe.’ Behind him, Alfgeir and the tall messenger were commanding a handful of men, who were erecting two logs, hastily cut to resemble the shape of a man. ‘So the first test shall be – targets!’

  The crowd roared, and started chanting names. Unmoved, Forkbeard pointed to a man on his left. He had a thick red beard to go with the broad, powerful shoulders of a lumberjack, and three hand-axes in his belt. The axeman took his place twenty yards from the wooden targets. Then he looked to the crowd, spread his arms and waved to encourage applause. Forkbeard’s men were only too happy to oblige, and the axeman slowly started stepping backwards. Twenty-two – twenty-five – twenty-eight . . .

  ‘Too far,’ Thormund muttered. ‘Cocky bastard.’

  With a roar, the bearded man whipped an axe out of his belt and launched it at the target. The audience fell silent immediately as the axe sailed through the night and hit the target with an audible thunk. The point was buried in the top of the figure, where its head would be.

  The crowd erupted.

  The axeman took two quick steps back. Metal flashed in the firelight and the flying axe sunk into the wood next to its sister, with only a thumb’s width between them. The crowd roared its approval, but the axeman did not move. Instead he just stood there, soaking in the sound, rolling his shoulders and limbering up. As the crowd grew quiet, he looked at them, surveying them as a king would his lands. Then he reached for the third axe, hefted it and without warning flung it towards the wooden figure.

  Sparks flew as the blade squeezed in between the two axes already there.

  Even Jolawer’s men could not stay quiet.

  ‘Did you see that?’ Mouthpiece hissed. ‘Did you fucking see that? One in each eye, and then one in the nose! I’ve never seen anything like it!’

  ‘Bastard has a good hand on ’im,’ Thormund muttered. ‘I’m glad they’re on our side now.’

  ‘Shh,’ Ulfar said. ‘Our turn.’

  Jolawer Scot had walked into the circle. His shadow danced behind him, stretching into the darkness. In his hand he held a stick with a thickly swaddled end. ‘Give cheer to the Dane’s hand!’ he shouted.

  ‘Give cheer to the king’s voice,’ Audun muttered. ‘Where does he keep all the noise?’ Beside him, Ulfar shook his head.

  ‘We could never hope to present anyone of the Svear who could throw an axe like that. In fact, standing here, I’m not sure I’d reach halfway to the target!’ Jolawer said, grinning at the laughs from the
audience. ‘No, we Svear should probably hang our heads in shame!’

  Cries of outrage from his own men mingled with the delighted whoops of Forkbeard’s soldiers.

  ‘What the fuck is he up to?’ Mouthpiece muttered. ‘He’s giving in!’

  Ulfar saw it first. ‘No, he isn’t,’ he said.

  Enveloped in the heat of the burning pyres, Jolawer was warming to his role. ‘Yes! We should! Prince Karle – stand up!’ In the front row, Karle rose to his feet and walked into the middle. His bow was slung so casually over his shoulder that it looked a part of him. A boy of no more than thirteen winters followed him. Jolawer turned to the tall prince, dressed all in white. ‘Karle – can you do that? Hit a target that small, only the size of a man’s head, from thirty yards? With an axe? THREE TIMES?’ Half of Forkbeard’s men cheered, but the other half had gone quiet.

  ‘No, my King. I cannot,’ Karle said, just as loudly.

  ‘Well, then – you are no use to me! You are banished to the shadows!’ Confusion set in on Forkbeard’s side, and there was a smattering of boos as Jolawer Scot thrust the stick into the boy’s arms. Karle turned and walked towards the far end, close to the other pyre. When they passed, the boy stuck the stick into the fire and it flared into light.

  ‘A torch?’ Mouthpiece said.

  ‘Yes,’ Ulfar said.

  Moments later, boy and prince had disappeared into the shadows and all that could be seen was a hazy outline in a ball of firelight.

  Fifty yards beyond the first pyre the torch stopped, and the audience could just make out the boy lifting it up high to illuminate Karle.

  The movement when he unslung his bow was smooth and silent. The audience could just about make out the twang as he released the bowstring.

  They all saw the arrow, flying through the flames.

  When it sank into the forehead of the target, Jolawer Scot’s men cheered loudly and looked out into the darkness – but the torch was already moving. Another ten, another twenty yards out. They could just about make out Karle’s face as he loosened the second arrow, slicing the night air in half.

  The cheers turned to roars as it found its target, precisely next to the first one – but then they turned to shouts of dismay as the torch kept moving, further still. ‘What’s he doing?’ Audun said. ‘That’s an impossible shot.’

  Ulfar just shook his head. ‘He’s enjoying himself. That’s what he’s doing.’

  The torch stopped, and from the darkness came a roar. ‘SVEAR!’ Prince Karle shouted. Jolawer Scot’s men roared and shook their fists in response, only to be met with shouts of incredulity from Forkbeard’s men.

  ‘Prince Karle! I will allow you to return to my realm!’ Jolawer Scot shouted over the noise. Five arrows were buried in the forehead of the target, on an area no bigger than two thumbs.

  Forkbeard’s axeman walked out into the performance area and waited. When Karle emerged from the shadows, the bearded man bowed his head. Forkbeard stepped out next to them and held up his hands to quieten the crowd. ‘We must concede, Danes, that the Svear have beaten us fairly. They are very good with a target . . . that doesn’t move! It’s time for the Svear to show us their wrestling champion!’

  At this, Forkbeard’s men roared again.

  In the front row, Jolawer Scot turned to Alfgeir Bjorne, who looked to Sigurd and Sven. After a short conference Jolawer Scot took to the floor.

  ‘They’re not going to . . .’ Ulfar’s voice trailed away.

  ‘What?’ Audun said.

  ‘He was a champion back home for a decade, but then he killed a man so he swore never to—’

  Jolawer Scot’s voice rose in volume. ‘We will give you Alfgeir Bjorne!’

  ‘Oh shit,’ Ulfar said.

  Alfgeir stepped into the centre, between the fires. Already there was something different about him. The years were dropping off the old man and revealing something quite terrifying. In the front row, Sven and Sigurd were grinning like boys sharing a joke. Alfgeir turned to Jolawer Scot’s men. ‘It’s hot down here!’ he roared. He peeled off his furs and his shirt and there was an audible, indrawn breath in the audience. The man in the light was built like a prize bull, with a layer of fat covering bunched-up muscle and long, strong arms.

  ‘This is our champion, King Forkbeard,’ Jolawer Scot said. ‘Alfgeir Bjorne, reigning wrestling champion of Uppsala, Gotland and nearby areas. Who have you got?’

  Forkbeard looked over the crowd, but no one moved.

  ‘Will the Jutes rise to the challenge?’ he shouted.

  ‘Against that?’ someone shouted from the crowd, to ripples of laughter.

  The king kept calm. ‘Will the Fynsmen step up?’

  A grey-haired chieftain rose, near the back. ‘I have no one who can compete with Alfgeir Bjorne, my king. His name alone weighs more than half my men.’

  ‘Well,’ Forkbeard said. ‘If that is how it is, then I suspect we’ll just have to yield—’ Under a rising chorus of boos, the gangly messenger strode up to him in the centre and whispered something in his ear. The king raised his arm and motioned for quiet.

  ‘We have a challenger!’ he said.

  A rousing cheer went up on the side of the Danes. Over on the side of the Svear, Audun leaned over to Ulfar. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Ulfar said. They both looked at Thormund, whose brow was knotted in concentration. ‘I heard some stories,’ he muttered, ‘but I don’t think . . .’ His voice trailed off as Forkbeard left the circle.

  ‘Where is the brave soul?’ Sven shouted.

  The tall, gangly messenger turned towards the Svear and bowed. The noise rolled over him in waves as grown, dangerous men almost cried laughing.

  To the side, Alfgeir Bjorne clapped his hands loudly. ‘Are you going to face me, boy?’ he roared.

  The messenger answered by shaking out of his shirt. His skin was so pale it almost shone.

  ‘Look at ’im! All skin and bones and no feathers! He’s a chicken!’ A chorus of clucking followed the voice from Jolawer’s camp.

  Then the messenger started to move.

  ‘Oh shit,’ Ulfar muttered.

  ‘What?’ Mouthpiece hissed.

  ‘This is not good. This is not good at all,’ Ulfar said, his eyes trained on the two men.

  Alfgeir Bjorne crouched down into a perfect wrestler’s stance, looking for all the world like he’d be the one better off in a collision with an ox. ‘Come on, then!’ he roared.

  Forkbeard’s messenger stepped closer, tentatively.

  ‘Look,’ Ulfar said, pointing to Forkbeard’s men. In the massed ranks of the Danes, eyes glittered with anticipation.

  ‘They’re not afraid,’ Audun said. ‘None of them.’

  At that moment, without warning, Alfgeir launched himself at the skinny messenger, huge arms spread wide like a killing beast swooping down. Nothing could escape that, surely? The fight, if you could call it that, would be over and he’d crush the messenger—

  —who was no longer there. Somehow the man had danced out of Alfgeir’s grasp and was now behind him.

  The big Swede growled, turned around with surprising speed and launched himself at his opponent, and this time, now they knew what to look for, they could actually see the tall man moving, spinning out of the way, grabbing Alfgeir’s outstretched hand and twisting and suddenly Alfgeir was crashing to the floor, brought down by his own force.

  The air went out of all of King Jolawer’s men at the same time.

  The messenger took three steps back and nodded at his prone opponent. ‘Yield?’ he said, loud and clear.

  ‘Like the seven tits of Hel I will,’ Alfgeir growled, clambering to his feet.

  In the front row, Sven turned to Sigurd with real concern in his eyes. Ulfar could make out the words break his neck and a bit tricky.

&nb
sp; This time Alfgeir didn’t rush but circled the messenger. ‘You’re fast, boy,’ he rumbled, ‘and clever. I like that: it’s fun. It’s different. But I’ve killed faster and smarter men.’

  The messenger just smiled, and reached in. Alfgeir slapped away his hand, but, lightning-fast, the messenger’s other hand had latched on to his forearm and suddenly the gangly man had Alfgeir’s arm over his shoulder and was pushing up as the old wrestler lost his balance, then moving under the falling man and pushing, pushing, until Alfgeir’s own weight carried him over his crouching opponent and up in the air.

  When he landed this time he didn’t get up.

  ‘I’m having no part of that man, even with any kind of weapon,’ Ulfar stated, and around him, Audun, Thormund and Mouthpiece nodded.

  Forkbeard stepped into the ring and checked Alfgeir, but the old wrestler managed to raise his hand, then clambered to his feet, wincing. When he’d risen he turned to the Danes. ‘I have never in my whole life been beaten like that, especially by a twig of a boy. Hail the champion!’ He made his way over to the skinny man and clasped his hand in a warrior’s grip.

  The Danes screamed in approval, chanting, ‘Thorkell! Thorkell!’

  ‘Now that means the games are even,’ Forkbeard announced. ‘Your challenge,’ he said, bowing down to Jolawer Scot.

  The young king rose and met Forkbeard between the burning pyres. ‘The Swedes have bested you at targets.’ A cheer from his men. ‘But you’ve defeated us at wrestling.’ A louder cheer from the Danes. ‘These are all heroic efforts, and I believe they deserve telling – in verse!’

  All around Audun and Ulfar, men started clanging anything they could get their hands on together, slowly at first, then faster and faster.

  This clearly pleased Forkbeard. He waited until the noise had reached a peak, then held up his hand and immediately every man in the clearing stopped. ‘If the game is verse, there can be only one fair pairing. In the soft courts of the South and the West, the fat kings sit on cushions,’ he said, his voice rising, ‘and have painted lily-boys sing them songs. In the North I will hear of no king who is not a skald! And so I challenge you, Jolawer Scot, boy-king of the Swedes!’