Path of Gods

by Snorri Kristjansson

  When he got to the door, he kicked it so hard it flew off the hinges.

  *

  The other men got back to the Long Wyrm eventually, flaring torches illuminating teeth flashing in bearded grins.

  King Olav searched out Finn in the crowd and beckoned him over. ‘What did we get?’

  ‘Not much,’ Finn said. ‘A handful of silver. A couple of useable swords, axes and spears. Some furs.’

  ‘Good,’ King Olav said.

  ‘Yes,’ Finn muttered.

  The king’s anger flared again. ‘Do you have something you wish to say, Finn?’ he snapped.

  ‘I . . . saw the men.’ King Olav didn’t reply so the big warrior continued, ‘I saw the men take what they wanted. They struck down unarmed villagers – peasants. And they . . . some of them . . . they took women and hurt them,’ he continued.

  ‘These are Svear,’ King Olav snapped, ‘and mixed-blood Danes. They worship false gods – they deserve no better! This is the will of Christ. We are on the path, and anything that stands in our way must be eliminated. Do you understand?’

  Face half in shadow, Finn made no sound.

  ‘Do. You. Understand?’

  ‘Yes,’ Finn said, almost inaudibly.

  ‘Good,’ the king said, turning away. ‘Get the men on the boats. Let’s leave this place and go and bring the word of the Lord to somewhere else.’ With that King Olav stepped back and disappeared into the darkness beneath the carved bow.

  *

  The waves hissed at the side of the ship, powerless to stop it. Under wind, the Long Wyrm was a real sight to behold: the mast creaked with the force of the sail pulling them forward, and Finn had to be vigilant at all times to make sure they didn’t outpace the rest of their fleet. In the distance he could make out the stocky frame of Gunnar, captaining the Njordur’s Mercy. No mean ship itself, yet the lean raider still had no chance of keeping up with the Long Wyrm at speed. This is a ship that could cross oceans, Finn thought, and battle with the gods themselves. Not for the first time, he thought back on the old shipwright, though try as he might, he couldn’t quite see him in his mind; there was just a vague sense of someone who had been there, teaching and directing – but none of the men remembered anything about him. There was just this feeling of belonging, of doing something right . . .

  ‘We’re almost there.’ Einar’s voice brought Finn back to the ship, back to the water. The young man had just appeared next to him and was now calmly nocking his bow.

  Unlike their previous target, this village was big, a local trading centre, according to one of Gunnar’s men. At least thirty houses sprawled along the coast and up the hillside, organised loosely around what looked like a central market square. This time they didn’t have the cover of night and in the distance they could see the villagers running back and forth, half of them forming into a group of sorts and the other half disappearing up into the hills.

  ‘Women and children,’ Einar said, still not looking. ‘We’ll have a fight here.’

  Around them, the men were readying for battle. Young, strong warriors pulled on leather-padded shifts that offered a good range of movement; older warriors who had survived a few fights went without fail for the discomfort and weight of chainmail shirts.

  Finn almost jumped as Einar’s bow sang next to him. ‘What’d you do that for?’ he said, but Einar didn’t answer; he just calmly nocked another arrow. Finn looked around, trying to spot the first shaft, but he couldn’t see it. The bow sang again just as the group of peasants in the distance scattered; in the middle, one of them dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

  After a third shot, Einar put his bow back down. ‘That should give them something to worry about,’ he said, voice level.

  ‘SAILS!’ The command went up from the captain and behind Finn and Einar teams of strong-armed sailors pulled on the thick ropes, slowly raising the lower beam. The sail flapped and snapped in the wind, but the tension went out of it very quickly.

  ‘OARS UP!’

  Two hundred and fifty yards away the peasants had gathered back into a group positively bristling with pitchforks, spears and other makeshift weapons. Einar sent an arrow flying their way, but this time they were ready; a shout went out and the group dispersed, reforming as soon as they thought it safe.

  Two hundred yards.

  The Long Wyrm still had quite a lot of momentum.

  ‘OARS DOWN!’ the captain shouted, and, ‘HOLD!’

  Sixty pairs of muscular forearms strained against the pull as the blades went down into the water and pushed against the waves, turning the Long Wyrm from sleek serpent to bristling hedgehog.

  One hundred and fifty yards.

  Far behind them, another fifteen ships pulled level and headed towards the shore. Flames burst into life amongst the defenders as torches were lit, unnaturally bright in the sunshine.

  A hundred yards.

  Ninety.

  Eighty.

  Finn felt the keel shift under him as the Long Wyrm leaned to port and headed away from the village’s makeshift pier, leaving the defenders wrong-footed, looking flustered by the change.

  Fifty.

  Einar’s bow sang three more times, and on shore, three men more dropped dead. Spurred into action, the peasants ran towards the place where the Long Wyrm would have to land. The ground split underneath the sheer weight as King Olav’s flagship ran aground and a host of screaming warriors leapt ashore and met the defenders head-on.

  The Svear fought like cornered animals, but they were no match for the king and his men. Olav was moving among them, deflecting blows off his shield, shattering faces with powerful swings of his sword, until soon even the battle-crazed Svear were falling over themselves to retreat away from the bloodthirsty man with the crown.

  *

  By the time Gunnar’s ship was close enough for shouting, the battle was over. Six villagers knelt in the middle of a ring of bloodied warriors. The gentle sound of the water mixed with the moans of the dying.

  King Olav could still taste the blood-lust in his mouth. His arm hurt where one lucky farmer had got in a solid blow with a cudgel and his right hand ached from clutching the hilt of his sword, but there was none of the rage left in him. He just wanted to get back onboard the Wyrm and be away.

  ‘What do you want us to do?’ Finn said.

  King Olav looked at him. ‘You? Get aboard the Long Wyrm and prepare for departure. But first, send Gunnar over.’

  The big warrior walked off without a word. A short while later, Gunnar approached.

  King Olav looked him in the eyes. ‘Send a message,’ he said. ‘Loot and burn the village.’

  ‘What about them?’ Gunnar said, glancing at the villagers in the circle.

  King Olav shrugged. ‘We will do unto others as they intended to do unto us,’ he said, looking to the skies. ‘And leave the selection to the Lord.’

  With Gunnar at his shoulder, King Olav stepped into the ring and reached for the hilt of his sword.

  *

  ‘PULL, YOU BASTARDS!’ Finn roared at the rowers. Even with twice thirty men under oars, the going was slow when the wind died down. The best path to Rus lay through the Sound, through a cluster of islands as close to the coast of Svealand as it was to Danemark, but they found out soon enough that no one had ever tried to take a ship like the Wyrm through. The moment they were within shouting distance of land the wind died down and suddenly the weight and the stability were working against them.

  ‘I SAID PULL!’ Finn screamed, but it was all for nothing. By the time they were close enough to count the branches on the first island they had slowed down to a crawl. Their fleet had overtaken them, ship by ship, and Finn was pretty certain he’d seen the rowers on the other raiding boats give it an extra bit of power just to make sure the Long Wyrm was humbled. Some of them had even had th
e nerve to shout insults at them, calling them fat nursemaids out for a swim and all manner of other, less complimentary terms.

  Behind them, the strait seemed to narrow as soon as they were in. Thick woodland covered the sightlines and Finn felt his chest tighten. It reminded him all too much of the tunnel under the wall in Stenvik.

  Einar Tambarskelf vaulted up from his bench to loud curses from his oar-mate. ‘To arms!’ he shouted.

  Finn shot a quick glance behind them. They were the last ship in the fleet and there was no threat whatsoever behind them. The next ship was three hundred yards ahead.

  ‘SILENCE!’ King Olav roared. ‘Sit DOWN!’

  Einar froze. ‘My King, we must get free of this place!’ he shouted. Up ahead someone shouted back, but the words got lost.

  ‘Sit. Down,’ King Olav snarled from the other end of the ship. ‘And everyone else.’

  There was no mistaking it this time: another shout from the front, and then screams.

  The first sleek raiding ship slid out from an almost entirely tree-covered bay two hundred yards up ahead to their left, silent and purposeful, and quickly followed by another – and another. As three more joined it from the right Finn swivelled and looked behind them to see a row of ships, at least ten wide, had suddenly appeared, some five hundred yards off their stern, blocking the exit.

  In between the trees on both sides, shadows moved. Shadows with blades.

  They were trapped.

  ‘ROW, YOU BASTARDS,’ King Olav screamed, ‘as hard as you can! Give me speed! Hit their line!’

  Up ahead, past the line of enemy ships, they could hear the first, sharp noises of metal on metal skipping across the sea like flat stones on a lake. The ships in front of them were crawling with activity and Finn noted with a heavy feeling in his stomach that ropes were flying across, being thrown fast and hard by experienced hands. Whoever had them trapped knew their work.

  The first thing they heard was a single word.

  ‘HEAVE!’

  The enemy ships shifted to the side as many strong hands pulled them close together.

  ‘Einar!’ King Olav shouted.

  The young man was up like a flash, bow in hand. He moved so fast that he tripped on the bench and stumbled – and just avoided an arrow that flew past him at head-height and buried itself deep in the mast.

  A tall man in white stood at the front of the middle boat, holding an impressive-looking longbow. Without any sort of urgency, he nocked another arrow.

  And just like that, the spell was broken. ‘COVER!’ King Olav shouted, and as quick hands grabbed the side-mounted shields one man caught the second arrow in his shield. The man next to him struggled and spasmed silently as the third took him in the throat. He rose and toppled over the side.

  An arrow whistled past Finn’s head, missing by inches.

  ‘Finn! Up front!’ King Olav shouted, and pointed to where a handful of men led by Einar Tambarskelf had started firing back. They were crouching behind shield-carriers at the bow, and by the time Finn got there the king had shifted the two rowers on the front benches and was busy hacking at the benches with an axe.

  ‘What do you want, my Lord?’ Finn asked.

  ‘Quickly – hack the benches! First three pairs.’

  ‘Why?’

  The king’s head snapped to the side. ‘Just DO IT,’ he growled. ‘Now.’ He craned his neck to look back at the rowers. ‘FASTER, YOU BASTARDS! WE HAVE TO PUSH THROUGH! DO IT FOR OUR LORD!’

  Finn dropped to his knees behind the cover of the shields and started working to break the benches free of their bases while the king was issuing orders, all the while pointing and shouting. One man rose to run back towards the mast and immediately hurtled forward, pushed by an arrow punching into his spine.

  ‘OVERBOARD!’ King Olav shouted and three men immediately leapt towards the fallen man, dragged him to the side and tipped him over.

  ‘Faster with the benches or we’re all dead!’ he cried, and Finn glanced up: over the edge of the shields he could now see the masts of the other ships. A scream went up from the stern; a screaming rower clutched his shoulder where the arrow had sunk deep into muscle and bone. Finn redoubled his efforts, and smiled when the wood finally gave way and the bench came loose. He yanked it out and thrust it into the waiting hands of the rower waiting there, crouched by his side, ready to shift the planks. Up ahead, the king was bent over some kind of construction, pulling on a rope.

  The noise of battle was doubling and redoubling as raw-throated screams melded together with the echo of breaking timber and the clash of steel on steel.

  ‘Don’t stop!’ King Olav shouted, ‘More! ROW FASTER!’ Then, grunting, he lifted the thing he’d been bent over: he’d lashed the benches together to form the biggest shield Finn had ever seen. It was almost five feet high and the moment it rose, three arrows thudded into it.

  ‘We need another!’ King Olav roared and Finn glanced to the side as the forests glided past, then looked up ahead. They were no more than eighty yards from the line of ships, and now he could make out individual fighters. The man in white was there, as was a big, broad-shouldered man next to him, and next to him in turn was a beanpole of a man.

  ‘QUICKLY!’ King Olav screamed, his own knife flashing as he cut rope and tied planks.

  Hidden behind the big shield, Finn and another four rowers hacked away at the next set of benches. He didn’t see the signal from their enemies, but he heard it: the first clang of hilt on shield boss, spreading out like a wave, growing and swelling until it was almost unbearable.

  ‘Fall back!’ the king growled as he finished roping up the final plank. Then, hefting it, he took a couple of experimental steps backwards. ‘Shield-wall!’

  The press of heavy bodies created a solid wall across the Long Wyrm, just ahead of the mast. Behind them, the rowers still pulled.

  Thirty yards.

  Finn finally stood up, his knees creaking and back aching, and looked across the ever-decreasing gap to the ships ahead of them, which had been lashed together and beams placed across their bows to form a solid fighting platform. The men on it were in constant movement; arms, blades, wild eyes, bared teeth.

  There was one point of stillness: a man of average build, clear-eyed and calm, surveying the scene that was unfolding before him. Thick beard, woven into two braids.

  As Finn watched, the man drew a deep breath and shouted, ‘SPEARS!’

  *

  Mouthpiece held onto the mast as hard as he could. Forkbeard had split their force in three, setting Jolawer to command the vanguard and Erik to run the rearguard. How he’d ended up on Karle’s boat he could not fathom; that had to be his bad luck. They had been hunkered down, silent as the night, since the news had travelled south: King Olav was burning villages as he went towards Rus. The instructions had come down days before: they’d form a line that would cut King Olav off from his fleet, which would be engaged by Jolawer up front. Following Forkbeard’s commands, the men had loaded ropes, hewn down trees a hundred yards or more from the coastline and prepared to close the trap, waiting for just the right moment.

  When they’d seen the Norse fleet a shiver of excitement had run through them. This was it: this was going to be the biggest sea battle in anyone’s memory.

  Being part of history did not make Mouthpiece happy at all, he was discovering. The two spear-throwers next to him suddenly rose, clutching their thick, fire-hardened missiles, as Forkbeard’s voice rang out.

  ‘SPEARS!’ he cried, and a path cleared through the throng as the throwers ran to the bow and launched their missiles towards the Long Wyrm.

  Forkbeard’s ships looked like toys next to that bloody thing. It’s too big, Mouthpiece thought. His insides suddenly felt like cold water. It would crush them. Someone yelled at him to move and pushed him into the mast and the pain shook him out of his bemu
sed state. Mouthpiece stepped gingerly away from the safety of the thick timber.

  ‘HOLD ON!’ someone screamed, and moments later his world juddered and shook as the Long Wyrm crashed into the ship in the centre. The whole of Forkbeard’s fleet shifted with the impact and Mouthpiece watched as a wave of men lost their footing, tumbling over in a flurry of limbs. The momentum of the big ship carried it halfway through the line, but there it ground to a halt, timbers groaning against timbers. Someone screamed on the Long Wyrm; halfway down the ship they’d raised huge shields bristling with all manner of blades, shielding the rowers who were furiously trying to push the ship through Forkbeard’s cordon.

  Screaming filled Mouthpiece’s ears and it took him a moment to realise that it was his voice. On the inside he felt calm, but on the outside he was finding his feet on the rocking ships, leaping from his own boat to the next, shouting words that meant little to him. He vaulted over the edge of the Long Wyrm and found himself beside Alfgeir Bjorne. The big warrior took one look at him, nudged him hard in the ribs with his elbow, then raised his shield and advanced towards the mast of the huge ship, which was too large for Mouthpiece to fathom. The stumps standing up where the benches had been hacked off looked like broken bones and the sides groaned where the Wyrm was locked in a death-dance with the ships around it, but it was truly majestic: a ship fit for a king.

  Mouthpiece squeezed in between Alfgeir and his handful of men as they advanced on the shield-wall, quickly closing the distance. He was rapidly losing his urge to fight.

  There was a moment where no one made a move.

  Then a spear shot out from the side of one of the shields and retreated just as quickly. Alfgeir Bjorne roared, took a quick step forward and gave the shield closest to him a swift – and very hard – kick with his heel. The men behind the shields shouted back and that was it: battle was joined.

  Next to Mouthpiece the press suddenly softened as the man on his left slumped down, silently coughing up black blood. Fear washed over him then and he started laying about him with his cudgel, slapping away swords and spears as they swung towards him, all the while squeezing his eyes shut and screaming as he smashed away at the shields, putting all he had into each blow.