Path of Gods

by Snorri Kristjansson

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Um . . . there is one more thing I need to tell you,’ Hjalti said, clenching his fists.

  ‘What’s that?’ King Olav said, his eyes trained on Storrek and the grey-haired man.

  ‘Today, just after Udal came in, there was a . . . well, something happened with three of the dogs.’ The story tumbled out of him. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. The wind changed and it was like they smelled something. They fell on each other, snarling and biting – no provocation, nothing. I know those dogs, too. They got on just fine yesterday, and the day before that.’

  ‘Anyone near them? Anyone hurt?’

  ‘No – and the moment they started, no one wanted to go anywhere close.’

  ‘And the dogs?’

  ‘Well, here’s the thing: they ripped each other apart! The big one, the black Dane, was the last one standing, but when the others were dead he started biting and tearing at his own flesh until he bled to death. We couldn’t believe it.’

  ‘Hm.’ The king’s gaze strayed to the rafters. ‘That’s unusual. Have you—?’ Shouts from the far end cut him off and his head snapped back to search for the source of the noise.

  ‘What the—?’ Hjalti exclaimed.

  ‘Sigthor!’ King Olav shouted, but to no avail. At the far end of the hall a great block of a man with a bushy beard and long, thick blond hair had risen. The man he’d smashed to the floor with his mug was writhing in agony beneath Sigthor’s feet. The big man clambered up onto the table.

  ‘HE HAS RISEN!’ he bellowed.

  ‘Come on then!’ one of Storrek’s men shouted back from the wrestling ring. His shirt was off and clumsily carved runes decorated his muscled torso.

  Sigthor roared and jumped off the table. Mysteriously, even in the packed hall, space seemed to appear around him. ‘HE COMES!’ he said. ‘HE COMES FOR YOU!’

  ‘Well, he should get on with it,’ the wrestler shouted back to gales of laughter from the men.

  Olav’s legs had started moving before he had even quite decided what was happening. ‘Go and get the others,’ he growled at Hjalti before grabbing his mailed gauntlets off the table and pushing his way through the crowd.

  ‘Come on then!’ the wrestler shouted. He was out of sight now that King Olav was down on the ground. ‘Come on, you big fu—’ The crowd recoiled as one at the wet crunch, then shouts of outrage rang out in the hall.

  ‘Weapon!’

  ‘Rule-breaker!’

  ‘Watch out!’

  The crowd parted and suddenly Olav found himself face to face with Sigthor, who was coated in the blood of the wrestler. The man’s corpse lay on the ground, discarded like a broken toy. The head was split open, the face a bloody mess.

  Sigthor, clutching a wedge of firewood, looked down at Olav. ‘He’s coming,’ he said, softly this time, and a chill ran up the king’s spine.

  ‘Who’s coming?’ he said, pulling on his mail gloves, but Sigthor just smiled. ‘WHO IS COMING?’ the king roared, and out of the corner of his eye he saw some of his oldest soldiers take one look at his mailed fists and take another half-step back.

  ‘They’ll see,’ the big man said, ‘they’ll see! They’ll pay for judging him – but he will need my help. He’ll need all our help.’

  Olav felt the ranks close behind him. With a grunt of effort, Sigthor swung at the king, who ducked and twisted, then threw a hard punch that forced a wet cough out of the raider.

  A primal roar ripped through the hall and Sigthor turned, but he was too slow; the king had found his balance again and this time when he swung, he connected squarely with his opponent’s jaw. He felt the chains on his gloves dig into flesh; the skin on his knuckles split as the bones in Sigthor’s face shattered and the raider crumpled before him.

  Gritting his teeth to avoid shaking the hurt out of his hand, he turned to the assembled men. ‘Clean this up,’ he said, forcing calm into his voice. He found Hjalti’s eye and walked towards him. ‘Slit his throat and feed him to whatever dogs we have left,’ he said, loud enough for every man in the circle to hear. When he was closer, close enough not to be overheard, he added, ‘And bring me ice and bandages for my hand. I’ll be in the back room.’

  On the way back he walked past the three chieftains, standing together a safe distance from the wrestling ring. He looked them up and down, speaking before they had the chance. ‘Storrek, your man’s life will be paid in full. To all of you – join me in the back room, will you? The men will be quiet out here for a while.’

  As he turned away, he could feel their eyes on his back.

  *

  ‘And then?’ Einar’s eyes were wide open despite the early hour. He’d been out since dawn and had brought down an elk and two deer. The rest of the hunting party had gone off to eat, but Hjalti had helped them drag the carcases the last bit of the way and now they stood together up against the wall of the pantry, watching a thick-armed butcher carve up the meat.

  ‘He just sat there, hand on the ice block, listening to them,’ Hjalti said. ‘He dropped in a word now and then, to lift their stories, make them feel good about themselves,’ he added. ‘His hand must have been killing him. It was swollen purple and black, and he had ring marks all over his fingers.’

  Einar made the sign of the cross. ‘I’m just glad he’s on our side,’ he said.

  Hjalti laughed. ‘Hah! Yes, we’re lucky there. Really, really lucky.’ The smell of blood was getting too strong to ignore.

  ‘I’m off,’ Einar said. ‘If the dogs stay away, then so should we. Are we still going riding with the king?’

  ‘You speak the truth,’ Hjalti said. ‘And yes, we are. We’re leaving right now. Don’t make a face. You’ll get to ride next to the king. It’ll be a good trip.’ He watched the tall youth roll his eyes, leave and turn towards the longhouse before hurrying out himself and checking to both sides before heading in the other direction.

  *

  Heimir Udalsson cracked his knuckles. ‘This hut is tiny,’ he said. ‘They’ve put us in a fucking dead man’s box.’ He cracked his knuckles again.

  ‘Stop that,’ his father growled. The boy glared at him, but stopped and all but disappeared under his furs. ‘So. Tell me one more time.’

  The grey-haired man by the doorway took a half-step into the house. ‘My chieftain—’

  ‘Gunnthor,’ Udal said.

  ‘. . . Gunnthor, yes, he says he was told by Storrek that they were ready to move. Gunnthor wanted you to know this because while he trusts Storrek Jarl—’

  ‘He fucking shouldn’t,’ Udal snapped.

  ‘—ahem, fully, he thinks we would all benefit if you were on our side, with your men. King Olav is cocky; he doesn’t post that many in the way of guards. With eight to ten men it’s easy, but it would be harder with four to five.’

  ‘And this advantage you say you have?’

  ‘He doesn’t expect us,’ the grey-haired man said. ‘And we can make sure he’s alone.’

  ‘How can you do that?’

  The old advisor smiled. ‘We have our ways.’

  ‘Bloody Southerners,’ Udal muttered. ‘Wouldn’t know a straight answer if it stuck you in the eye.’

  The grey-haired man smiled again. ‘Does that mean you’re ready?’

  Udal spat and shrugged. ‘I’ll think about it. Until midday.’

  ‘That will do,’ the grey-haired man said as he turned towards the door. He cast another glance at the assembled men. ‘That will do. If you’re in, come to the back entrance at midday, ready to do the work. We’ll be inside.’

  When the door closed on the grey-haired man, Heimir’s nose reappeared above the furs. ‘Can I come?’

  ‘Shut up,’ Udal snapped. ‘No one’s said we’re going.’

  His three kinsmen shared a glance.

  ‘But we are, thoug
h?’ Heimir said.

  Udal did not reply.

  Around and behind him his men started preparing their weapons.

  THE FAR NORTH

  DECEMBER, AD 996

  The voice whispered to Valgard, insinuated its way into his mind like smoke from a secret fire. The cold in his feet faded from memory and he was soaring, hunting.

  Call him

  Call him to you, reach out to him with your mind

  Like that. Yes

  He will do your bidding

  He will obey as long as you can hold your thoughts

  Yellow eyes. Hot breath. Fangs.

  Wolf.

  TRONDHEIM, NORTH NORWAY

  DECEMBER, AD 996

  ‘There’s no one here,’ Heimir muttered. ‘They must all be out hunting or something.’

  Udal Jarl looked around for the sixth time since they’d stepped out of their hut. The shovelled paths were empty and Trondheim felt lifeless. Above, the sun was a dull orb of light behind a thick layer of milky-white cloud.

  ‘Don’t fucking chatter,’ he hissed. ‘We’ve got work to do. Remember, it was like this when we got here too, and the bastard was just sitting in his longhouse, waiting for us.’ They picked a path that took them around the backs of a long row of houses and suddenly the great hall loomed over them. ‘There,’ Udal said. ‘Back door.’ A modest door was set into the wall, almost tucked in beside a beam half again as thick as a man. Udal looked at his men. ‘Here we go.’

  The door swung open without a sound and the five men stepped into the great hall.

  ‘Look!’ Heimir whispered. On the dais, King Olav’s chair was overturned, and someone had tipped over three long tables and more chairs at the far wall. A scream broke the silence, and sounds of clashing blades carried from the back room.

  ‘Quick!’ Udal said, running towards the noise, his men following at a sprint, blades drawn. ‘He’s mine, the fucker!’ He leapt up onto the platform, strode to the back room door, gave it a good solid kick and stepped in.

  He didn’t see the spears hurtling towards his men from the shadows.

  He didn’t see the warriors rising from behind the overturned tables in the great hall and advancing from the sides.

  He did see Storrek Jarl standing calmly at the back of King Olav’s back room, holding two swords. The fat man looked him square in the eye, smacked the blades together twice and shrieked, ‘Help me!’ in an exaggerated voice.

  ‘Father . . .’ Heimir staggered into the room as screams echoed throughout the hall, ‘they’re behind us – they were waiting – it’s . . .’ Heimir’s voice grew faint, and he coughed up blood as he fell to the floor.

  Udal stared at his dying son, then at Storrek. ‘You—’

  The hand-axe took Udal in the back of the head, split his skull and ended his life. Gunnthor stepped out from the shadow behind the door. ‘It was his time,’ he said, kneeling down and pulling hard to dislodge the axe.

  ‘It was indeed,’ Storrek said. Outside the hall, the sound of slaughter was dying down. ‘And the best thing is that the cocky little bastard king will think he paid for this – for my loyalty – with a couple of sacks of grain.’

  ‘Which suits us just fine,’ Gunnthor said. ‘And as we agreed, we split Udal’s lands down the middle. Now that the king thinks we’re obedient we’ll get all the time we need to handle him by ourselves.’

  ‘It’s good to be working with an old hand,’ Storrek said, grinning. ‘You’re making this look easy.’

  They left King Olav’s back room together.

  OUTSIDE TRONDHEIM, NORTH NORWAY

  DECEMBER, AD 996

  The crisp snow crunched under the hooves of eight horses. King Olav rode up front with Hjalti to his right and Einar to his left. Five men, hand-picked by the king, rode behind them.

  ‘Is that the last one?’ the king asked Hjalti.

  ‘Last one, yes,’ Hjalti replied. ‘We’ve delivered all the sacks we had. A good day’s work.’

  ‘Good,’ Einar said. ‘It’ll be good to get to some food and some warmth.’ Hjalti scowled at him, but Einar shrugged. ‘What? I can stay out here all day and all night if the king commands, but now my feet are wet and my arse is sore and there is no harm in wishing to be indoors for a spell.’

  Hjalti snorted and they rode on without speaking, the rhythmic crunch of frozen snow rocking them into a cold half-sleep until suddenly King Olav’s mare reared its head and whinnied in alarm, her nostrils flaring.

  ‘Easy, girl. Easy,’ the king whispered, but to no avail; the mare started stamping and dancing to the side, all the while twisting to get out of the snow, out of the reins, out of her skin. Within moments the other horses had caught whatever it was that King Olav’s horse had sensed.

  ‘WOLF!’ Einar’s voice rang out loud and clear over the protesting horses and King Olav looked up from struggling with the reins and sure enough, there it was, a hundred yards up ahead: grey, with bluish-white flecks in its fur. Narrowing, yellow eyes seemed to home in on the king.

  Time slowed down for King Olav as the horse, frantic with fear, bucked under him. He adjusted his weight, but the horse kept tossing and kicking, all the while pulling at the reins. When drops of blood from the animal’s mouth landed in the snow he did the only thing he could do: he stood in the saddle, bunched up the reins and threw them to Hjalti, then swung his leg over and jumped off, landing in the knee-deep snow in front of the men and the panicking horses.

  The wolf saw him and kicked off, pushing itself through the white powder. It is everything, the king thought: the wolf is the world, bearing down on me with teeth and eyes and darkness in its jaws.

  Though he was struggling to control the rampaging horses, Hjalti still couldn’t stop staring at the king, who just . . . stood there, in the path of the onrushing wolf.

  ‘Einar!’ He turned to the youth, who was struggling to keep himself in the saddle while getting his bow ready.

  Ten yards.

  ‘I can’t!’ Einar shouted back.

  The horses reared wildly as the scent of the wolf hit them full-blast.

  Five yards.

  The wolf leaped and the king swung his sword, but the weight of the animal bowled him over, sending his sword spinning to the ground. The wolf, furious, went straight for the king’s throat, and only King Olav’s mailed glove saved him as slavering jaws clamped down on the armoured hand. The beast growled as it pulled and worried at the metal. The king screamed as he fumbled for his sword. The wild-eyed animal let go of the metal glove and lunged for the king’s face—

  —and suddenly the head was pulled to the side, hard, like someone had yanked on a dog’s leash, and blood was gushing over Olav’s eyes from the hole that the arrow had punched in its throat. The noise of scrambling men reached him.

  ‘The king!’

  ‘Speak, your Majesty! Speak!’

  A push, and he was free of the animal. ‘I’m fine,’ he growled. ‘I’m fine.’

  Einar Tambarskelf stood beside the skittish horses, breathing heavily and holding his bow, another arrow already nocked. ‘That’s the biggest bastard wolf I’ve ever seen,’ he panted.

  Olav was reaching for his sword when one of the riders shouted, ‘Beware!’ and he whirled around and watched in astonishment as the wolf clambered to its feet, growling.

  This time, the king did not miss.

  Hot, dark blood sprayed the snow and the wolf’s head fell away from its body.

  ‘Look!’ Hjalti said, pointing to the exposed neck wound.

  The men came closer – cautiously, still – to see what he was pointing at.

  A strange bluish tinge ran through the flesh of the wolf.

  ‘It’s dead. Move on,’ King Olav snapped.

  The men mounted up only too quickly and were soon back on track. Trondheim’s hou
ses were about the size of a thumb when they saw the boy.

  ‘The king! The king returns!’ he shouted, turning and sprinting towards the town.

  ‘Home at last,’ Hjalti said. ‘It’ll be good to get back to the fire and the pots, eh?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Einar said. ‘Shouldn’t you be praising the snow? Out riding in nature? Taking the word of the White Christ to the people?’

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ Hjalti said.

  ‘Both of you,’ Olav snapped, ‘hush up. Something’s wrong.’

  A group of men was assembling rapidly in the open space before Hakon Jarl’s great hall. Gunnthor Jarl was there, looking concerned, and flanked by his two grey-haired men, as was Storrek Jarl. Their numbers swelled as the king’s party drew closer – even Hakon Jarl ventured outside.

  As he got close enough, Olav pulled on the reins. ‘What’s going on?’ he said.

  ‘We’ve had great troubles in your absence, your Majesty,’ Gunnthor said.

  ‘Where’s Udal?’

  Gunnthor wrung his hands. ‘Ah – see, the—’

  ‘The bastard was going to kill you,’ Storrek Jarl snapped. ‘Him and his rat-faced shit-for-brains son were going to wait in your back room and cut your throat.’

  ‘Is this true?’ King Olav scanned the faces before him. They were familiar, but not known. Suddenly he missed Finn’s quiet, stolid presence. He’d hoped Udal would misjudge, but not like this. He’d wanted to be there himself, to see it and make a show of it.

  ‘Some of your men overheard them and came to me,’ Gunnthor said. A handful of Hjalti’s warriors nodded. ‘We went to Storrek, who was more than ready to help.’

  ‘Never liked the fucker,’ Storrek growled. ‘No honour in an ambush.’ Beside him, Gunnthor looked grave.

  King Olav dismounted swiftly and stormed into the great hall without a word. Einar looked at Hjalti, who shook his head. No one else volunteered to follow the king.