Path of Gods

by Snorri Kristjansson

  Chapter 6

  NORTH OF TRONDHEIM, NORTH NORWAY

  DECEMBER, AD 996

  Valgard coughed and stumbled, sending pain shooting up his spine as he pushed the animal out of his mind. The hunger had been explosive, consuming and terrifying, borne on a tidal wave of smells and sounds, and the raw power of it had exhilarated and terrified in equal measure. ‘Fucking hell,’ Valgard muttered through the sour spit, ‘that was . . .’ He looked at the trolls, but none of them were registering any sympathy. ‘Yes, well,’ he continued, coughing again to clear his throat. Somewhere in the back of his mind he could feel the beast powering through the snow, seeking out its target, keeping the scent of King Olav in its nostrils. It felt good to think of the so-called king as the hunted rather than the hunter. He scooped up a handful of snow, put it in his mouth to rid himself of the taste of bile and walked on. He could feel the cold flowing into him, replenishing what the wolf had taken. It was happening quickly, too. His body felt better every day. There were many things to be happy about these days.

  He didn’t allow himself to think about the voice he’d heard, or the cave where he’d heard it last.

  *

  Twenty miles north of Trondheim, Valgard found himself once again considering his options as he trudged in front of his silent companions. Behind them lay the Northern Wastes, but they held nothing but reindeer and Finn-witches.

  To the east was the land of the Svear – a possibility, sure, but the time felt wrong, somehow.

  No, there was only one way to go: Trondheim.

  The experiment with the wolf had been partly successful – mostly because it was such a strong animal; it had broken free of his command. But he’d get stronger. He’d get better.

  Valgard smiled.

  He’d get a lot better.

  *

  Fifteen miles north of Trondheim, Valgard tasted the air. He could feel his tongue flicking at the cold, darting in between points of frost and bringing back sensations – smell, touch, presence. He could sense the bodies of the creatures behind him, standing still, looking ahead. They did not question his leadership; they followed, stolid and slow, like a glacier wall. He could feel his own power rising. Like the glacier, he’d crush everything in his path. He would be the walking frost. He would draw the veil of cold over the land so it could rise again.

  The only warm thing in the world was the bag resting against his chest, underneath his layered clothes and furs. The runes within felt as heavy as the world. He couldn’t remember much of Loki and the cave, but he remembered what happened afterwards well enough: Botolf, dying on the steps; the weight of Egill Jotun’s throne and the crash as it toppled over; the ornate box that just sat there, innocent and quiet. And when he’d opened it, time had slowed to a trickle around him, flowing around his legs like a lazy river. The squares of calfskin had spoken to him – the ancient runes had leapt off the pages and into his head, whispering the unfamiliar sounds as he opened his mouth. Unbidden, the image of Botolf’s flesh came into his mind as he mispronounced the first words. The way it had warped and spun and turned on itself had almost made him throw up, but something Loki had said made him stick with it.

  They never respected you because they never feared you.

  A slow smile broke out on Valgard’s face as his nose and his tongue found what he was looking for.

  Well. We’ll see what they think now.

  His mouth moved, and old words snuck back into the world on a whisper.

  TRONDHEIM HARBOUR, NORTH NORWAY

  DECEMBER, AD 996

  ‘Here?’ the raider grunted at Hjalti.

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Just throw it in already,’ Hjalti snapped. ‘It’s freezing out here, if you hadn’t noticed.’ Stars twinkled overhead.

  ‘Fuck off, goat-boy – you’re not carrying anything,’ the raider said. ‘Heave!’

  Beside him, eleven men moved in concert and six bundled corpses flew off the pier, hit the water with a deep splash and sank almost immediately. The men on the docks stood quietly and watched as Udal’s men faded out of view.

  ‘Njordur keep them,’ someone muttered.

  Hjalti turned away from the men. ‘Shut it,’ he snarled. ‘Whoever said that – shut it. I didn’t see who spoke, but if he hears you, you’re next.’

  ‘Calm d—’

  ‘Finish that sentence’ – Hjalti turned around, looked at the raiders and put a hand on his sword-hilt – ‘and I will personally end your life, right here.’

  The raiders exchanged looks and then backed away, silently. Hjalti watched them leave. When the last man had disappeared he exhaled and turned to look at the water.

  The waves glistened, raven-black, reflecting the stars overhead. There were no signs of bodies anywhere.

  ‘Njordur takes what Njordur wants,’ Hjalti muttered.

  He walked off the docks and turned north. When he saw the great hall he turned east, towards the outskirts of Trondheim. He had just a handful of moments to think, to imagine questions and plan answers, and then he was there.

  The house looked nothing out of the ordinary – just a regular northern warrior’s home – but it still filled him with unease.

  ‘Honour demands,’ he muttered. Four steps took him to the door. His knock felt feeble.

  Moments later, light spilled out and one of Gunnthor’s grey-haired men stood in the entrance. He looked Hjalti up and down, then ushered him in.

  Hjalti felt the walls closing in on him almost immediately. The house was lit by two tallow candles set in metal that bounced the light around, but it stayed away from the corners. He could just make out the shape of Storrek sitting by the wall, looking serious. Next to him were two of his men, who in the half-light looked nothing like bullied and whipped followers. Everyone was quiet; everyone was looking at him.

  His eyes met Gunnthor’s.

  ‘Cousin! Welcome to our little gathering.’

  Feeling the drops of sweat slide down his back under the furs, Hjalti inched into the house and closed the door behind him.

  Gunnthor had folded his arms and was leaning back in his seat, smiling. ‘Repeat what you told me. He can be caught alone when . . .’

  ‘. . . he prays,’ Hjalti said. ‘Every night at midnight.’

  ‘We’ll nail him then,’ Storrek growled from the corner. ‘Do you think six of us will be enough?’

  ‘Seven, with Hjalti,’ Gunnthor said, still smiling.

  Hjalti became uncomfortably aware of the grey-haired men behind him, outside his field of vision. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘seven, with me.’

  ‘Very good. Where is the moon?’ Gunnthor asked.

  ‘High above,’ Hjalti said, ‘but we should be able to catch him if we leave very soon.’

  ‘Then that’s what we do. Come on!’ Gunnthor rose with a speed that belied his age. ‘We settle this now.’

  ‘Oh for fuck’s sake,’ Storrek grumbled as he levered himself up out of the chair. ‘Give us some notice, will you, Grandpa?’

  Gunnthor’s grey-haired men ushered him out and the cold hit Hjalti square in the face. ‘Hairy arse of Thor, but it’s cold tonight,’ Storrek growled behind him.

  ‘We’ll get a fantastic summer after this,’ Gunnthor said. ‘You know what they say: it’s always worse before it gets better.’

  ‘Unless you die,’ Storrek added.

  ‘Unless you die,’ Gunnthor agreed. They walked along, seven of them, soon settling into an easy stride that looked at least partially guilt-free. Up above, stars twinkled.

  A lonely raven croaked at them from atop the beams of the longhouse, soon answered by another. They could hear the clamour from within.

  ‘Sounds like it’s back to usual in there,’ Storrek said. ‘They didn’t spend much time grieving for the fallen.’

  ‘They know Udal didn’t give a lamb’s turd abou
t them, so they offer him the respect he deserves,’ Gunnthor said. ‘Besides, it works to our advantage. No one will hear him scream. Where’s his sad little god’s hut?’

  Hjalti pointed to the lee side of the house. ‘Over there.’

  That first day, King Olav had annexed what had used to be noblemen’s lodgings set a few yards from the back of the great hall, turning it into a god-house for his One God.

  ‘Must get lonely in there,’ one of the grey-haired men said.

  ‘He likes it that way,’ Hjalti said.

  ‘He’s a fool,’ Storrek said. ‘Let’s do this.’

  Gunnthor pointed Hjalti to the rough wooden door and he reached for it and pushed. Soft candlelight spilled out onto the snow.

  King Olav’s voice came from within. ‘Who’s there?’

  Hjalti stepped into the chapel, followed by Gunnthor, Storrek and their men. This was the first time he’d set foot in the king’s holiest space and for a moment he struggled to think.

  Every surface in the small, converted house had been stripped bare. A man-sized cross had been suspended between two beams, and the way it hung like a human body made him shiver. It caught the light off four flickering candles set in buffed shields that cast an eerie glow on the men crowded by the door.

  At the far end of the house, a small table held what was easily the biggest book Hjalti had ever seen.

  King Olav knelt before the book, head down, facing away. ‘You know I do not wish to be disturbed,’ he said.

  ‘I know, my King,’ Hjalti said, and cursed himself inwardly. Old habits died hard. ‘It’s just that—’

  ‘We’re going to negotiate,’ Gunnthor said.

  There was a moment’s silence before the king spoke. His voice was cold. ‘We have already negotiated,’ he said. ‘Leave me to my prayers.’

  ‘Turn around, you little shit,’ Storrek growled. The king didn’t reply and he repeated, ‘I said, turn around and face us.’

  ‘What – like a warrior?’ the king said. He sighed and rose, still facing away, and closed the book almost tenderly. ‘What do you expect, Storrek? Fear in my eyes?’ He turned around, made the sign of the cross and looked all seven of them up and down. He was unarmed.

  Storrek didn’t flinch. ‘Listen, you puffed-up Southern arse-badger! We don’t want you here, we don’t want your stupid god and we don’t want your new rule.’

  King Olav looked at Gunnthor, then Hjalti. ‘Why are you with them?’ he asked.

  ‘Gunnthor is my cousin on the father’s side,’ Hjalti said.

  ‘Blood is blood,’ Gunnthor said.

  ‘Enough chat,’ Storrek said before the king could speak. The big man reached for the sword by his side. ‘Let’s—’

  A high-pitched scream from outside drowned the rest of his sentence.

  A deep, guttural roar followed.

  ‘What the—?’ Hjalti’s words caught in his mouth as something thudded into the wall, shaking the big cross. Like the others, his eyes flashed towards the movement, and when he looked back it was too late. Hunched down, elbows out and shoulder first, King Olav swung a punch at Storrek, crashed through the group of men and launched himself out of the door.

  ‘GET HIM!’ Gunnthor roared.

  One of Storrek’s lumpy followers was closest, and Hjalti watched him barrel through the door after the king, only to be swept out of sight as something big and darker than the night crashed into him.

  ‘What’s going on out there?’ Storrek snarled, pushing towards the open door. Shouts carried in from the darkness to meet him.

  ‘We’re under attack,’ Gunnthor snarled, holding back the fat chieftain and staring at the door. ‘Think for a second, you oaf.’

  King Olav’s voice rang out, strong from years of use at sea. ‘TO ME,’ he shouted. ‘DRAW STEEL! MEN OF THE NORTH, TO ME!’

  ‘Shit,’ Storrek muttered.

  Gunnthor whirled around, eyes blazing. ‘No, we’re still in this. If we rush out now – right now – if we rush out, rally the men and fight whatever’s out there beside him he cannot have us murdered in front of his own. He’d have to kill Hjalti too, and his men would never trust him again. Go! We’ll face what’s out there together.’ As he spoke he moved to the door, pushed through it – and came face to face with a brown bear, reared up onto its back legs. The corpse of Storrek’s man lay discarded to one side, nothing but a sack of meat and broken bones.

  Something cracked behind Hjalti and he was pushed to the side as Storrek passed him, muttering curses under his breath. ‘GET BACK,’ he roared at the bear, taking up position next to Gunnthor and brandishing the butt of the six-foot cross. ‘GET BACK, YOU BASTARD!’

  The bear roared back and swatted at the wood, but it missed and Storrek used the opening, put all his heft behind it and rammed the thick wood in the bear’s chest. Roaring in pain, the animal fell back down onto all fours and ran away through the snow.

  ‘Out! Everyone out!’ Gunnthor commanded. The men fanned out behind him with blades drawn. The king was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘There’s blood in the air,’ Hjalti said.

  ‘Oh, you fucking think?’ Storrek growled at him. ‘There was a fucking bear right in front of us!’ Nostrils flaring, the big chieftain looked ready to attack the next closest thing, which was Hjalti.

  ‘Fight the enemy,’ Gunnthor snapped. ‘We need to move. They’re around the corner.’ Storrek turned again, but spared Hjalti a killing glare. The seven moved away from King Olav’s prayer-house, staying close to the wall of the longhouse. Sounds of battle bounced off the walls around them.

  ‘Look at this,’ one of Gunnthor’s men said. ‘Tracks.’

  ‘That would be the bear,’ Storrek growled.

  They rounded the corner of the longhouse and stopped. ‘Not just the bear,’ Gunnthor said quietly.

  The square in front of the great hall was crowded with men and beasts, all fighting for their lives. A handful of men with spears had formed a line facing an enraged elk, who was laying into them with no regard for the metal points digging into its flesh. Two forest cats the size of well-fed dogs tore at the throat of a body in the snow, claws digging into dead flesh, but within moments the beasts were up again and bounding towards their next target. Fighters streamed out of the longhouse, but they were held back by a group of men struggling to strike at a swarm of huge rats running at and over them and heading into the hall.

  At the far end of the space outside the longhouse, King Olav and another four men had cornered the bear and were laying into it. As Gunnthor’s men watched, one of them stepped too close. The bear’s paw crushed his skull in the blink of an eye.

  ‘This is where we get it back,’ Gunnthor hissed. He drew a deep breath, let out a battle-cry, immediately echoed by the men behind him, and charged into the fray.

  *

  King Olav delivered mercy to the bear, but not until the beast had taken four men with him. Hastily dressed fighters had rushed into the square after he’d called, wielding anything they could find; when the frenzy was over they counted eight dead, five badly wounded and three men covered in cuts, bites and already festering scratches from the rats.

  The old chieftains stood over the body of a big forest cat, ­struggling to catch their breath. Blood leaked from a nasty gash on Gunnthor’s leg. ‘In my whole life I’ve never seen anything like this,’ he hissed. Storrek didn’t answer but noisily cleared his throat several times, then spat.

  Animal roars echoed out in the dark. ‘To me!’ the king shouted, charging out of the square towards the noise, and well over a hundred warriors followed.

  ‘See that?’ Gunnthor said.

  ‘We need some way to get him away from the men,’ Storrek said.

  ‘We won’t do that here,’ Hjalti said. ‘We need to be in the middle of it.’ With that he ran after the king, joining the warriors head
ing towards the main road into town, following the sounds of lowing, hissing and roaring.

  Gunnthor glanced at Storrek. ‘Little fucker has a point. MOVE!’

  The old chieftains followed Hjalti into a nightmare.

  Fangs, claws and pointed horns were everywhere, enemies in many shapes, united only by the fear-crazed look in their eyes. Wounded men were screaming and the rich, thick smell of blood permeated the night. Hjalti swung his sword and connected with the shoulder of a wolf. He raised his foot to push off the animal and pulled the blade free, only just avoiding the snapping jaws. An elk came charging through the crowd, head down, spearing anything in its path and tossing it into the air.

  King Olav was in the thick of it, pushing and cutting, striking and blocking, screaming at his warriors to stand firm. Fat Storrek, reborn in battle, was throwing his weight around with fierce joy on his face. Life and death was decided, moment by moment by never-ending moment.

  Hjalti pushed away everything that made him human and gave himself to the battle.

  *

  Olav exhaled and watched the white cloud in front of his face. The fighting men had fallen silent around him as the fear drained out of them and now the stench of the dead animals was everywhere – in the air, in their clothes, in the snow. The butchers had been at the carcases, but they were all inedible, all blue-tinged like the wolf.

  Now hundreds of faces stared at him as he turned to Gunnthor and the traitors, feeling for his sword as he did. He thought of something to say, but nothing came to his mind. Suddenly Olav felt every one of his thirty-eight years. ‘You fought well,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you, my King,’ Gunnthor said.

  ‘And you, Hjalti,’ he said. He turned to the gathered men, a good three hundred or so. ‘Hail Hjalti! Tonight I saw a side of him that I didn’t know existed. He was brave – almost foolishly so, one might say!’ A multitude of voices cheered, and for a moment everything was all right with the world. He noticed the glint in Gunnthor’s eye a moment too late.

  ‘But why were they running, my Lord?’ the old man said. ‘And what were they running from?’