Behind them, the trolls stepped back even further.
Audun looked at Ulfar then. ‘Are we—?’
‘Yes,’ Ulfar said, ‘yes, we are. Only a god can call down Bifrost.’
Oskarl’s last sound blended into a roar and then disappeared.
Valgard rose from the snow. He looked stretched, like a beast that had shed its skin.
Ulfar stepped onto the light. It felt oddly solid under his feet. He watched Audun step to the side and grab Helga.
Something passed between them, quickly.
Then Audun followed, and Helga was with him. He took a few steps, walking tentatively at first, but then moving quicker.
Helga’s scream cut him to the core. He turned and saw her, standing at the foot of the Rainbow Bridge, one foot on the ground, one foot raised. Their eyes met and she put her foot down on the bridge of light again and this time he heard the sizzle. Her face contorted in agony and she screamed again as she pulled her foot off. She mouthed something to him, just a short sentence, and shook her head.
They could see sadness in her eyes before she staggered away, limping.
Audun looked at Ulfar.
‘I am sorry, friend,’ Ulfar said.
Audun drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly, hands forming into fists as he moved further up the bridge, closer to Ulfar.
Valgard, eyes blazing, strode towards the foot of the rainbow and looked up at them. ‘And what do you think this will do? Are you going to run away?’
Ulfar smiled and looked over his shoulder as he kept walking up the bridge. ‘Us? Run away? Oh, we wouldn’t do that. That would be the act of a—’ He turned, savoured the insult, then threw it at Valgard with all the venom he could muster, ‘—coward.’
Roaring, Valgard sprinted towards them; his quick, sure steps took him up onto the bridge, closing the distance – and then Audun’s fist caught him square in the mouth and he stumbled backwards, sprawling like a new-born lamb. Then he fell.
Lying on his back on the Rainbow Bridge, Valgard smirked as he wiped blue blood off with the back of his hand. ‘And now you get what you deserve,’ he snarled. A thought flashed across his face and below, the troll army started moving towards the foot of the bridge. ‘You’ve shed blood. We’ll overwhelm you where you stand and this ridiculous realm of man will be overrun by the glorious beasts of Hel.’
Audun shot Ulfar a glance and received a smirk in return.
Infuriated, Valgard pushed himself up to his elbows. ‘The Wyrm of Midgard will rise!’ His voice rose, becoming shrill. ‘Fenrir will walk free!’ He got up and faced Audun and Ulfar. ‘And you – you will die.’
Behind him the width of the Rainbow Bridge was filling up with soldiers of all sizes and shapes.
‘Would you like us to take a few steps back, maybe?’ Ulfar said, smiling as he stepped slowly backwards up the bridge. ‘Give you some room?’
‘I don’t care!’ Valgard said, eyes ablaze. ‘You will be trampled where you stand, you bastard.’
Audun smiled as well. ‘And then what?’
‘RAGNAROK!’ Valgard shouted, and as one, his soldiers roared.
‘Because . . . ?’ Ulfar said.
Doubt flashed across Valgard’s face. ‘You – you hit me! And I bled!’
‘And . . . ?’ Audun said.
Behind him, the trolls were pushing each other to get to the front. A tall skinny one lost its balance and fell over the side.
Ulfar watched it fall. ‘One . . . two . . . three . . .’
The troll hit the ground with a dull crunch.
‘When the gods shed blood in the realm of man, the gates of Hel will open,’ Valgard said, his voice wooden.
Ulfar rolled his shoulders experimentally, as if trying out a new weapon. His smile was wide and honest. ‘That is, by and large, correct. But we are no longer in the realm of man. And that means that we can do exactly as we please, my son. And there is one thing that would please us greatly right now.’
He drew his sword.
The hammer flew.
Battle was joined.
Epilogue
CONSTANTINOPLE, THE OTTOMAN EMPIRE
AD 1034
The steps of the palace, still warm from the midday sun, were empty save for two guards. They were both young, and from a distance they could have been mistaken for brothers – tall, blond and bearded, broad in the shoulder and lean in the waist. They carried big axes in their belts; mean-looking things with long hafts and nicked blades. They were the Emperor’s Guard, the finest and most loyal warriors, the feared and loathed Varangians.
They were also bored nearly to death.
Ufrith, taller by a thumb’s width and two summers older, turned to Bjarki. ‘My grandfather was there, you know,’ he said.
‘I know,’ Bjarki replied.
‘He fought alongside them,’ Ufrith continued. ‘He saw them do battle with the armies of Loki and Hel. Audun and Ulfar, they called themselves then, but everyone knew it was them.’
‘And then—’
Ulfrith carried on, ignoring the interruption. ‘—just as they charged Loki and the trolls singlehanded, all the soldiers from Valhalla came running down. They fought on the bridge for half a day and apparently, the old man said, it took another four days just to throw all the corpses off the mountain.’
An old man in rags shuffled up to the steps. He walked with a limp, but his back was still straight. Without sparing him a glance, Ufrith stepped out of the shadows and barred the way to the doors. ‘They saved the world from Ragnarok, which would have made Loki the supreme of all gods,’ he said.
‘I know,’ Bjarki said.
‘And the way of the North was preserved, thanks to Odin and Thor.’
‘Thou shalt not worship false gods,’ the old man muttered, fumbling for a sword that was no longer there.
‘What?’ Ufrith said, noticing the visitor for the first time.
‘Nothing,’ the old man said, turning away. White hair with a few remaining streaks of blond hung down past his shoulders, but his chin was still clean-shaven.
Olav Tryggvason touched the wooden crucifix tucked into his shift and walked off into the shadows.
THE END
Acknowledgements
And then there were three.
I could say I had all this planned out. I might say there was never any doubt, and from there it would be a short step to saying that it is so hard being a writer, doing all of this stuff by yourself.
But I won‘t, because none of that is particularly true.
Thanks go to the formidable Jo Fletcher, Nicola Budd and Andrew Turner for their tireless pursuit of excellence on all fronts. The books look gorgeous, and thanks to their joined efforts, are 35% better, and because this is a percentage, it is therefore science and fact.
I would like to thank Nick Bain. I would not like to expound on just how much he has taught me about writing and how hard he continues to kick my various body parts when I present him with sub-par stuff.
To the staff, students and families of Southbank International School – thank you all for waves and waves of support, encouragement and belief. I love you all and will miss you dearly.
Further thanks go to the tireless Jane Magnet, endless fount of kind words. Madam, you are an inspiration.
Whenever I do anything, my family always deserves thanks and a whole heap of credit. Mum, Dad and Árni – you rock. Thanks also go to my adopted auntie Geraldine.
And lastly – to Morag, my wife. Without her I‘d be less of a marauding Viking and more of an odd, fluffy man, adrift in a barrel somewhere. I am so, so proud of you.
Turn over for your bonus content!
Tools of the trade
Now, we all know that the Vikings were cultured, well-groomed traders with a nice line in epic poetry and elaborate hairsty
les. However, there is a strong undercurrent of ‘history’ that claims that Vikings did, on occasion, indulge in a bit of wealth distribution, where they encouraged other people to distribute their own wealth. I am not going to confirm or deny this – I wasn’t there and you cannot prove anything – but if they did, theoretically, they would have needed some tools.
‘Those who beat their swords into ploughshares will plough for those who don’t’, the saying goes. The Viking Age wasn’t necessarily one of abundance – the relatively harsh climate of the Nordic countries meant that when the going got tough you grabbed what was to hand. And when you live very close to some pretty dense forest, the object to hand tends to be an axe. Different from the iconic double-bladed battle axe of traditional fantasy, such as Druss the Drenai’s Snaga, the Viking axe would be a practical tool for cutting wood. Ranging from a foot to five feet long and used with one or two hands, its utility in battle is based on the fact that things like ‘arms’ and ‘legs’ are just branches, really, with slightly more blood.
As the Viking Age progressed, warfare and tactics developed. ‘Going Viking’ became less of a family activity, and was instead taken over by organised war bands. The targets became bigger, annoyingly better organised, and the Viking armies grew. This necessitated a development in weaponry, and the widespread use of the most popular Viking weapon – the humble spear. Now – the idea of stabbing someone with something pointy is nothing new. Common sense also dictates that once you’ve seen enough of your friends get stabbed by pointy things while trying to stab other people with pointy things, the thinking man* would want to create some distance between themselves and the other wielder of stabbing implements. The Viking spear could be anywhere between two and three metres long, and be wielded mainly as a long melee weapon with throwing as a secondary option. This kind of makes sense, as you would be out of options if you started the fight by throwing your weapon away. It would also give the further advantage of setting up a shield wall in front of the spear wielder, in a burlier and hairier version of the Roman tortoise formation. The most famous fictional Viking spears might possibly be Gunnar’s Atgeir from Njall’s saga, commonly considered a glaive or polearm, or Odin’s Gugnir.
Which brings us, lastly, to the iconic Viking sword. Instantly recognisable by proportion and pommel, the sword is represented on tapestries and sung of in songs – and actually not that common at all. A sword was a sign of wealth, and possibly the most expensive thing a man owned. Passed down through generations, the family blade would probably have a name. Swords were costly, hard to make, and a strain on resources. Furthermore they required skill in usage, as the swords from the early Viking age would be at risk of breaking if struck on something hard. There are examples of swords breaking and being re-forged into spear-heads. The best swords were made by a sword designer named Ulfberth – but there is evidence that unscrupulous sorts marketed fake Ulfberth-branded swords, which would look very good until the moment they didn’t, typically in the middle of battle and surrounded by people highly intent on killing the wielder.
So why the sword, then, if it was so much trouble? It was not a tool, like the axe, or quick, useful and easy to make, like the spear – but a sword was a statement. It was the mark of a warrior, a sign that you were sharing a space with someone who was ready to get nasty, fast – someone who was carrying something desirable no-one had yet managed to take away from him. A sword, in Viking times, was a physical invitation to come and have a go if you thought you were hard enough.
Roughly a millennium ago, few people were.
* (the thinking woman has tended to stay away from such nonsense unless absolutely necessary)
KIN
by Snorri Kristjansson
Everyone loves a family reunion.
He can deny it all he likes, but everyone knows Viking warlord Unnthor Reginsson brought home a great chest of gold when he retired from the longboats and settled down with Hildigunnur in a remote valley. Now, in the summer of 970, adopted daughter Helga is awaiting the arrival of her unknown siblings: dark, dangerous Karl, lithe, clever Jorunn, gentle Aslak, henpecked by his shrewish wife, and the giant Bjorn, made bitter by Volund, his idiot son.
And they’re coming with darkness in their hearts.
The siblings gather, bad blood simmers and old feuds resurface as Unnthor’s heirs make their moves on the old man’s treasure – until one morning Helga is awakened by screams. Blood has been shed: kin has been slain.
No one confesses, but all the clues point to one person – who cannot possibly be the murderer, at least in Helga’s eyes. But if she’s going to save the innocent from the axe and prevent more bloodshed, she’s got to solve the mystery – fast . . .
Lies. Manipulation. Murder. There’s nothing quite like family . . .
‘A dark mystery in a dark age brought vividly to life’
Robert Fabbri, author of the bestselling Vespasian series
‘Truly entertaining: a new and original Nordic Noir voice’
Yrsa Sigurðardóttir, author of the Thóra Gudmundsdóttir series
‘An exciting new voice. With his Viking mystery, Snorri has created a new and interesting sub-genre of Icelandic noir’
Ragnar Jonasson
Chapter One
Karl
She dipped her hand in the barrel of ice-cold water and held it down, watching the hairs rise on her forearm. Her fingertips tingled, then the stinging faded away until her hand felt like it was just meat, throbbing in the enveloping, relentless cold – but she held it still, forcing herself to form a bowl as slowly as she could. Drawing a deep breath, she looked at her fractured reflection. A young woman stared back at her, eyes narrowed in determination, high cheekbones and a set jaw forming the impression of a descending bird of prey.
‘Helga!’
She exhaled and splashed her face with the cold water.
‘Coming!’
When she rounded the corner of the barn the land opened up around her. She could see over and through the treetops, all the way down to the longhouse by the river. The old barn was just visible, but the other houses were all hidden by the trees. Following the river she watched the Ren Valley open up, the dark browns and rich greens of forest giving way to patches of painstakingly cleared land. Late one night, when the ale had settled in him, her father had said that he was the ruler of all he could see. Some might have argued that the valley wasn’t his by any rights, but she had yet to meet anyone who saw Unnthor Reginsson sitting in his high seat with axe and bow within reach and wanted to argue.
‘Are you done?’ Einar’s voice rang out. She could picture him, down by the foot of the hill, standing by the side gate. Even at twenty-five winters, he still had the face of a boy. She knew he must have changed since the day she first came to the farm to stay with Unnthor and Hildigunnur, eleven winters ago, but it didn’t feel like it. She remembered watching him run past, chasing Unnthor’s daughter and trying to splash water on her. Even though she’d not seen him chase girls since Jorunn left to be married, he’d always be that boy to her. She smiled to herself.
‘Yes,’ she shouted back. The hay was stacked where it needed to be and a path had been cleared for the sheep. They’d be going on round-up in a month or so, but the longer they left it, the messier it got. Deal with things quickly and effectively. Her mother had taught her that.
She skipped down the path from the new barn, drinking in the air while it still held a bit of the night’s cold. The thick trunks towered over her. In the winter they shielded her from the winds coming up the valley from the southeast; now they gave her a nice bit of shade from the morning sun. As the ground levelled, she could see her foster-brother below, moving towards the gate.
‘Don’t you dare check my work, Einar Jakason,’ she muttered under her breath, and he must have heard her because he stopped and just watched her, waiting patiently. Thinking of something funny to say, probably. Helga smiled. He regularly tried to get one over on her in th
eir war of words, but so far he’d been unsuccessful.
She might not be Hildigunnur’s daughter by blood, but she was a quick learner and she’d caught plenty enough of her adoptive mother’s sharp tongue.
When she cleared the trees, Einar was still there waiting, a coil of rope around his shoulder. ‘What took you so long? Were you snacking on the hay?’
‘Girls don’t eat hay, Einar,’ she shot back. ‘Which means whoever’s saying she’s your girl these days is probably a horse.’
As soon as she came close enough, he swatted at her with the rope. ‘You’re a witch,’ he said.
‘Am not,’ Helga said. ‘If I was I’d have turned you into something passably attractive.’
‘Pff,’ Einar said, grinning.
His father Jaki, broad-shouldered and silver-haired, stepped out of the longhouse and shouted, ‘Get a move on, you two – they’re all coming today!’
Einar rolled his eyes. ‘Yes, Father,’ he shouted back, then he turned to Helga. ‘Come on, we need to sort out the old cowshed.’
‘Why?’ Helga asked, not moving.
‘Apparently Bjorn and his lot are staying there.’
‘Is this to keep the brothers separated?’
‘It is,’ Einar said. ‘Why d’you think the big man went east while Karl went south? Apparently they used to fight every single day – Karl beat up his brothers again and again, until Bjorn got strong enough to stop him. Hildigunnur got a lot better at healing wounds that year.’
‘We’re in for a great time, aren’t we?’ She sighed.
Einar shrugged and pushed off the fence. ‘It’ll be all right,’ he said as he walked off. ‘I’m sure the old ‘uns’ll keep them reined in.’
The inside of the old cowshed smelled faintly of animals and stale hay. Sunshine seeped in through cracks in the wall where the wood had warped, but most of the space was draped in a pale light somewhere between dusk and shadow, except for a bright cone spreading from the open door which showed the skeleton of a once-functional building littered with an assortment of tools, lumber and broken farm-stuff. A stack of planks the height of a man sat in one corner, next to some broken rods and unfinished hides strung on warped old frames. A solid rune-covered stone pillar stood in another corner, nearly hidden in the shadows.
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