Path of Gods

by Snorri Kristjansson

  ‘Hard to argue with that,’ Ulfar said as he turned to catch up with the group. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what else do you know?’

  ‘Whatever happens, there’ll be spring,’ Audun said.

  ‘I hope so,’ Ulfar said as he fell in with the footsteps. ‘I really hope so.’

  *

  As they walked, the land changed. The fields took on a different shape, stopped being big squares and became curving slivers, pushed and squeezed by the encroaching lines of thick pine trees. Sigurd skirted the edges of the forest for as long as he could but soon there was no way to avoid it. The dark treeline stretched either side of them as far as the eye could see, and it was impossible to tell which way would be quicker.

  ‘We’ll stop here,’ the old chieftain said. He didn’t need to shout – when he was ready to talk, the men listened. ‘Use the last light to get us something for the fire. We’ll go in tomorrow at dawn.’

  The men dropped their gear and some went about setting up camp, sweeping up snowdrifts to build casings around their tents while others grabbed bows and spears and formed up in two small hunting parties. They headed off in opposite directions.

  ‘What do we do?’ Ulfar said.

  ‘Tents, I suppose,’ Audun said, ‘and then firewood?’

  ‘Sounds like a plan,’ Ulfar said. ‘Got anything to get it with?’

  Audun turned and walked off, returning almost immediately with two hand-axes.

  ‘That was quick,’ Ulfar said.

  ‘I’ve worked every bloody edge in this camp,’ Audun said, smirking. ‘I know who’s got what – and I’ll sharpen them both again tonight. They won’t mind.’

  ‘Fine,’ Ulfar said. ‘Let’s get the tent up and then go.’

  With the tents quickly erected behind them, they checked the paths of the hunting parties and picked a route between them, straight into the forest. An odd quiet settled on them, a heavy curtain of silence as the trees swallowed up the noise along with the light. The ground felt spongy with pine needles under their feet, and there was only a light dusting of white, though the branches above carried thick layers of snow that softened the already fading light; it gave the impression of walking into someone’s house.

  Audun pointed at a tree trunk up ahead. ‘That one,’ he said. ‘Might as well.’ His voice sounded harsh in the silence. Almost as if to spite the forest he strode up to the tree, buried his axe in the trunk and took three quick steps to the side. The heavy load of snow crashed to the ground exactly where he had been standing.

  Grinning, Ulfar walked over to the other side of the tree and soon their blades were rising and falling in rhythm. A short while later Audun raised his hand. ‘Stop,’ he said. Ulfar pulled the axe back and stepped away as the blacksmith aimed three quick, savage blows at the wedge on his side, then stepped back.

  They could both hear it. They could almost feel it.

  The wood creaked and the tree trunk shifted slowly as its weight found no support to lean on. The creaks became groans as the trunk toppled over, snapping branches overhead and crashing to the ground, sending a big cloud of snow to the sky.

  ‘That wasn’t so bad,’ Ulfar said. ‘Now we just need to—’

  Audun raised his hand again, staring over the tall man’s shoulder. ‘Stop,’ he said again, quietly this time. ‘Turn around.’

  As he turned, the first thing he saw was the snow, gently drifting to the ground. Then, in the distance—

  ‘Look at the size of him,’ he whispered. The stag’s crown reached fully an arm’s width to either side. ‘Imagine if we could bring that back—’

  ‘How?’ Audun whispered back.

  Ulfar sniffed the air. ‘If you stay here and I circle . . .’

  ‘You’re going to take that beast down with a hand-axe?’ Audun said, eyebrows raised.

  ‘. . . hm,’ Ulfar said. ‘Maybe?’

  Audun glanced down at the debris from the fallen tree. ‘There may be a way – but we’re going to have to be incredibly lucky.’

  Ulfar followed his gaze and grinned.

  *

  The stag was a good three hundred yards away. For the longest time it stood absolutely still, as if frozen to the spot there among the trees. Ulfar watched it carefully as he moved through the loose snow, slow as the winter itself, circling the big animal.

  When he’d finally made the torturously long circuit and found his place, he swallowed, drew a deep breath and charged towards the stag, shrieking at the top of his voice and flailing his arms, making himself as wide as he could.

  The animal jerked into motion, big muscles powering it through the snow. Although the fight between them would not have been even remotely close, Ulfar had the element of surprise, and now he sprinted for all he was worth after the stag, herding it towards—

  At the very last moment Audun stepped out from behind a thick tree trunk, wielding a broken branch at least as long as a man and thick as a thigh-bone. He planted it in the ground at an angle, then bent down, making himself as small a target as possible. Blood gushed over him as the stake tore into the leaping stag’s chest, driven in by the animal’s own speed, and within moments it had snapped under the weight as the beast’s knees buckled. The animal lowed in pain and scrabbled to get up, but Ulfar was already leaping on its back and hacking at the neck while hanging for dear life onto the horns.

  The struggle didn’t last long. Dark-red blood went reddish-pink in the snow, and the animal stopped moving.

  ‘See?’ Ulfar said. ‘Told you. Hand-axe.’

  Audun smiled faintly. Ignoring the rich smell of warm blood was easier now, but he could still feel the fire within.

  Kneeling, Ulfar finished the blood-letting and moved on to the guts. ‘Are you going to help, or what?’

  Audun knelt and grabbed a handful of snow. ‘Give me your axe,’ he said, and when Ulfar had done as he was told, Audun grabbed the blade and packed the snow on it, warming it in his hands, then brushing off the thickening blood. He wiped the edge of the axe on his shirt, then pulled out his own axe and the scraping sound of metal-on-metal filled their quiet bubble as Audun sharpened their blades.

  The axe he handed to Ulfar had a wicked-looking gleam to its edge.

  ‘Thank you,’ Ulfar said solemnly. ‘Now are you going to help?’

  Audun very calmly grabbed a handful of snow and flung it at Ulfar’s head, forcing him to duck out of the way. ‘If you want you can continue to use something dull to skin it, like your face.’

  Grinning, Ulfar turned and sliced open the stag’s belly.

  *

  The look on Sven’s face alone was worth the ache of carrying the massive animal back to camp on their backs. The old rogue just stood there, mouth working silently.

  ‘Oh, come on, old man!’ Ulfar shouted as the men gathered around them. ‘Have you never seen a stag killed with a hand-axe?’

  ‘Hail the hunters!’ someone cried out.

  ‘HAIL!’ the response rang and strong hands took the weight off Audun and Ulfar’s shoulders and a number of enthusiastic bearded warriors carried the stag in a cheerful procession towards the campfire. Within moments, runners had been despatched to fetch more wood and knives flashed above the gutted animal, carving flesh into chunks to roast on the fire.

  As Audun and Ulfar watched the sea-wolves tear into their prey, Sven found his voice. ‘How did you do this?’

  ‘We felled a tree,’ Audun said. ‘We were going to bring it to the fire, but when the snow fell the animal was there.’

  ‘And he didn’t run when the tree crashed?’

  ‘He was about three hundred yards away,’ Ulfar said. ‘He stood still – he didn’t seem to care about us.’

  ‘Hm,’ Sven said, pursing his lips as the smell of flame-charred deer drifted towards him. ‘Well done.
Now go and get some before those hairy bastards eat all of it.’

  As Ulfar and Audun grinned and moved towards the fire, Sven watched them go, then looked down and squeezed his temples. ‘No,’ he muttered to the ground, ‘no, it’s probably fine.’ He looked back up at the crowd clustered around the stag, jostling and joking with the two young men in the fading light.

  ‘It’s probably fine,’ he repeated.

  Chapter 10

  TRONDHEIM, NORTH NORWAY

  LATE DECEMBER, AD 996

  The guard very quietly cursed King Olav and his insistence that someone had to be outside in the middle of the night and the freezing cold, huddled under a wall-mounted torch that gave out no heat whatsoever, and that tonight, that someone had to be him. ‘It’s not right, is it?’ he said to the dog at his feet. Another of the king’s decisions: they had to have watchdogs, apparently so they could smell the enemy in the dark. He didn’t mind that, though; the hound was good for company. A big brute of a thing, it reached almost to the middle of his thigh standing up. They’d taught it a little too well to growl at strangers, so a thick cord was wrapped around his wrist and hooked to a wide collar around the beast’s throat where it lay at his feet, resigned to its fate and probably dreaming of a fire and a bone to gnaw on.

  Rubbing his gloved hands together for warmth, the guard leaned up against the corner of the longhouse and tried to inure himself to the persistent, biting cold.

  ‘Well met!’

  His head snapped up, as did the dog’s. The voice came from the darkness, beyond the line of huts. He peered into the night, cursing the flickering flame above his head. There! A shape, highlighted against the snow. A man – no, two, one following the other.

  ‘Well met,’ the guard said, stepping forward and reaching to his hip for the axe. The winter wind biting at his cloak was sharp with the smell of sea. ‘Show your face, stranger.’

  ‘I’m no stranger,’ the man said slowly. His voice sounded hoarse but familiar. ‘Do you not’ – he stopped to draw breath – ‘know me?’ The man stepped into the light.

  ‘Hjalti! What happened?’ The king’s right-hand man looked like he’d been dragged through death backwards.

  ‘I need to see the jarls,’ Hjalti said. He cleared his throat. ‘We need to see them.’

  Behind him the other man stepped into the light as well. He was taller and thinner than Halti and stood silently behind him. His hair was slicked back and he was dressed in simple but well-made traveller’s garb, but he looked . . . odd, somehow. Like something that didn’t belong here.

  ‘They’re inside,’ the guard stammered. ‘Do you want me to—?’

  ‘Please,’ the tall man said. He smiled, which did not make things one bit better.

  The guard turned to leave, but the dog at his feet didn’t move an inch. ‘Come on,’ he said, yanking on the dog’s lead. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ The beast rose half an inch off the ground and shifted, head down, tail between its legs, staring at Hjalti and the man until they rounded the corner. The moment they were out of sight the guard had a single moment to let go of the lead as the dog bolted, bounding over the snow dunes and disappearing into the night.

  Hjalti and the man rounded the corner.

  ‘Oh. Where’s the dog?’ the man said.

  The guard could feel his chest constricting as the tall man smiled at him. ‘It . . . ran away,’ he managed.

  ‘Interesting,’ the man said as Hjalti marched on beside him, grim-faced.

  The big double doors to Hakon’s great hall swung open smoothly.

  ‘They’re in there,’ the guard said.

  Hjalti nodded stiffly. ‘Good.’

  ‘I’d better, um—’ The voice inside his head screamed at the guard to run run now run away but neither of the men acknowledged him. Someone shouted something from inside the hall.

  He managed to retreat two steps before the heavy oak doors swung shut with improbable speed, slamming hard enough to shake the snow off the roof.

  The guard threw himself backwards, only barely saving his ankles from being crushed. He could hear the sliding thunk of the bar falling into place on the inside.

  For a moment he just lay there, heart thudding in his chest, then he clambered to his feet, dusted the snow off his backside and shuffled towards the corner of the longhouse. He took up his position under the torch, but it felt strange without the dog. ‘Here! Here, boy!’ he called, but the night remained silent. He looked around for the dog. Where was the damn thing?

  The light from the torch flickered, and something moved in the shadows.

  *

  Valgard and Hjalti stepped into the longhouse. The heat from all those big, sweaty bodies packed shoulder to shoulder hit them in the face first. Then the noise.

  ‘Shut the fucking door!’ someone yelled, voice slurred.

  As if on command, the big door slammed behind them, to drunken cheers. Someone shouted Hjalti’s name and the word spread before them like a ripple in a pond.

  A chill travelled up and down Valgard’s spine as he recalled what it had felt like to finally emerge into the world, the way his skin had stretched and felt . . . The sour taste of retreat followed, and the rangy healer’s jaw set. This time there was no Odin to stop him.

  ‘Hjalti!’ cried a big fat man sitting on the dais, in the far left seat. Valgard smiled to see the seat in the middle was empty. ‘Make way, you bastards!’ he called. ‘Hjalti – come here!’ A channel opened in the throng as people pushed to get out of their way. Halfway down the hall, Valgard got a good look at the other man on the dais.

  ‘Interesting,’ he said, but Hjalti didn’t respond; he just stared straight ahead as he stumbled onwards, like a child in the throes of sleep. Around them the noise in the hall slowly died down, to be replaced with truculent stares as they reached a square space before the dais, maybe four yards by six, that had cleared of people. The hall was hushed now.

  They’ll all be hanging on Hjalti’s every word, Valgard thought.

  Good.

  The other man on the dais was a greybeard. His features were open and friendly, on the surface at least, but his eyes said something else entirely.

  ‘Hjalti! Speak, cousin. Where is the king?’

  ‘King Olav has fled Trondheim,’ Valgard said.

  The fat man’s lip curled with barely suppressed rage. ‘No one fucking asked you,’ he spat. ‘Hjalti, speak up! What happened?’

  ‘There was a fight. King Olav lost,’ Valgard said.

  The greybeard’s outstretched hand stopped the fat man from leaping off the dais, but only just. He turned to Hjalti, looking stern and commanding. ‘Hjalti! Talk to us – tell us what happened in the woods. And if you don’t shut your friend up, Storrek will.’

  ‘I don’t think he will be able to,’ Valgard said conversationally, enjoying watching the men on the dais as they tried to piece together the meaning in his words and comprehend the sheer scale of his rudeness. They failed.

  ‘See,’ Valgard said, rolling his shoulders, ‘I think I’ll have this thing of yours – the North. It’s a bit cold, but that’s fine. I’ll even let you leave on a boat of your own choice.’

  Something smacked into the outside wall with a wet crunching sound.

  The greybeard ignored the noise and shot him a withering look as silence settled again in the hall. ‘I don’t know who the fuck you think you are,’ he growled, ‘but you need to be taught some manners.’ He withdrew his hand and Storrek stepped down from the dais.

  He walked towards Valgard, all fat-covered muscle and death, and Valgard couldn’t help but smirk.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ the man snarled.

  ‘Storrek, is it?’ Valgard said.

  ‘You fucking bet it is,’ Storrek snarled, stepping to within an inch of the tall, thin man. ‘And you’re not saying much more of any
thing for a while.’

  ‘Mm,’ Valgard said, ‘I see what you mean. A man like yourself could break a man like me into pieces’ – Storrek grinned broadly – ‘well, in a fair fight.’

  Valgard stopped speaking, but his mouth kept moving.

  The smile on Storrek’s face stiffened and contorted as the fat man spun on his heel and started moving back up the dais like a dog being yanked on a lead.

  ‘What are you doing?’ the greybeard said, half-rising out of his seat. ‘Fucking hurt him! Break his—’

  The words were knocked out of him: an invisible force flung him back into the seat and pinned him down on the right-hand chair as Storrek crashed into the wooden throne on the left. The two chieftains’ eyes blazed with fury, but no word escaped their clenched jaws.

  Valgard looked at them then, drew their gazes in and willed them to see him for what he was – and what he could do.

  Like a seamstress pulling a thread through skin, Storrek raised his right arm and brought it smoothly to his left hip. One seat over, the greybeard did the same.

  The knives slid out of their sheaths without a sound as Valgard walked towards the steps. One – two – and up.

  King Olav’s throne was more comfortable than it looked.

  He wanted to laugh as he watched the assembled sea-wolves and land-bears of the North, all staring at him like a herd of milk-cows.

  He allowed the thought to slide out of his head . . .

  . . . and the sound of the knives hacking into flesh to either side of him grew in strength, half wet slop and half banging against a deadened drum, as the chieftains started stabbing themselves, and soon the smell of gushing blood mixed with the stench of voided bowels until their hearts stopped beating and they left this world.

  He released them then, all of them. Hjalti collapsed to the floor, coughing up the blood that had been held inside him, and Storrek deflated as he sank into his seat then started an inglorious slide off his heavy arse to the floor.

  The greybeard, straight-backed to the end, took for ever to topple, but eventually his balance shifted and he too crashed to the floor of the dais.