Path of Gods

by Snorri Kristjansson

  Sven.

  Thora.

  Ognvald.

  One of the giants bellowed something deep and incomprehensible, grabbing the other’s arm and pointing. Moments later, the two huge figures stepped back from the edge.

  Thora reached the top of the hill and launched herself after them. A rock the width of her torso shot through the air where she’d been moments before, missing Sven’s head by inches as the old raider and Ognvald reached the top of the hill side by side and disappeared.

  For a moment there was absolute silence. Then a sharp northern wind carried a bellowing roar from beyond the edge.

  ‘COME ON!’ Sigurd screamed, and all over the hillside, the raiders scrambled to their feet, rushing to follow them.

  *

  The first thing that struck them was the smell: a musky animal stench, only ten times stronger. Then blood.

  A lot of blood.

  The next thing was the upturned foot of a giant, lying on its back.

  Skadvald roared and charged past the foot, which reached up to mid-chest.

  No one followed.

  None of the men had seen a giant before, but they’d all seen their share of dead bodies – and this one was as dead as they got.

  About twenty yards further on, they saw the body of the other one. Skadvald stopped in his tracks and stared.

  Ognvald, Thora and Sven stood around it, panting and grinning maniacally at each other. Thora and Ognvald carried a dagger each, and Sven held one in each hand. Thora tried to say something, but all that came out of her was a strangled chortle.

  The raiders gathered around them in a half-circle. No one was in any rush to step any closer to them than strictly necessary. Sticky giant blood cooled as it pooled around the feet of the three.

  After a moment, Thora found her voice. ‘I needed that,’ she said.

  ‘Mm,’ Sven said.

  Ognvald just grinned. Then he turned to his father. ‘I’d like my sword back,’ he said. Skadvald looked at his blood-soaked son, standing next to the corpse of a giant, holding what was for all intents and purposes a skinning knife. Then he reached for his belt and silently unhooked a sword, passing it over hilt-first.

  ‘Thank you,’ the boy said, sheathing the sword at his side. Then, almost as if he was noticing them for the first time, he looked at the assembled raiders. ‘So. Are we going to the top of the mountain or what?’

  Without any big speeches, the group started up again. Audun pulled on Ulfar’s sleeve as they walked past the dead giants.

  ‘Look,’ he said under his breath.

  The bodies of the big creatures were covered in knife wounds, stabs, slashes and gouges. They’d both been hamstrung and one of them, which might have been male, wasn’t any more.

  Ulfar’s eyes opened wide as he took in the pure fury of the onslaught. ‘Looks like they’ve been done over by a pack of wolverines,’ he muttered.

  Audun looked up ahead at the forms of Sven, Thora and Ognvald. ‘I don’t think I’d bet on a pack of wolverines against those three,’ he said. ‘Remind me to be on their side when the thunder comes.’

  ‘I don’t think you’ll have to wait too long for that,’ the lanky Swede replied.

  They walked on in silence, leaving the dead giants behind them in a halo of cold blood.

  *

  A moment was all it took.

  The climb ranged from the steep to the nearly-vertical and then back again, rising all the time. When the sight-lines opened down to where they’d come from, forests of trees they knew to be six times the height of a man and at least a day’s walk to get through were nothing but a smudge in the white. Ulfar led the way, stumbling onto cracks and crevices that made up a path of sorts, always leading upwards, until the ground evened out and they reached a plateau roughly circular, four hundred yards across.

  And then, in that moment, he knew.

  ‘It’s here,’ he said to Sigurd.

  The old raider stopped and looked around as Skadvald walked past them. ‘Here?’ he said.

  ‘Here,’ Ulfar said.

  Sven looked around at the blue-black snow-capped stones. ‘It’s less colourful than I’d imagined,’ he said.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Skadvald said, turning away from the far edge and stepping towards them.

  ‘He says the Rainbow Bridge is here,’ Sigurd said.

  ‘Makes sense,’ Skadvald said.

  ‘Really?’ Sigurd said.

  ‘Well,’ Skadvald said, grinning as he unhooked the axe from his back, ‘they seem to think so.’

  He looked at the far edge of the plateau as Sigurd and Sven glanced at each other.

  ‘You go first,’ Sven said.

  Sigurd rolled his eyes and walked towards the far edge. He stood there for a moment, then walked back towards Skadvald and unhooked his own axe, limbering up, rolling his shoulders.

  ‘Oh fine,’ Sven said. ‘I’ll bite.’

  He walked towards the edge of the plateau. Slowly the landscape came into view, far away valleys stretching towards him, hills and lesser peaks rising to meet his eye.

  Then the deep valley below and the two-mile slope that led up to their plateau.

  And the mass of bodies ascending, human and troll.

  ‘Oh fuck,’ Sven said.

  *

  The raiders of Stenvik and Skadvald’s men prepared for battle like they’d done all of their lives: all around the plateau practised hands checked armour straps, reinforced leather strips on sword hilts and pushed padding into helmets where needed. Some of the men joked around, while others looked inward, staying silent.

  Ulfar watched as Old Thjodolf crept up to the edge and looked down. It looked like he was measuring something, index finger moving against his thumb. Then he went back to the packs and unwound a bundle of spears, arranging them carefully by thickness and jabbing them on the ground in a line leading from the edge. The spear on the far end was longer and thicker than the others.

  Sven was talking to Askell, a big hulk of a man, pointing towards barrel-sized boulders strewn about the big plateau. Behind big Askell, a handful of men of similar shape all hung on the old raider’s every word.

  In his own world, Sigurd took two steps back then two steps forward, swinging his axe in ever-widening and quickening arcs. With every swing another year dropped off the chieftain.

  ‘This is it, isn’t it,’ Helga said at his shoulder.

  Ulfar made an effort and managed not to jump. ‘Yes. I think so.’

  ‘How is your wound?’

  ‘Still can’t see out of the eye,’ Ulfar said, ‘but there’s no pain, which I should be thankful for. Healed over quick. I’ll be useless in the fight.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ Helga said. She thought for a moment. ‘Would you believe me if I said I still don’t know why I’m here?’

  Ulfar smiled. ‘Oh, I would. I don’t.’

  Helga touched his arm. ‘I think you know more than you realise.’

  With that she left him and walked over to Skadvald.

  ‘I’m pretty sure I don’t,’ he mumbled. ‘I don’t even know where—’ His jaw snapped shut and a sensation burned its way up and down his spine. Lips pursed, he closed his eyes.

  He did know. He knew exactly where they needed to be.

  When he opened his eyes again his body had relaxed. ‘Sven. Sven. Where is Sven?’ Pushing past warriors, he found the greybeard standing next to Sigurd. ‘We need to twist the position of the men to the left.’

  Sven turned and looked at him. ‘Why?’

  Ulfar squeezed his eyes shut and held his forehead with one hand, trying to keep the thought still. ‘It’s going to be . . . important.’ When he opened his eyes again, he saw the trace of a glance between Sven and his chieftain.

  Sigurd shrugged. ‘
Fine. I’ll go and tell Skadvald.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Ulfar blurted out. ‘I—’

  The voice swallowed up Ulfar’s words.

  ‘RIGHT: WAVE GOODBYE TO YOUR COCKS, YOU GOAT-BOTHERING PUS-FACES – THEY’RE COMING!’ Thora moved back from the edge.

  ‘Rocks!’ Sven screamed as behind him, Skadvald roared orders to his own men, who shifted their planned lines of battle towards Ulfar’s indicated position.

  Carrying boulders the size of sheep, Askell and another six muscle-bound men staggered to the front and dropped their cargo over the edge. From far below, roars carried up on the wind. Ulfar saw Sigurd move to the edge and peer over, then quickly catch Sven’s eye.

  ‘Throwers!’ Skadvald shouted. Ten of his men and another ten of the Stenvik raiders, led by old Thjodolf, ran towards the edge and launched spears down towards the unseen army.

  ‘Hand-axes and spears!’ Sigurd shouted, retreating from the edge. ‘Keep your eyes and ears open!’ A group of rune-carved warriors armed with shields and axes took up position in a loose half-circle facing the edge. Spearmen stood behind them, both hands on their weapons, ready to stab over their shoulders. When the first wolf came bounding up the slope, Sigurd shouted again.

  ‘STEP ASIDE!’

  As the warriors in the middle of the half-circle created an opening wide enough for three carts side by side, Sven and a handful of his chosen men started wailing and banging weapons on shields. The wolves flowed through the gap and into the middle of the plateau, charging at the source of the noise, a tide of grey fur and sharp teeth.

  ‘CLOSE!’ As the last of the wolves streamed past, the axemen formed their circle again – and not a moment too soon. The trolls reached the top of the slope and went straight for the nearest humans. There were four of them; ugly bastards, too, swinging clubs and crudely broken tree branches.

  Ulfar watched as the mobile fighters quickly split up, two to a troll, giving them moving targets while the spearmen jabbed, aiming for knees and hips. The trolls bellowed, then in a blink of an eye stepped close into what looked almost like a formation.

  Another three trolls came running up the slope, followed by a handful of ragged humans with spears.

  ‘Humans first!’ Skadvald shouted.

  The spear-wielders followed his advice mercilessly and within moments throats were split and guts were spilled as the thick, pointed missiles found their targets, with force. The corpses fell where they stood and Ulfar watched as a troll angrily kicked one of them out of the way. Blood spilled in the snow and mixed with the sight of wolves losing their shapes, breaking in half under the ferocious assault of an attack team led by Sven and young Ognvald.

  ‘Bad choice of prey,’ Ulfar muttered.

  But the enemies kept on pushing up from the slope and what had been four trolls a moment ago were now eight, and a good twenty ragged people clustered around them. Slowly the mass advanced, with more bodies appearing by the edge.

  ‘STEP BACK!’ Skadvald shouted, and the axe-men were only too happy to oblige. Old Thjodolf, stepping backwards, sure-footed, yanked a spear from the ground and threw it hard into the group of enemies, then moved to the next one before the first spear had even connected. A cheer went up from the men as the first spear hit a troll dead in the eye socket, shattering its face, but many hands grabbed the lifeless body and shifted it out of the way almost instantly.

  The point where the slope rounded off onto the plateau had disappeared under a line of trolls and humans that stretched out, forty yards to either side. There were more than thirty trolls now, and they were advancing in precise formation, as one, step by step.

  In response, the raiders had drifted into a line of their own, facing the dark army. The gap was fifty yards wide and closing.

  At the front Ulfar saw Sigurd glance back at him, then draw a deep breath. ‘Fall back to Ulfar when the time comes!’ he shouted. Then he turned to face the trolls, slapped the handle of the axe and let out a fearsome roar.

  ‘He is a good man, Sigurd Aegisson.’

  Ulfar spun around so fast that he almost fell over. The sword was in his hand before he realised he’d reached for it. Only after he’d regained his balance and focused his eye on the source of the voice did he realise that Audun had somehow come to stand beside him and a fine white mist was lapping at their calves.

  Here, in the mountains, as high up in the world as anyone could go, he seemed somehow more substantial.

  Odin stood before them, tall and proud, grey and white like a mountain. Next to him stood a muscle-bound man, slightly shorter. There was a tangible sense of mass about him: broad chest, long arms, blacksmith’s hands. A big hammer in his belt.

  Thor.

  ‘There is a problem,’ Odin said.

  ‘Really?’ Ulfar said, casting his eye over his shoulder. He could see the fighting men in a haze. ‘You are truly all-knowing.’

  Thor’s nostrils flared but he kept still, though with some amount of effort. ‘Shut up,’ he growled.

  ‘Loki has chosen Valgard to take his place,’ Odin said, ‘and he is working hard to bring about the destruction of the world.’

  Ulfar looked at Audun, then back at Odin. ‘You’re going to say what you want to say, so could you make it quick? We have to go and kill an army of trolls.’

  ‘No, you don’t,’ Odin said.

  Ulfar sighed. ‘Fine. We don’t. What is the master stroke that I’ve missed?’

  ‘Your friends are mighty and strong. I am happy to see Helga Finnsdottir’s hand in this.’

  Ulfar smirked and glanced at Audun, who glared back at him.

  ‘But even if you slay all the trolls, Valgard will quite easily defeat all of you.’

  Ulfar searched for a witty comment, but he couldn’t think of anything. ‘What can we do?’

  ‘Belief is a powerful thing,’ Odin said. ‘Did you hear many of the men shout my name before they went into battle?’

  ‘. . . hm,’ Audun said. ‘No.’

  ‘My powers are fading,’ Odin said. ‘They don’t believe in me because they don’t feel they have to, and if they don’t have to they won’t believe in me.’

  ‘So what is there to do?’ Ulfar said. ‘Are we troll-food?’

  ‘They don’t eat,’ Thor said. ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  Shocked by the familiar tone, Ulfar looked at the blacksmith. Then he looked at Audun, standing next to him.

  Then Ulfar understood what needed to happen. ‘. . . Oh,’ was all he managed.

  Odin looked at him then, a twinkle in one eye. He raised his finger. Ulfar strained against it, but his sword rose as if it had its own will. The All-Father placed the point at his heart – and stepped forward.

  Ulfar screamed, frozen in place, staring at the sword handle where it met the sternum of the All-Father.

  Odin coughed and whispered, ‘Don’t fight him on the ground. When the gods do battle in the realms of man, the gates of Hel will open and that will be too much even for you.’

  Ulfar had a moment to break Odin’s gaze. To his side, Thor held a hammer handle-first to Audun. The Norse blacksmith grabbed it and swung.

  *

  When Ulfar opened his eyes, all worlds rushed in to meet him.

  The plateau was a cauldron of battle. A hundred and twelve men were left standing, Sigurd and Sven among them, but there were a hundred and seventy trolls and more coming: a flood of them.

  ‘Too many,’ he said. ‘Need to even this out.’

  He turned to the nearest Stenvik man. Too close by far. The raiders had pulled back and left a score of dead men and trolls lying between the two armies.

  ‘Spear,’ he said.

  The grizzled raider took one look at him and scampered away, looking frantically for a spear.

  At Ulfar’s side, Audun rooted in his backpack.

  ‘Ah
! There we go.’ He pulled out a broad leather belt.

  Ulfar looked at his friend. The old blacksmith’s hammer in his belt had been replaced. The new hammer looked a lot more substantial. A square head inlaid with runes all round sat on top of a handle reinforced with leather straps for grip.

  ‘Nice hammer,’ Ulfar said.

  ‘Thank you,’ Audun said. He took a deep breath, fastened the belt around his waist and almost inflated, becoming more solid than his surroundings.

  The raider re-appeared and wordlessly handed Ulfar a thick spear. Words came unbidden, muttered incantations that seeped into the wood, then Ulfar pulled his arm back and sent the spear flying.

  The missile arced over the fighting forces and cleared the heads of the onrushing trolls by a wide margin.

  ‘You missed,’ Audun said.

  Ulfar just smiled.

  Skadvald’s men and the raiders of Stenvik shouted in surprise as the snow trembled beneath their feet. Where the spear had passed figures emerged out of the ground, pushing troll and human alike out of the way.

  ‘Einherjar?’ Audun said.

  ‘Hey – if he is allowed to cheat then so am I,’ Ulfar said.

  The moment they were on their feet the big warriors, armed and armoured and almost of a size with the trolls, laid into the nearest of the dark army’s soldiers. The newcomers came in all sizes – some were dressed like mercenaries; others wore big furs and wielded heavy clubs – but they all had one thing in common: they had been sent to Valhalla for their valour in battle. Bodies fell around them, but wherever one dropped, two came to fill his place.

  Ulfar glanced towards the far end of the plateau. Almost half of it was filled with dark bodies now, all twisted inwards towards the distraction of the risen Einherjar, pressing in towards them, suffocating them with numbers. With one careful eye on the spectacle, the raiders of Stenvik were inching backwards to a position by Audun and Ulfar.

  ‘About time you two showed up,’ Sven said.

  Ulfar looked at the old man. He looked tired, but there was a twinkle in his eye. ‘What can I say? Sometimes it takes a while to figure things out.’