‘And who is he?’ Ulfar asked.
‘The – the—’ He blinked and winced, as if to shake off a bad headache. ‘He is – um – he has risen! He has risen!’
‘All right, he has risen. I understand,’ Ulfar said, glancing at the gate.
‘I don’t think you do, traveller,’ the youth said. ‘I think you are one of his enemies, and I think you’ll do great harm.’
Audun rolled his shoulders.
‘We’re not your enemies,’ Ulfar said hurriedly. ‘We understand. We’ll just go now.’
‘You can still help him,’ the big farmer said. ‘You want to help, don’t you?’
Audun gestured for Ulfar to be calm. ‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘No, we don’t.’
The big farmer homed in on the blacksmith, his eyes ablaze, like someone hearing a familiar song. ‘You,’ he said. ‘There is something inside you . . . that he wants.’
‘Come and get it then,’ Audun said.
Without warning the big farmer went for Audun, growling, thick arms outstretched, aiming to catch him in a crunching bear-hug.
A moment later, Ulfar’s reflexes sent him spinning away from a vicious hook thrown by the youth, but three steps back was not enough; the boy was upon him, raining blows with glee. ‘He rises!’ he shrieked.
‘Who is “he”?’ Ulfar shouted back, blocking and retreating. He could just glimpse Audun and the big farmer locked in a wrestler’s hold, neither giving an inch.
‘He is the cold in the North! He is death in winter! He is the life-blood of the Viking! The path to Valhalla!’ the youth spat, kicking, gouging and clawing.
‘Where in the North?’ Ulfar shouted, landing a blow of his own, but the youth didn’t appear to feel it.
‘He rises!’ the youth screamed, pointing to the heavens.
‘So that’s all you know. Fine,’ Ulfar said. He stepped into the boy’s reach, swung his elbow as hard as he could and felt the nose give way. Blood welled out and as the boy fell to the ground, writhing in pain, Ulfar stepped over him and walked towards Audun, who was standing over the body of the big farmer.
‘Is he dead?’ Ulfar asked.
‘No,’ Audun said. ‘Knocked him out.’
‘Hm,’ Ulfar said. ‘So what do you make of this?’
‘I don’t know,’ Audun said. ‘I honestly don’t know.’
‘There’s more and more that we don’t know, my friend,’ Ulfar said. He turned to look at the two men on the ground. ‘But with what I’ve seen recently, I am pretty certain,’ he said, ‘that if we leave them like this they will not have a good life.’ He looked around until his eyes fastened on a wrist-thick wooden bar resting up against a wall.
*
‘What did they say?’ Sven asked as Audun and Ulfar returned to Sigurd’s camp. ‘We heard some screaming.’
‘They weren’t best pleased to see us,’ Ulfar said. ‘Two men, both absolutely mad. Thought we were Forkbeard’s men and attacked us on sight.’
‘Shame,’ Sven said. ‘So they didn’t even point you in the right direction?’
‘No,’ Audun said. ‘I don’t think they knew much.’
‘Well,’ Sven said, ‘worth a try. Do you think they’ll follow?’
Ulfar pushed aside the image of legs spasming as the wooden bar smashed the farmers’ skulls and ended their lives. It had felt uncomfortably like an act of kindness. ‘No, they won’t,’ he said.
Sven turned to the seated men. ‘Right. Come on, you old grannies! Up we get.’ The men protested as they rose, but within moments they were ready to move. The snow continued to fall around them as they marched on, following the road.
‘You ran with Forkbeard’s men,’ Sigurd said to Audun. ‘What do you know?’
‘Not much,’ Audun said. ‘He’s apparently eight foot tall, three arms and so on.’
‘How is he set up?’ Sven said.
‘Groups of twelve or so roam around, sacking and burning everything they can find,’ Ulfar chimed in.
‘See? Told you,’ Sven said, a glint in his eye.
‘What?’ Ulfar said.
‘Oh, nothing,’ Sven said. ‘Nothing at all. I’ve just been thinking, that’s all.’ There was a spring in the old man’s step as he bounded to Sigurd’s side. ‘Just thinking,’ he said, to no one in particular.
Behind them, an unnaturally large black fox slunk away from the farm and into the shadow of the nearby trees.
*
Feeling every one of his advanced years twice over, Thormund huddled further into his furs and wished, not for the first time, that he could go back to the simple joys of risking his life stealing horses. Since he’d been rounded up by Forkbeard’s army and grouped with the mad Norseman, his life had gone from bad to worse. After the berserker got injured and half his men disappeared in the middle of the night, his war-band had been down to himself, Mouthpiece and six others. They’d met another of Forkbeard’s groups, headed up by a big Eastman bastard called Oskarl; the mercenary, a full head taller than Thormund, had assumed command immediately. He walked with a limp, but the cane he used was as thick as a forearm and splattered with reddish-brown stains of many hues near the end. Thormund knew better than to question the authority of such men.
So now there were twenty of them, and they were all cold, wet and hungry. ‘Fuck this,’ he muttered. ‘All of it, twice, with a pine cone.’ He wasn’t in charge any more, though, so that was probably a good thing.
They’d made a camp of sorts when the sun set. Oskarl, optimistically, had sent out a couple of men to hunt, and against all odds they’d come back with a brace of pheasants. There wasn’t enough for everyone, of course, and the biggest fighters got to the meat first, but Thormund had got his long, bony fingers on two carcases and he shared them with Mouthpiece as they huddled on the far edge of the fire, behind Oskarl’s men.
‘War is not as heroic as I thought,’ Mouthpiece mumbled. His jaw had mostly healed now, but it had set a little off and the young man now looked like his mouth was stuck in a sceptical scowl.
‘Most things aren’t,’ Thormund replied. ‘They really aren’t.’
They sat in silence for a while, listening to the conversation of the men around the campfire, until a deep, rasping voice cut through the night.
‘Good evening!’
Oskarl was up in a flash, moving remarkably quickly for a man of his size. ‘Who’s there?’ he shouted. He peered into the darkness, half-blinded by the firelight.
‘Relax, son,’ another voice said. ‘Don’t worry. Just two old men here, looking for some warmth.’ Two greybeards stepped into the very edge of the firelight, on Oskarl’s side, and Thormund’s heart stopped for a moment.
Mouthpiece was almost on his feet when the old horse thief caught the hem of his shirt and pulled him down. ‘No,’ he hissed, as quietly as he could.
‘Why?’ Mouthpiece said, but Thormund just shook his head.
‘Are you the leader?’ the first man asked.
‘Who’s asking?’ Oskarl said, taking a short step back.
‘I am Sigurd Aegisson,’ the old man said. ‘I am seeking Forkbeard, and you’re going to help me.’
‘Fuck you, old man,’ Oskarl said, smirking. ‘Are you going to make me?’
‘No,’ the old man said, ‘but they are.’
Almost too late, Thormund noticed movement right by him and looked up – into a familiar face: the Norse berserker, standing quietly beside a tall young man. The light from the fire danced on their faces. Very subtly, the Norseman motioned, palm flat to the ground: stay down, stay quiet. Thormund looked around. The campfire was surrounded by silent, still figures with a variety of unpleasant-looking weapons at the ready.
Oskarl turned to face the two old men. ‘What do you want?’
‘These are now my men. So are you. Understood?’ the
man who called himself Sigurd said.
The Eastman moved incredibly fast, whipping up his cane and swinging it at the old man’s head. In a blur, the handle of a great-axe was up to meet it.
‘That’s enough, son,’ the other greybeard said. A bony hand was holding Oskarl’s belt and a dagger was pointing straight at his groin. The shorter man with the beard was standing really close to the Eastman. Looking up into his face, he said, ‘You’re a big lad, right enough, but you’ve left your weak side open and I’ve floored bigger. If I even cough now, you’re either dead or singing real pretty.’
The big Eastman looked down. ‘Had to try,’ he said in his heavily accented Norse. ‘You understand.’
‘I do,’ the bushy-bearded man said.
Audun knelt down. ‘That’s Sven,’ he whispered, ‘from my hometown. Sigurd’s the chieftain.’
‘I thought I’d seen them before,’ Thormund said. ‘This day just gets better and better.’
‘Stay down,’ Oskarl barked at his men. ‘Sigurd’s in charge now. Any problems?’ None of the men seemed inclined to disagree. Across the fire, Thormund watched the old chieftain quietly giving orders, then the fighters parted for him and the man with the bushy beard as they moved through them and sat down. Behind him, the standing men went to work dispensing the cooked meat.
‘So I’m guessing this is the Swede, then?’ Thormund said, pointing at Ulfar.
‘It is,’ Audun said.
The tall man sat down next to them. ‘Ulfar,’ he said by way of greeting.
‘I’m Thormund, and this is—’
Mouthpiece went to speak but Sven’s voice, loud and strong, rang out across the fire: ‘Now listen up, boys. Sigurd and I are searching for Forkbeard. When we’ve found him and told him what we need to, he’ll want to move north for some serious fighting. There will be blood, and it won’t get any warmer, but there will be food to eat and things to steal. I’m an old man with a failing memory and bad eyesight’ – Oskarl smirked next to him – ‘and I’ve not done a head-count yet. I figure I will, though, in the next little while. If you’re here when I do, you stay. Understood?’
Two of Thormund’s party left the circle without words and disappeared into the shadows. Another two of Oskarl’s men walked off in a different direction. No one paid them any mind and no one else moved.
‘Right. So: sixteen, from the looks of it. Well met, boys. As I said, my name is Sven and this is Sigurd Aegisson. We’re from a town called Stenvik. Have any of you heard of it? No? Well, let me tell you a story.’
The Swede sat down next to them. ‘We’ll do introductions later,’ he said to Mouthpiece. ‘Old Sven knows how to spin a tale.’
Dots of light shone in the sky above them and Thormund wondered whether his life could get any worse.
*
In the next four days they rounded up another three of Forkbeard’s war bands. More than a hundred and fifty men now trailed Sigurd and Sven, kept in check by the men of Stenvik; just two days in and Ulfar found himself struggling to tell the newcomers apart. Sigurd’s raiders made it simple to follow and hard to step out of line. Cold and hunger helped the men to find the easiest path.
Around them, winter was strengthening its grip. Snow fell in the morning and blew away in the afternoon, but there was always a little left the next day and gradually, the world turned white.
At midday on the fourth day, Sven motioned to Sigurd, who brought the column to a halt. Plains stretched away on both sides, but a big forest of pine up ahead drew a black smudge across the shades of white and grey.
‘What’s going on?’ Thormund said.
‘I don’t know . . .’ Ulfar’s voice trailed off as he strained to see what Sven and Sigurd were looking at. Then, ‘. . . but I think it’s—’
‘Over there.’ Mouthpiece mumbled and pointed to the border of the forest up ahead. ‘Soldiers. Lots of ’em.’
‘You’re right,’ Thormund said, ‘more’n a few, that.’ Thick clouds in shades of greyish white were forming above them. The pine forest was maybe a mile away, and armed men just kept emerging. ‘Over a hundred, I’d say.’
‘Form up,’ Sven’s voice rasped over their heads, ‘ten abreast. If you’ve got a shield you’re up front.’ The men of Stenvik organised the newcomers and soon Sven and Sigurd were standing at the forefront of a shield square. ‘Audun! Ulfar!’ Sven barked. ‘Come here, you useless tits!’
Audun sighed, reached for his pack, got out his hammers and hooked them on his belt. The weight felt reassuring on his hips. Ulfar, already up ahead of him, was conversing with Sigurd.
‘—no idea,’ he was saying. ‘I would think it highly unlikely.’
‘Well,’ Sven said, ‘you’re wrong. I’d smell Alfgeir Bjorne from much further away. We might have a use for you two. Audun: look scary.’
Ulfar snorted. ‘He doesn’t need to try that hard.’
Audun suddenly became aware of the sheer weight of souls that the men around him had sent to Valhalla, and he realised that now he was finally one of them. You can run all you want, Blacksmith, but you can’t run away from yourself, he thought. This is where you belong.
‘They’ve seen us,’ Sigurd said.
‘I should hope so,’ Sven said. ‘I wouldn’t give much for their future if a hundred men could sneak up on them.’
Audun could hear the snickering among the soldiers. The old rogue had always had a knack for lifting men’s spirits.
Sigurd gestured in the direction of the forest and started walking.
‘Come on,’ Sven barked, ‘hold your place. We want to talk, but we’re not rolling over for a belly-scratch.’
Behind them, the square held nicely. Audun could hear Oskarl growling commands, stepping smoothly into the role of sheepdog.
The group at the other end of the field had grown a lot bigger. The men in front were just about distinguishable: a slim, tall man next to a bear-like figure.
‘You’re right. That’s Jolawer and Alfgeir,’ Ulfar said. Next to them, standing out in a background of leather and wool, a tall man dressed head to toe in white. He swallowed and took a deep breath. ‘And . . . Karle. The king’s second cousin. Says that makes him a prince. He also tried to kill me on the way south.’
‘Noted,’ Sigurd said. ‘Keep it to yourself and don’t start anything for a couple of days.’
‘I—’
‘Not up for a fucking vote,’ Sven snapped. ‘Sigurd, then me, then Oskarl. No one else makes any kind of decision on anything. We’re making friends now. Other things for later. Understood?’
‘Understood,’ Ulfar said.
‘On my command,’ Sigurd said, louder. ‘March.’
*
Audun felt the men behind him fall in step, moving with rhythm and purpose. Snow drifted gently down to the ground, settling in the footsteps of the hundred and fifty soldiers emboldened by common purpose and leadership.
When they were no more than a hundred yards distant, Sigurd raised his arm and as one, the fighters stopped.
Audun looked at the men facing them. There were maybe seven or eight hundred now, give or take. Thick woollen shifts down to mid-leg, glimpses of chain mail here and there, spears, axes, and the odd sword, big round shields and small bucklers. Some of the armour looked recently used; some of it looked like it had been sitting in a farmer’s shed for a while.
The men up front looked different.
Audun’s eye was drawn to the tall man in white. His face was narrow, framed by long blond hair. His clothes were the white of new-fallen snow: a thick, fur-lined coat that had to have been taken in Rus, and expensive-looking white boots. He carried a proper-sized longbow and looked like he knew how to use it.
Next to him stood a bear of a man, nearly as tall and twice as wide. Audun had to assume this was Alfgeir Bjorne, father of Geiri.
The
thin, wiry youth by Alfgeir’s side looked like a twig next to a tree. Blond hair pulled back from the sides framed a birdlike face, an angular nose and quick, darting eyes. His slight shoulders held a bearskin cape, fastened around the neck with a silver chain. He favoured simple travelling clothes in shades of brown and grey. On his head he bore a simple metal band, but despite looking like he could be swept off by a changing wind, he carried himself with the bearing of a king.
‘King Jolawer Scot of Svealand demands to know what you are doing on his land!’ Alfgeir boomed.
Without a word, Sigurd knelt, and behind him a hundred men did the same. A half-step slow, Audun realised that they should also be kneeling.
Head down, he muttered to Ulfar, ‘What’s this?’
‘Sigurd, doing it right,’ Ulfar muttered. ‘Follow his lead.’
‘We are travellers from the west, wishing an audience with the king,’ Sigurd said, eyes downcast.
There was a long silence. Audun chanced a glance, and saw the three men conferring.
A couple of moments later, Alfgeir’s voice boomed across the field. ‘Meet us in the middle.’
Sigurd and Sven rose. ‘Audun, Ulfar, Oskarl. With us,’ Sven said. ‘The rest of you – stand up and try to look less frightening, lads. I can smell them pissing themselves from here.’
A few of the men laughed, and chatter broke out.
‘Ulfar, anything you’ve forgotten to tell us?’ Sven said under his breath as they walked to the mid-point between the two groups.
Ulfar chose his words. ‘He’s young, but don’t underestimate the king,’ he muttered at last.
‘Fine,’ Sven said, ‘so we’ll not stick our arm in Fenrir’s mouth.’
‘I thought he was older,’ Oskarl said.
‘That was Erik,’ Ulfar answered automatically. ‘His father.’
‘They’re often older. You’re right,’ Oskarl said.
‘That’s enough,’ Sven said under his breath. ‘From now on, you speak when spoken to.’
Sigurd stopped; they stepped up and stood in line next to him.
Alfgeir, Jolawer and Karle lined up in front of them.
Path of Gods Page 2
