Fate of the Gods

by Matthew J. Kirby

  “You out there!” Styrbjörn bellowed. “I know you can hear me! I demand safe passage to Uppsala! If these attacks continue, I will burn this forest to the ground! If you set any more snares, I will burn this forest to the ground! If I cannot rule this land, know that I will surely destroy it!”

  It wasn’t a ruse. Östen knew he spoke the truth, and thought again of the farms that touched the Mirkwood, the fields and pastures that grew near it, and the lives that depended on it. What would a victory over Styrbjörn matter if the Svear lost the very land they were trying to protect?

  They would have to let Styrbjörn pass.

  But Östen vowed in that moment that one day he would exact revenge on Styrbjörn. One day, he would show Styrbjörn the true meaning of ferocity.

  Javier knew the giant was David and Grace’s ancestor. But they weren’t sharing the simulation, so it wasn’t David or Grace that he spoke to as he gave his orders and left the company in Östen’s very large hands.

  Styrbjörn’s ships burned in the distance, even as those of Harald Bluetooth retreated back to Jutland. Thorvald could guess what had happened to bring both events about, but he needed to know for certain, if he was to plan his next moves. It would be easy enough to sneak into the Jomsviking camp and kill Styrbjörn, but that might be a mistake if the Jomsvikings felt honor bound to exact revenge, to say nothing of the nobles who secretly supported Styrbjörn’s return. Before Thorvald acted, he had to know more.

  He raced through the night, using his Odin-sight to leap through trees and over boulders in the darkness, until he drew near the Jomsviking encampment on the shores of Mälaren. He became one of the shadows and moved inward undetected, listening and watching, until he reached the council ring of Styrbjörn. Then Thorvald became as silent as a burial mound, and he observed the discussion from a position near enough to smell the salt cod on the breath of the Jomsvikings.

  Styrbjörn had grown mighty since his banishment, standing taller now than Östen or any man Thorvald had seen before. At his right hand, an older warrior spoke to those gathered.

  “I supported the burning. It was necessary after the Bluetooth’s betrayal, lest any of our number believe we might also retreat.”

  “And what of the oaths we swore to you, Palnatoke?” one of the Jomsvikings said. “Years ago, when we entered Jomsborg. Do you remember? Were those not enough? Are the years we have fought for you not enough to convince you of our honor?”

  Thorvald knew the name and reputation of Palnatoke, but had never seen the man. Though gray-haired and battle worn, he remained straight-backed and broad shouldered, plainly still a deadly fighter, and able to command.

  “I don’t doubt the honor of anyone standing here, Gorm,” Palnatoke said. “But our numbers have grown, and the youngest among us are not so steadfast—”

  “Then name the men you doubt.” The man Gorm spread his arms. “Let this be in the open.”

  “I will not,” Palnatoke said. “Now is a time for unity.”

  Gorm looked hard at Styrbjörn. “And yet you divide us by allowing this Svear to burn our ships.”

  “This Svear?” Styrbjörn smiled, but it held no amusement. “Have you forgotten my name?”

  “No,” Gorm said. “But I do not honor your name, and that is no secret. We follow Palnatoke.”

  “Then cease talk of this matter,” Palnatoke said. “It is done. We were sworn to this before the burning of the ships, and we are sworn to it now. We march for Uppsala, and—”

  “Palnatoke!”

  All of them turned as two warriors approached the council ring, a woman marching between them. She wore ring armor, and carried a sword at her side, marking her a shield-maiden. Though not a beauty, she was closer to pretty than she was to plain, with blond hair braided tight across her head, and a fine nose. Javier smiled inwardly at Thorvald’s attraction to her.

  “Who is this?” Styrbjörn asked.

  “A Dane woman,” said one of the men escorting her. “Her countrymen left her be—”

  “I was not left behind,” the woman said, her voice steady and clear. “I chose to stay.”

  Styrbjörn stepped toward her, slowly, until he stood almost directly over her. “Why?”

  The shield-maiden kept her eyes forward, and if Styrbjörn’s presence intimidated her, she did not show it. “Because I will no longer fight for a raven starver. My devotion to Harald has broken.”

  “And your oaths?” Styrbjörn asked.

  Now she looked up at him. “I swore no oath to him.”

  “No oath?” Palnatoke said.

  “He never asked it of me,” she said. “He assumed my loyalty.”

  “That was his mistake, it seems,” Styrbjörn said. “Will you swear yourself to me?”

  She cocked her head and looked Styrbjörn over, from his boots to his brow. “If you are an honorable man, I will swear to you when you are king, and not before.”

  Styrbjörn laughed. “What is your name?”

  “Thyra,” she said.

  “Harald mentioned you,” Styrbjörn said. “He offered you to me when—”

  “I was not his to offer,” she said. “As you would have learned had you accepted.”

  Styrbjörn laughed again. “Of that, I have no doubt. But now we must discuss what is to become of you. You stayed when your king and countrymen left. Do you intend to fight with us?”

  “I intend to fulfill the oath Harald swore to you.” She looked around the council ring. “I want it known that there is honor among the Danes.”

  “No,” Palnatoke said. “The Jomsvikings permit no women.”

  “You permit no women into Jomsborg,” Styrbjörn said. “We are not in Jomsborg. Besides which, you permitted my sister.”

  “Your sister was the daughter of a king,” Palnatoke said.

  “So am I,” Thyra said.

  Her declaration surprised Thorvald, which Javier knew to be an unusual experience for his ancestor. The others in the council ring appeared equally stunned, and for several breaths no one spoke except for the fire.

  “Who?” Styrbjörn finally asked. “Whose daughter are you?”

  “I am Harald’s daughter,” she said. “My mother was a shield-maiden.”

  “Has he claimed you?” Styrbjörn asked.

  “No,” she said. “And I have never desired it.”

  “Why not?” Palnatoke asked.

  She turned to him and scowled. “Would you?”

  Now Palnatoke joined Styrbjörn in laughing, and both men agreed that Thyra would join their ranks, and as a member of the council ring, which soon resumed its discussions of their coming march. Thorvald listened until the council separated, and then he crept out of the encampment to a distance from which he could observe the army’s movements and plan his own.

  It seemed that while Styrbjörn did not have the loyalty of the Jomsvikings, he had Palnatoke’s sworn support. That meant Thorvald had to consider what Palnatoke would do if Styrbjörn were assassinated. Given the reputation of the Jomsvikings, their honor-bound answer would be swift and brutal. Thorvald decided that killing Styrbjörn was not yet an option, and turned his strategies instead to robbing Styrbjörn of support, to weaken him.

  When the sun appeared, the Jomsvikings massed into ranks and marched. Thorvald stayed ahead of them, and later in the day, when they reached the Mirkwood, he went up into the trees.

  Östen had already led the company through, and Thorvald could see the hidden snares they’d left behind. He waited to see if the first of the Jomsvikings would detect the traps, but they didn’t, and when those traps sprang, men took injuries. If Östen had used the poison as ordered, those men would die later that day, but until then, the Jomsvikings felt no significant threat, and even laughed at the Svear and their harmless snares.

  Thorvald leapt and climbed from tree to tree, staying high above the ground, following the army, and it was some time before the injured Jomsvikings noticed the first effects of the poison. By that time, many mor
e of them had been tainted, and upon realizing the danger surrounding them, Styrbjörn ordered his force to a halt.

  His roaring reached Thorvald high in the trees. He assailed the cowardice of his enemies for using poison, his immense anger entirely by Thorvald’s design. It was poison that had slain Styrbjörn’s father, after all, and the memory of that would infect Styrbjörn’s judgment as surely as this new poison infected his men.

  The simplicity and effectiveness of his ancestor’s plan awed Javier. One cunning Assassin with thirty men had managed to halt an army. Perhaps not for long, but the Jomsvikings had lost all momentum.

  After that, they slowed their advance through the Mirkwood, pausing to check for traps and disarm them, but they didn’t find them all, and each subsequent injury only increased Styrbjörn’s rage. Eventually, some of the men who had already been poisoned volunteered to lead the way through the forest, to spare their companions. Their deaths already assured, they felt no fear, and Thorvald admired their sacrifice and loyalty.

  By evening, the number of dying men, and the danger of moving through the poisoned woods in the darkness, forced the Jomsvikings to halt their march and make camp for the night. Thorvald watched them settle down among the trees, the smoke from their dozens of fires blooming from the ground like fog. He climbed along the branches and trunks until he found Styrbjörn’s fire. Thyra sat with him, while Palnatoke went through the camp to check on his men and bid farewell to those soon to die.

  Thorvald settled to wait for nightfall, which fell with suddenness in the Mirkwood. He heard no laughter from around the campfires. The Jomsvikings seemed to have been hardened by their casualties, and they didn’t know what to do with an enemy they couldn’t see. They would be looking for a place to lay their anger.

  Thorvald planned to give them one, and Javier found himself marveling once again.

  A few hours went by, and after midnight, when those who could sleep had done so, and those who couldn’t sat lost in their fears, a distant cry of alarm went up to the north. Östen and the company had begun their raiding.

  Styrbjörn and Palnatoke leapt to their feet.

  A second cry sounded from a different direction, and then a third. After the fourth and fifth, it seemed the entire camp had fallen under attack, and Thorvald smiled from his hidden perch.

  “Fall back and form ranks!” Palnatoke shouted to those who could hear him. But many could not.

  Styrbjörn’s anger had reached the point of madness. Thyra tried to steady him, and warn him against rashness, but he ignored her and took up his sword and his axe. Then he charged away into the darkness, blindly seeking an enemy.

  “That fool will get himself poisoned,” Palnatoke said.

  “Should I go after him?” Thyra asked.

  “No,” Palnatoke said. “He won’t listen to you. It falls to me.”

  He gave a few last orders, and then ran after Styrbjörn. Thorvald left his position and gave pursuit, free-running through the trees in a gradual descent to the ground, waiting for the right moment.

  Palnatoke ran in and out of firelight, asking the men in each camp which way Styrbjörn had gone. When he entered a place thick enough with darkness, between campfires, Thorvald fell upon him from above.

  But somehow, the old Jomsviking deflected his hidden blade and threw him off. Thorvald rolled away and jumped to his feet, his axe and blade ready.

  Palnatoke strode toward him, his sword drawn. “A hood to hide your face? Are you ashamed of what you do?”

  “I bring the judgment of the Norns,” Thorvald said. “You’ve reached the end of your skein.”

  “Try and cut it, then.”

  Palnatoke seized the first strike, but Thorvald ducked the blow and came around with his axe. Palnatoke leapt clear, more agile than he seemed, and the two men circled each other. Palnatoke could easily have called for help from one of the nearby camps, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. Not without risking loss of respect from his men.

  The Jomsviking lunged, but it was a feint, and it almost threw Thorvald off-balance. He blocked Palnatoke’s sword with his hidden blade, barely, taking some of the impact with his forearm, and managed a swing of his axe while Palnatoke had come in close.

  The older man grunted, but the wound was shallow. It may have broken a rib, but not likely. “What is that little knife you wear?” he asked.

  “You will find out soon enough,” Thorvald said.

  Palnatoke came again, harder, and without deception, trusting in his strength. Thorvald dodged and parried, waiting for an opening, but his opponent offered none. It was time for him to seize the attack. He ran for a tree, and then sped up its trunk, using his weight to launch himself over the Jomsviking, catching his enemy’s shoulder with the beard of his axe.

  The metal bit hard, and pulled Palnatoke backward. The Jomsviking planted his feet and spun, tearing his shoulder free of the axe, but Thorvald was ready with his hidden blade, and with a lightning thrust, the old man died, almost instantly.

  Now Thorvald ran west through the forest, toward the river, using the sounds of battle and his Odin-sight to guide him. He heard a man shout Styrbjörn’s name, and he raced toward it, arriving in time to see Alferth fall. Two more of his company followed and died. It would take a dozen of the finest warriors to stop Styrbjörn in his rage.

  Another figure moved nearby, and Thorvald saw Östen not far from him in the trees. For a moment, he worried the giant would also charge Styrbjörn, but he didn’t, and Thorvald crept toward him.

  “You out there!” Styrbjörn shouted. “I know you can hear me! I demand safe passage to Uppsala! If these attacks continue, I will burn this forest to the ground! If you set any more snares or traps, I will burn this forest to the ground! If I cannot rule this land, know that I will surely destroy it!”

  Thorvald considered attacking Styrbjörn then. But in the moment he took to plan his approach, he noticed a strange weapon at his enemy’s side. A dagger. Its shape seemed familiar, but also sinister, and it stopped him. He heard Torgny’s words counseling wisdom, and patience, and cunning.

  Javier saw the dagger for what it was, the first glimpse they’d had of it in this simulation. Their race against Isaiah and Sean had now begun in a way it hadn’t a moment before. The urgency had changed.

  Östen moved toward the river, and Thorvald decided to follow him, leaving Styrbjörn for another day. When they had reached a distant enough point from the encampment, he called out, and Östen turned.

  “Thorvald?”

  “Follow me,” he said, and led Östen to the Fyriswater. “Is anyone else with you?”

  “They fell against Styrbjörn.”

  “Their fate is theirs. Where is the rest of the company?”

  Östen pointed north, and Thorvald let him lead the way along the cold boiling of the river. Gradually, the sounds of chaos in the encampment faded until they couldn’t be heard. They traveled then through the tranquility of a night forest, accompanied by the scent of pine and the lonely call of an owl.

  Eventually, they reached a meadow on the river, where they found eleven men waiting. Thorvald had hoped to find more, but Östen informed him they had given the company until blue light to return. So they waited.

  “Did you complete your task?” Östen asked him.

  Thorvald nodded. “I completed a task.”

  “What task?” asked one of the others.

  Thorvald considered how to answer, and decided to give these warriors the truth. Their labor over the last days had earned his trust. “I slew Palnatoke, leader of the Jomsvikings.”

  The men went quiet.

  “Why him?” Östen asked. “Why not Styrbjörn?”

  “Have my strategies failed?” Thorvald asked. “Have I led you astray?”

  “No.”

  “Then let that be your answer.”

  “That is not enough,” Östen said. “Good men are dead.”

  Thorvald sighed. He knew Östen meant no challenge, nor dishonor, and he
did not want to return either to him. “Styrbjörn has no army without the Jomsvikings,” he said. “But they are not sworn to him. They follow Palnatoke. So in killing Palnatoke, I have severed what bond they had to Styrbjörn. Come morning, they will blame him for the death of their captain, and we shall see if he has an army after that.”

  Östen nodded. “And what of Styrbjörn’s threat to burn down the forest?”

  “We must take him at his word,” Thorvald said. “We must—”

  A group of five warriors emerged into the meadow. Among them was Olof, who reported that the Jomsvikings had rallied and killed or captured many of their company. He did not believe that any more would come, and as the sky had finally turned, it was time to march. Thorvald ordered the men north, to Fyrisfield, their number reduced by half.

  “So we’ll let Styrbjörn pass through the forest?” Östen asked.

  “We will,” Thorvald said. “If the Jomsvikings follow him, we will let them pass through the forest as well.”

  “Have we reduced their number by enough?” Olof asked.

  “No,” Thorvald said. “But do not lose heart. I left designs for a war machine with the Lawspeaker. If Styrbjörn brings the Jomsvikings to Fyrisfield, death awaits them there.”

  Natalya kept looking back down the Path as she and Grace walked slowly away from the hill. She expected to see Owen running up behind them at any moment, possibly with the enormous and frightening Dog. But she saw nothing, even after walking for quite some time, and she began to worry that they had made a mistake leaving him behind.

  “I thought he would be right behind us,” she said.

  Grace looked back. “He was smitten with that Dog.”

  “I don’t think it was about the Dog,” Natalya said. “And I think maybe the Dog is a part of what we’re supposed to be doing in here.”