Path of Gods

by Snorri Kristjansson

  ‘I started them on the sail two days ago. It too will be ready tomorrow.’

  The king frowned. ‘Three days? How many people are sewing?’

  This time it was Finn’s time to grin. ‘Two hundred,’ he said. The look on King Olav’s face was almost enough to make him laugh. ‘I have seen the fate of those who displease you, my Lord,’ he said.

  The king grinned. ‘I shall go out tomorrow and watch the launch,’ he said. ‘And if everything is going as you say it is, I need you to do another thing for now.’

  *

  Dawn crept over the eastern treeline and filled the world with grey. Finn yawned, worked his jaw to get the stiffness out, rolled his shoulders and looked down on the work.

  Laid out in a line stretching to the east and west of Stenvik Pier were the raiding ships, loaded with men and ready to go: thirty-nine ships in all, sixty men to a ship. The only space left on the coastline was to the west of the pier, a gap roughly the width of five ships, crossed with logs laid side by side, running parallel to the waterline.

  ‘Finn!’ The king’s voice rang out from below.

  ‘Up here!’ the big soldier shouted, looking down upon his king’s face. It was gaunt and drawn, but lit from inside.

  ‘I’m coming up!’ If the illness had weakened him, he made a good show of hiding it. Quick, sure steps took him up to the edge of the stairway. ‘Is it ready?’

  Finn looked down at the beach. ‘Yes, it is.’

  King Olav took the final two steps with his eyes closed. When he opened them his lips parted slightly and he drew a deep breath. There was silence, then a faint hiss as he exhaled slowly. ‘She’s beautiful,’ he whispered.

  Finn still couldn’t bring himself to call it a ‘ship’; it was a monster, plain and simple, half again as long as the biggest drake he’d ever seen and nearly twice as wide. Each of the fifty-six benches had space for four rowers. They’d had to walk for a day to find a tree old enough for the mast; he could wrap his arms around it, but his fingers didn’t meet at the other side. The sheer weight of the thing meant that they’d had to reinforce the struts that held it in place after the first set had snapped in three places.

  It was terrible in its beauty.

  ‘This is how we show them,’ King Olav said beside him. ‘This will make them understand. We have used words. We have used actions. But this – this display – this is what they’ll understand. They will fear the Long Wyrm.’

  Fear, Finn thought. That sounds about right.

  *

  The ground underneath King Olav’s feet gave him strength, energy and a lift in his step. The West Gate tunnel smelled of cold air and damp stone; it filled him with life. At this moment it was the smell of strength, of full lungs and wind in the sails, and he held on to it. The light at the end was the white of sun through clouds. Through the stone arch lay the support of a thousand men, the mightiest warship ever built and a clear mission to go and spread the Word of the Lord. He pushed away any thought of what might lie in the North and stepped through.

  Finn watched the king exit the tunnel. The roar of the men carried over the wall but quickly died down as the king’s voice rang out. Finn didn’t need to hear the words any more; he knew that song by now, and how it would light a fire in the men’s eyes; he knew how they swelled every time they felt King Olav’s fervour.

  ‘He’s good, isn’t he,’ Fjolnir said at his side. The carpenter was behind him, scowling beneath thick red eyebrows.

  ‘For God’s sake, man,’ Finn growled, dagger half out of his belt. ‘How are you still alive, the way you sneak up on people?’

  Fjolnir just smiled. ‘I make noise when I need to,’ he said.

  ‘The Long Wyrm is a beautiful ship,’ Finn said.

  ‘That she is,’ Fjolnir said. ‘She will take you where you need to go.’

  ‘What do you mean – you?’ Finn said.

  The old man smiled again. It was a lopsided thing, his face, as if his head were permanently cocked in amusement.

  A surge of annoyance took Finn, and he had to exhale to stop himself from punching the smirk off the whitebeard’s face. ‘We’re launching – right now.’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ Fjolnir said; ‘of course we are. You go on ahead now,’ he added. ‘I just need to go and see to some things.’

  Finn looked around, and suddenly the walls in Stenvik felt taller. His chest pulled in so hard that he could feel his heart crash into his ribs.

  ‘The sea,’ the old man said next to him, ‘the open sea. Can you imagine the delights? The freedom?’

  Going down to the ship became the most important thing in Finn’s world and he turned and walked at speed towards the West Gate tunnel. ‘Don’t be late!’ he said over his shoulder to the old man. ‘You’ve got very little time.’

  ‘I know,’ Fjolnir said. ‘I know.’

  *

  The cold stone in the tunnel seemed to suck up the sounds from outside and Finn felt like he was underwater. Something pushed him away from Stenvik; there was no going back now. He had to get to the Long Wyrm.

  The light from outside touched his feet and traced a line up his body – and just like that, he was out and a weight lifted off his chest. The king, standing by the mast of the Long Wyrm, was dwarfed by its size. On the beach, two thousand men and more were lined up, at least five deep, captains and crew, all of them staring at the king.

  ‘—and they will be judged!’ King Olav concluded triumphantly.

  The roar was deafening: every one of those men was raring to go, to get out of their walled prison.

  ‘Men – to your ships!’ the king roared, and the group on the beach exploded into focused activity, all except for one crew which remained still on the beach, surrounding the line of logs that led to the water.

  The king turned to Finn. ‘All yours,’ he muttered, a smirk on his face. Moving swiftly, he put a foot down on a strut and leapt over the side and into the Long Wyrm, disappearing from sight for a second.

  Finn heard some indistinct muttering, but he pushed it out of his mind. Instead, he cleared his throat. ‘Right, you lousy little fuckers!’ He had to stop himself from smiling. He’d hand-picked two hundred of the hardest fighters and the strongest rowers from the pool of thousands, and the bulging arms and wide shoulders before him suggested he’d picked right. He’d need them all, too. They’d estimated that the beast weighed nearly three times as much as a regular ship.

  ‘As we rehearsed. First shift left, second shift right!’

  On command, the men split into two even groups and lined up on either side of the ship. Finn looked around nervously. Where the hell was Fjolnir? Too late, too late. He could feel King Olav’s expectations through the hull of the ship.

  ‘Back supports – off!’ he shouted.

  Two gruff voices replied, ‘Back supports off!’ and behind him, wooden struts clattered to the ground.

  ‘Middle supports – off!’ More wood fell. He could hear the shouts going up and down the line as the men leaned into the ship, holding her steady, effectively balancing on a plank no more than the width of his hand. These men had all launched ships before – but none that could crush a whole crew if they tipped over. Finn could feel himself sweating despite the cold. ‘Front supports – away!’ Behind him, the grunting intensified as the men strained together to keep the ship balanced.

  Finn drew a deep breath. This would be the most important command he ever gave. ‘Now – push!’

  A deep-throated growl rose from the throats of two hundred men. Feet dug into the cold ground and the ship inched forward.

  ‘PUSH!’

  The growls turned to roars. Another inch. And another.

  ‘PUSH!’

  The keel of the ship scraped onto the first log and the vibration travelled through the ship, giving power to tired legs. The men were screami
ng at each other now, cursing up a blue streak, growling like bears, and the ship moved. The next log even rolled a little before the weight of the ship pushed it into the ground, but it was enough to get contact with the next, and the next. The men picked up speed, stepping faster. Muscles bunched and the roar was a continuous thing now, like a giant beast claiming its territory. Faster and faster the Long Wyrm went, heading towards the water. As Finn watched, a man lost his footing, but the man next to him delivered a rib-cracking elbow that was hard enough to send the man spinning away from the rush of bodies and the scraping keel. One way to save a life, Finn thought.

  And then suddenly there were only five logs left, then three – and then the cheer went up as the Long Wyrm touched water for the first time and went knifing through the wavelets lapping at the beach, righting herself as the weight settled and the men waded in after, whooping and cheering with that final push.

  And then the Long Wyrm sat there and Finn understood the sheer scale of her. The Stenvik raiding ships next to her looked like a child’s toy boats. At the stern stood King Olav, proud as a father, back ramrod-straight, looking back at the town and the men climbing over the sides, his face etched in triumph.

  ‘Well,’ Finn muttered to himself. He looked around, but Fjolnir was still nowhere to be seen. Down below, the last of the Wyrm’s crew were wading in after the ship and the first of the oars were coming out, holding the massive keel steady just off the shallows. ‘At least I won’t be late.’

  The cold water shocked him, but he kept on wading; his big, calloused hands grabbed the freshly treated side and Finn Trueheart clambered onto the Long Wyrm. Every single person in Stenvik was up on the walls, watching, and every one of them would tell their children and their children’s children about this moment, he realised. He was part of history.

  ‘PULL!’ King Olav’s voice was thick with emotion.

  Finn could feel the whoosh as the massive sail came up and the cheer that followed them from the shore. The huge black cross on the white linen would be seen from miles away, just what the king had wanted. Let them see, he’d said. Let them see, and think, and wonder how they will be judged. His eyes had suggested that there would be a remarkably similar outcome to most judgings.

  ‘The king wants to see you,’ Einar said at his shoulder and Finn glanced towards the bow where the king stood. He’d turned the moment the sail came up, putting Stenvik firmly behind him.

  Even just walking across the ship felt odd. The central gangway was so wide he could have had at least one man on either side without squeezing. On the benches, the men were coming to terms with four-manning the oars, but they were experienced rowers who fell into rhythm soon enough. As he reached King Olav, he looked down to see the prow of the ship slicing through the water, sending a fine spray skywards. The cold caught the droplets and the faint, weak sunlight.

  ‘Einar has told me about the building of the ship,’ King Olav said. ‘You’ve done a fantastic job.’

  ‘For the glory of God,’ Finn replied.

  ‘I didn’t know you had it in you, Finn,’ King Olav said. ‘When did you learn to build a ship?’

  ‘I – um – it’s strange,’ he said. ‘I walked into a shipwright when I’d just left the longhouse. His name is Fjolnir. And he had a carpenter with him – stocky sort, with a hammer.’

  King Olav turned and looked at Finn askance. ‘Einar didn’t mention anything about this,’ he said.

  Finn’s words caught in his throat. ‘Buh – but – there was a man—’

  Suddenly King Olav smiled beatifically and looked at him – through him. ‘I see. Don’t worry, Finn Trueheart. I know what you’re trying to do, and I can see what you’ve done. Hold on to your humility and your true reward will come in heaven.’ Contented, the king turned away and looked towards the horizon.

  Dazed by the speed and the scale of the ship, Finn had to stop himself from staring at the back of King Olav’s head. He waited for any kind of answer or explanation, but the king ignored him in favour of the waves zooming past.

  Eventually, all he could do was to walk back towards the mast as behind them, Stenvik turned from a fortress to a tiny dot on the beach.

  Einar was waiting for him by the mast. ‘The men have said many good things about your leadership, Finn,’ the young man said solemnly. ‘It is not my place to say, but this ship is a marvel. And you taught us how to build it.’

  ‘But . . .’ Finn started, reaching for the old man in his memory, but all he could see was a weather-beaten face with one good eye, winking at him for just a moment. Then visions flooded his head, of digging for the planks, fitting the wood just so, commanding the men, shouting at them, trading insults.

  Finn looked up.

  High above the massive cross two ravens drifted, looking down on them. When the birds saw him looking, they both cawed.

  It sounded a lot like laughter.

  Chapter 13

  THE DALES, WEST SWEDEN

  LATE DECEMBER, AD 996

  On the border of Svealand, far to the north, Sven cracked his ­shoulders and winced at the noise as joints popped back to where they used to be too many years ago to count. ‘And then he said Odin told him to go to Gallows Peak,’ he finished.

  Sigurd closed his eyes, sighed and rubbed his temples. The small fire crackled between them as the final thin sticks caught fire. ‘Do you believe him?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sven said without hesitation. ‘He’s a good liar, but he’s not that good.’

  ‘Trust you to know,’ Sigurd said with the ghost of a smirk.

  ‘Hmph,’ Sven snorted in mock annoyance.

  ‘But it does suggest that we’re doing the right thing,’ Sigurd continued.

  ‘It does,’ Sven said.

  ‘We’ll sleep on it, then chart our course.’

  ‘The mountains?’ Sven said.

  ‘Yes.’

  Sven looked Sigurd up and down. ‘You knew, didn’t you?’ he said.

  ‘No,’ Sigurd said, ‘I didn’t.’ The old chieftain looked into the darkness as if trying to remember something. ‘But I suspected we wouldn’t get to Trondheim. And who knows?’ he added. ‘Maybe Gallows Peak will be nice this time of year.’

  Sven snorted again. ‘As if,’ he said, crawling into his blankets under his lean-to. ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ Sigurd said, watching as his sworn brother fell asleep as easily as he ever did.

  When Sigurd Aegisson finally went to his own tent, the embers were long dead.

  *

  The men of Stenvik had taken to living like a herd of particularly stubborn, murderous goats, Audun thought. Men their age shouldn’t be able to get through this much cold and wet, but Sigurd Aegisson’s warriors just set their shoulders and marched on.

  ‘How are you faring?’ Sven said, appearing beside him. The old rogue didn’t appear to be in the least bothered by the calf-deep snow; he clutched a sturdy walking stick as he went.

  ‘Good enough,’ Audun said. ‘Not my favourite thing, the outdoors.’

  ‘Waste of a good smith,’ Sven said.

  Audun remembered his smithy in Stenvik and had to suppress a sigh. If nothing else, that smelly old hovel had been warm. He couldn’t rightly remember any more what being warm and dry felt like. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  They walked together in companionable silence for a while.

  ‘Shame Thormund decided to go with the kings,’ Audun said at last. When the words were out there, he realised that he meant it too. The old horse thief had been a source of life in their camp.

  ‘Hm,’ Sven said. ‘Thormund didn’t decide to stay.’

  ‘Oh?’ Audun said.

  ‘No, we told him to.’

  ‘What?’ Audun’s eyebrows knotted as he tried to work out what Sven meant. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Jolawer Scot is in danger.
Alfgeir Bjorne looks after the king and Thormund watches over Alfgeir,’ Sven said. ‘I’ll be a son of a mongrel bitch if Forkbeard doesn’t try to get to the old bear at least once. If they try to out-sneak Thormund and succeed, they can have as much of the South as they can hold. But rest assured, we will make it difficult for them.’ The old rogue’s jaw was set in determination but his eyes sparkled with mischief.

  ‘I see,’ Audun said.

  ‘My namesake with the fancy beard always has a plan, the bastard,’ Sven said. ‘And since we can’t be there to piss in his porridge we’ll do it from afar.’

  Audun couldn’t help but smile. Sven’s chatter was excellent for helping the time pass. ‘So which way are we going?’

  ‘Straight to Gallows Peak,’ Sven said.

  The muscles in Audun’s throat froze up and his heart leapt in his chest. He twisted to look at Sven, who was suddenly nowhere near as cheerful.

  Instead, the old man looked intently at Audun, studying every muscle in his face. ‘He came to you too, didn’t he?’ Sven said quietly.

  Audun’s veins pulsed and he fought to hold back the waves of fury. Words would not come out, so he nodded.

  ‘Ulfar tried to persuade us to go, but the boy can’t lie to people he likes when it matters, which is a good thing. I squeezed him and he told me.’

  ‘He says we have to. Valgard’s power is growing.’

  Sven shrugged. ‘You’re no weakling yourself,’ he said. ‘I’m worried, though,’ he added, shooting a conspiratorial glance forward. ‘Sigurd said he might run away because he was scared.’

  Audun couldn’t stop his eyebrows from rising. ‘Really?’

  Sven nodded. ‘It’s the truth. I swear it – no, I can’t do this any more,’ he said, smirking. ‘Of course it fucking isn’t. Most rocks have more give in them than Sigurd Aegisson. We’re going to Gallows Peak and when we get there we’ll most likely be cold, wet and hungry, and I don’t think we’ll be in any mood to show our nicest side to whatever’s there. Now keep walking and stop all this chatter. It wastes your energy.’