Path of Gods

by Snorri Kristjansson

  With that, Sven stomped off towards the head of the line.

  Audun watched him go, wondering exactly what was in store for them at Gallows Peak.

  *

  Days passed, snow fell and around them the country changed: the trees grew longer and thinner and the hills rose higher, their slopes steeper. The weather changed, too. The grey clouds drifted away and for two days the sun shone, but not enough to warm the air.

  Finally, mid-morning on the fourth day after the decision, Sven and Sigurd stopped on the crest of a hill.

  ‘There they are,’ Sigurd said after a while.

  ‘Can’t hide anything from you,’ Sven replied.

  ‘You know what?’ Sigurd said, and when Sven shrugged and grunted, he said, ‘I’ve never actually seen them.’

  ‘Well, now you have,’ Sven said.

  Behind them, the line of men trudged up the hill and, as one, the men all came to an abrupt halt. A soft wave of murmured curses followed the chieftains’ conversation.

  At the far end of the line, Audun elbowed Ulfar gently.

  ‘Wake up.’

  ‘Whuh—?’ Ulfar mumbled, head down and feet still moving.

  ‘Look,’ Audun whispered.

  Ulfar looked up and blinked. Then he squeezed his eyes shut, blinked again and stared. ‘Oh . . . crap,’ he said.

  In the distance the world rose up in a jagged edge that reached up to the sky like the fangs of a silent, screaming beast.

  ‘Gallows Peak,’ Audun muttered. ‘It’s massive.’

  Ulfar gazed at the mountains, transfixed. The range stretched away from them in both directions for as far as the eye could see. A frozen river snaked out of the hills and disappeared into the encroaching forest, but closer to the slopes the trees thinned out.

  ‘That’s the Peak!’ Sven shouted, voice loud in the still air. ‘That’s where we’re going!’

  No one replied. They just stared.

  ‘We’re here to do a job,’ Sigurd said. ‘We’ll do it over there.’ He pointed towards the mountains. ‘It may be the worst pile of shit I’ve ever walked into, and that’s saying quite a lot. This is your last chance to turn away.’ The chieftain of Stenvik surveyed his men for the last time before he started picking his way down the hill.

  Ulfar looked at the warriors around them as they set off again, stumbling through the snow with faces set in grim determination. Not a single one of them had even contemplated the thought of turning back. ‘If Valgard’s there we’ll give him a hard time,’ he said.

  ‘And if he’s not?’ Audun said.

  ‘Let’s not think about that just yet,’ Ulfar said, feeling for the next step in the snow. ‘Let’s just hope we’re on a path to glory.’

  ‘The path to glory is wet and cold,’ Audun muttered as he followed in Ulfar’s footsteps for the front of the line.

  *

  In the distance, Gallows Peak itself looked like the rocks had been ripped out of the ground by an angry god. Lesser mountains, gorges, hills and valleys spilled off it like ripples in the land.

  ‘No wonder no one goes here,’ Ulfar said. ‘It’s not a kind country.’

  ‘The mountain men I’ve met are neither soft nor fat,’ Sigurd agreed. ‘Tough bastards, though.’

  ‘True,’ Sven said.

  The path they’d chosen led through a valley, following the bank of a solidly frozen river. About fifty yards on either side the treeline started, thickening as it reached the foot of the hills maybe two hundred yards further away. The thick cover of the trees sloped sharply away on both sides, which meant the ridges disappeared from view. It was easy going, giving cover from the worst of the wind and leading them straight towards the base of the mountain range.

  But when they were a good five hundred yards in, Sigurd reached slowly over his shoulder and unhooked the big axe. ‘Something’s wrong,’ he said, turning back and looking towards the end of the line.

  Sven turned too, and looked at the single file behind them, stretching back almost as far as he could see. ‘Shit,’ he said, turning on the spot to follow Sigurd. ‘Go back,’ he said to the man behind him. ‘Blades.’

  Blood thumped in Ulfar’s ears. The forest around him suddenly felt full of hidden, silent threats, but he still couldn’t find anything that might suggest what Sigurd had spotted. Ahead of him a wave of movement swept down the line and within moments every man was holding a weapon of some sort. Sigurd led the line that was quickly doubling back on itself, delivering a steady stream of commands in a quiet voice as he passed each fighter. When they were halfway down Ulfar saw that Audun’s rearguard had closed the gap.

  ‘What’s going on?’ the smith said when they met.

  ‘I don’t know. Sigurd’s got a gut feeling. I’ve not seen or heard anything.’

  ‘Birds,’ Audun said, his voice dark. ‘There are no birds – forest like this, there should be at least a handful of little bite-sized ones, but there’s nothing here.’

  Ulfar sighed and looked to the skies. ‘Fine. We get it. Just, you know. Bring it on and get it over with.’

  Almost like a reply the first branch rustled somewhere above their heads and to the left, then the second – and the third and soon the whisper in the trees was everywhere, punctuated only by the sharp snapping of twigs.

  ‘SHIELD-WALL!’ Sven shouted. ‘THEY’RE ON THE RIDGES!’

  The men of Stenvik moved together, forming two lines of twenty men standing back to back, their shields together in the middle of the path, fifteen yards from the treeline. Behind the shield-bearers there were blade-carriers, lined up and ready to punch through the wall.

  Heart hammering in his chest, Ulfar took up a place behind two of the heavier greybeards, his own sword at the ready. One of them looked at him and winked. ‘We’ll hold ’em, you stick ’em,’ he said.

  Ulfar smiled weakly in return and wished he could find his courage somewhere.

  ‘There,’ someone snapped, pointing at the trees as snow cascaded down, rising back up in a puff of white where the enemy passed. ‘They’re coming down the hillside.’

  ‘HOLD YOUR GROUND,’ Sven barked. ‘WE’LL GIVE ’EM A RUN-UP – IT’S ONLY FAIR!’

  This brought chuckles from the men.

  ‘STENVIK!’ one of them cried and ‘STENVIK!’ the cry came back. When the noise died down Ulfar listened for the battle-cry of their opponents, but there was nothing to hear, just that damned rustling. The treeline suddenly felt awfully close.

  ‘How many do you estimate?’ Ulfar whispered to Sven, who was moving about between the two lines like a house builder, filling the cracks.

  ‘Enough of ’em,’ Sven snapped back. ‘Quit your counting, boy. It’s a bad habit. There’ll be fewer if you kill some. We’ll stick ’em and make them bl . . .’ The old rogue’s voice trailed off and Ulfar followed his gaze over the heads of the shield-bearers to the treeline thirty yards away.

  The creature that walked out of the woods was at least seven and a half feet tall. The clothes of a normal-sized man hung in shreds on its bulky body, exposing blue-tinted skin. Long, muscular arms hung down by its sides and one massive hand clutched a club as thick as a man’s thigh.

  ‘You told me the mountain men were rough, but I didn’t expect that,’ Ulfar said.

  ‘That’s not a man any more,’ Sven said quietly, without taking his eyes off the enemy. ‘That’s a troll.’

  Just as he’d said it another five trolls emerged from the forest. They watched as their leader pointed straight at the shield-wall and without any more warning the huge blue-skin sprinted towards them, his club raised. After a moment’s shock he was met by the raised shields and battle roars of the men of Stenvik, who waited with spears poised until they could smell him. Then, like the fingers on a deadly hand moving all together, five thick spears launched, flew and sank into the troll’s
torso with force.

  The spears didn’t even slow it down. The warrior in the centre of the shield-wall disappeared in a fine mist of blood as the troll’s club came down on him, smashing through to the ground.

  The giant blue-skin bellowed, grabbed the spears impaling it in a meaty fist and ripped them out of its chest.

  ‘DROP SHIELDS AND KEEP MOVING!’ Sigurd screamed. ‘DROP SHIELDS!! MOVE!!’

  But the trolls were upon them, and in an instant Ulfar’s world turned to screams, blood and chaos. He caught only a glimpse of Audun, fumbling to pull something out of his bag, before he was shouldered out of the way just as a massive troll club swept past at head-height, fast enough to smash through everything in its path.

  ‘Move!’ Sven hissed in his ear before darting away again. Something fizzled at the back of his brain, a small spark of lightning; a familiar voice spoke to him and he saw. The trolls had a rhythm to them: swing, pull back; swing, pull back. All he had to do was move with the rhythm, and—

  Like a dancer, Ulfar tiptoed backwards in the snow out of the arc of another troll’s club. All around him the Stenvik men had broken their lines and were goading the trolls into individual stand-offs, ten men or more to each troll. Sprawled bodies lay all about but none of the blue giants were down yet.

  Ulfar stepped into the reach of the troll he was facing and his blade darted out past the big beast’s knee.

  ‘Aim for the heart!’ the warrior next to him screamed.

  ‘No,’ Ulfar hissed between gritted teeth as he slapped the edge up against the troll’s calf muscle and pulled for all he was worth. The edge of the blade sliced into the hard meat and the tension did the rest. When the troll pushed off to prepare for the next swing, the muscle split and the big creature sank down on one knee.

  ‘Down you go,’ Ulfar snarled, and that almost cost him his life as the club came barrelling past at rib-height on the backswing.

  ‘CUT THEM!’ he screamed as the men of Stenvik fell on the crippled troll. ‘SLICE THEIR LEGS!’

  ‘WOLVES!’ Sven screamed back.

  Through the chaos of fighters Ulfar could just about see in the distance grey, four-legged shapes running down the hill towards them. ‘Oh, so that’s how you want it to be?’ he snarled, wiping the blade on his tunic.

  A roar went up to his right and Ulfar glanced towards the source of the sound just in time to see a thick-bodied troll break and disappear behind Stenvik fighters. There was the sound of dull thuds. Oddly, the hardened Viking warriors all appeared to be inching away. Then the sight-line cleared and Audun rose from the pile of meat and bones that had been a blue-skinned monster just moments ago, holding his hammers and wearing a big belt that Ulfar didn’t recognise.

  The smith glanced at him and flashed a lightning smile.

  ‘TO ME!’ Ulfar shouted, wading through the snow to meet the wolves.

  Behind him, Sigurd cried ‘STENVIK!’ and a deep-throated roar followed.

  Ulfar glanced back quickly: more trolls were down. Twenty or so warriors of Stenvik followed him to meet their new foes: slavering beasts on four legs with murder in their eyes.

  Audun charged through the snow ahead of them, looking like a man among boys. ‘COME ON!’ he roared.

  Ulfar’s war-grin froze.

  There was more movement behind the wolves: men, moving swiftly – ten, twenty – no, more. It was getting harder to see snow among the trees.

  The wolves reached the hard-packed snow out in the open and sped up, launching themselves at the warriors in a blind fury. Reacting before he could think, Ulfar struck with his blade, slicing into dirt- and blood-caked fur. A quick side-step got him away from the reach of snarling teeth, but the wolf was fast too, spinning around the moment it landed, and pain exploded in his calf as jaws locked down on the muscle. Screaming in pain, Ulfar twisted, slicing downwards with a blow that would have felled any normal animal, but the madness in the beast’s eyes only intensified. A dark shape zoomed into Ulfar’s field of vision and smashed into the wolf’s head, inches away from Ulfar’s kneecap. A hammer. The grip on his calf slackened immediately as the animal went still. Ten yards away, Audun nodded at him, then turned and set about with his remaining hammer.

  Suddenly alone in the middle of the battle, Ulfar had a moment to look around. The biggest of the trolls was still standing, surrounded by Sigurd, Sven and a handful of Stenvik fighters. Battles between man and wolf raged all around the clearing, while Audun charged through the fray, freeing wolves from their curse through the medium of a hammer to the brain, but he couldn’t be everywhere and far too many Stenvik fighters were already lying unmoving, face-down in the snow. There was movement everywhere on the hillside now, shades of man and wolf among the trees.

  ‘FALL BACK TO SIGURD!’ Ulfar screamed. ‘GATHER UP!’

  ‘ULFAR!’ Sven shouted at the top of his voice.

  That half-turn of the head saved most of Ulfar’s face.

  The wolf’s jaws bore down on the side of his head – scalp, ear and eye – as the beast in mid-leap collided with him. He staggered under the hot breath, the smell and the fury of the growl, and Ulfar heard himself howl to match the wolf’s madness as he felt the meat of his cheek tearing away. His arm felt like someone else’s as it twisted to get the point of his sword under the animal’s ribcage and drove it up, hard, through the heart and into the brain, and immediately the animal was dead weight on him, the teeth scraping down his face, peeling off what it hadn’t got already. Hot blood streamed down to his neck, thickening fast in the cold air. The noises of battle flowed back to him through the numbing pain and he staggered towards Sven, Sigurd and the troll. ‘FALL BACK!’ he screamed, but all that came out was a hoarse whisper.

  Half the world was black. Bodies appeared around him out of nowhere: friends.

  Strong arms dragged him through the snow, towards the small knot of Stenvik men in the middle. As he slid to the ground in a safe spot, Ulfar saw Audun charge ahead of the warriors and into the group surrounding the big troll. Time slowed as the blacksmith pushed past the blades and hurled himself straight at the blue-skin; he threw his arms open and enveloped the troll’s thick midsection in a bear-hug.

  The big troll got two bone-crunching blows in on Audun’s back before its spine broke. Moments later Stenvik blades made quick work of ensuring it stayed down.

  Cold on the wound: snow.

  ‘How are you holding up, son?’

  ‘Fucking fine,’ Ulfar wheezed. ‘There’s more coming. How many dead?’

  ‘Too many,’ Sigurd growled.

  Ulfar saw some and sensed others; it looked like they’d lost nearly one man in four. There was an odd noise . . . retching? A cold memory settled in Ulfar’s spine and he rose up on his elbow, searching.

  A couple of yards away Audun was doubled over, coughing up bile and blood, clawing at the belt, which looked to be strapped very tight around his middle.

  ‘Sometimes,’ Sven said between gritted teeth, ‘sometimes I really hate my life.’

  Tearing his eye off Audun, Ulfar tried to find what Sven was looking at.

  Rough-looking fighters, at least two hundred of them, had formed up in wide lines on both sides of the survivors. Wolves stood by their side, their yellow eyes trained on Sigurd’s men.

  A gap formed in the lines.

  Another ten trolls stepped in on either side.

  Chapter 14

  KATTEGAT, DENMARK

  LATE DECEMBER, AD 996

  The cold night air stung King Olav’s face and tingled in his nostrils. They’d left the smell of salt along with most of their ships out at sea and reefed their sails halfway up the river. He turned and looked back at the body of the Long Wyrm. Half of his crew were manning the oars, pulling softly and almost silently. It was hard work, but the heavy ship had kept its momentum well. The rest of the men crouched in the shadows of
the Wyrm as it glided upriver, black among the snow-covered trees. He watched the big warriors as they grinned to each other, adjusted their straps and holds, checked their mail shirts and helmets, tested their weapons.

  It was the ship he’d been on his whole life, raiding the coast of Britain, praying to the old gods: this was his past and his present at once. But this time it’s different, he thought. This time it’s for a worthy cause.

  As squat house-shapes appeared up ahead, ugly and dark against the new-fallen snow, a familiar shape approached through the shadows and Finn touched his arm and in a low voice asked, ‘Do you want us to take the riverbank here?’

  ‘Yes,’ King Olav replied. ‘We’ll hit it first: ten ships behind us; the others go past the village and beach there.’

  Finn nodded and walked towards the man at the rudder, stepping nimbly in the dark, and moments later the king could feel the ship shift in the water, leaning in towards the bank on the left. At a softly whistled command from the captain the oars on the left hand side rose from the water.

  After the gentle sweep up the river, the landing was quick. The Long Wyrm crushed branches and flattened the mud bank with its weight as thirty warriors leapt over the side and ran towards the first of the huts. Behind them the ten designated longboats unloaded their deadly cargo, one by one, and the other half of the raiding force sailed past the village to do the same from the other side.

  King Olav Tryggvason ran at the front, Finn on his right, blood thumping in his ears. It had happened only moments ago, but for some reason he couldn’t remember the leap from the bow; all he could recall were times long past, and another man with the same face, rejoicing in the speed and the power of his body. He looked ahead and took aim at a house close to the centre. In the distance, a wolf howled and a thrill went through him. Here he was, at the head of his own pack, about to make the heathens pay for their sins. He knew that once he’d gone in, with Finn at his back, his men would pick their own houses to attack. The inhabitants of this sad, nameless town would never know what’d hit them, and their false gods would be nowhere near to protect them. Somewhere inside King Olav, fury unravelled and everything came together to light his inner fire: the events of Trondheim, the scheming jarls, the meeting in the forest . . .