Sigurd snorted at that. ‘Well, now you have, and here you are.’
Skadvald, Ognvald and Thora approached, as did Helga.
‘So what do we do now?’ the big raiding captain said.
They glanced over at their soldiers, less than a hundred of them now left standing. As they looked at the line of trolls and dead-eyed humans, the line of the dark army turned to look at them. They stepped forward.
Audun looked at Ulfar and unhooked the hammer from his belt. Then the two of them stepped forward, between the chieftains and the trolls.
‘We’re going that way,’ Ulfar said, gesturing over his shoulder with a thumb at the advancing army. ‘And if you don’t join in we will have all the fun.’
With that, they set off at a run. Ulfar drew his sword just in time to feel a rush of air as something flew past his head and pulverised the chest of the first troll. The hammer was a blur as it returned to Audun’s hand.
‘Nice!’ Ulfar shouted. Within range now, he swung at a thick blue leg; the sword passed clean through the knee joint and the troll toppled over.
A many-throated roar went up behind them, and Ulfar didn’t need to look to know that was Sigurd and Sven, charging into battle.
Thora was behind them, grinning fiercely.
On either side of her were Skadvald and Ognvald, father and son, armed with axe and sword.
And then the trolls were upon them. This close they were even bigger, the smallest of them at least a head taller than Ulfar. He looked at their muscles and their blood-crusted clubs and felt a curious absence of fear.
It’s almost like a dance, he thought as he bent under a swing, came up so close to a troll he could smell it as he sliced up under the armpit, severing the cords that powered the arm. The big beast roared at him, but a savage kick broke its kneecap and it collapsed in a useless heap.
Ulfar was moving, grabbing a spear that was thrust at him and yanking, feeling the satisfying transfer of weight as the wielder lost his footing in the snow. A knee to the nose sent bone into his brain and ended his life instantly. The tall Norseman spun the spear in his hand, leaned to the side almost lazily and thrust the point of the weapon up under the chin of a charging troll.
Almost like a dance, he thought again. Then he glanced to his side and couldn’t help but grin. Well, for me at least.
On his right Audun pushed with the flat of his left hand, trying to pull his fist clear of a troll’s ribcage. His right flashed out to the side just in time to catch the returning Mjölnir, which was slick with blood. Behind him lay a straight trail of carcases with smashed weapons and pulped joints, suggesting that Audun had considered an approach that meant sidestepping and found it to be bothersome.
On the flanks Sigurd and Sven fought as a pair, forming a whirling cloud of blades that moved in perfect harmony, slicing every bit of flesh that came close. Skadvald moved without hurrying, timing every blow to hit where it should. Beside him Ognvald and Thora hacked at anything they could get at, moving almost too fast for the human eye.
But am I human?
Ulfar smashed the bridge of an onrushing attacker’s nose with the pommel of his sword.
Have I been, since Stenvik?
The man dropped like a stone and was ground into the snow by a troll stepping into the breach.
Was I ever?
Slowly, ever so slowly, the line of Valgard’s army inched backwards, trying to absorb the furious attackers.
‘I’VE TAKEN A SHIT THAT WAS MORE CHALLENGING THAN THIS!’ Ognvald screamed at the top of his lungs, legs wrapped around the waist of a troll and knives going snick-snick into its neck, searching for the – yes, there! – spine. The troll’s legs buckled and Ognvald pushed off, landing on his feet. ‘SEE? THERE’S NOTHING TO—’
Ulfar smelled the death on the air moments before he felt the wind on his neck and heard the beating of the wings. He dispatched his opponent with a fierce slash and stepped backwards, picking his way past the bodies of fallen men.
As one, the trolls stopped fighting and stepped back, a line of silent, sullen faces.
Ognvald’s face had turned a deepening shade of red. Behind him, the dark shape of a raven descending melted into human form and landed smoothly on the plateau. Skadvald shattered the skull of the troll next to him and rushed towards the boy, who had fallen to the ground, blood seeping out of his nose.
‘I’m afraid I must disappoint,’ Valgard said, dusting an imaginary speck off his rich, purple cloak. ‘Your son is dead. He just doesn’t know it yet.’ Quick as a flash he spun and grabbed Thora’s knife hand by the wrist. She had been silent and quick – but not quick enough.
‘I like you,’ he said, smiling. They stood toe to toe, almost like tentative lovers. ‘You’ve got a bit of enterprise. But I’m afraid you might have’ – she screamed as he snapped the bones in her hand – ‘issues.’
Thora’s scream was cut short as Valgard’s free hand swept up in a smooth arc and he spun her around so she hit the ground face-first, a spray of arterial blood from her cut throat painting a line in the snow that ended under her body. With a smooth movement he eased the sliver of wood back into the folds of his tunic.
The plateau had fallen silent.
Valgard’s dark army, quiet and malicious, filled over half of the area. In a corner a handful of beaten and battered soldiers huddled, staring at the gathering in the open space.
Sven stepped out in front of Valgard. ‘Kill me.’
For a fraction of a moment, Valgard was confused. ‘Stay out of this, old man,’ he hissed.
‘Shut up, whelp, and do as you’re told. You need to kill me.’ Sven’s voice was cold. He looked Valgard straight in the eye and very deliberately moved into a relaxed fighting stance.
‘I said—’
‘Because twenty-five years ago I clearly made a mistake, and now I’m going to correct it.’ The words hung in the air between them – and then Sven moved.
Almost too quickly for Ulfar’s eye he flicked his left hand, just so, and sent a blade flying towards Valgard’s face. The moment the knife was airborne and in the tall man’s field of vision Sven followed, pushing off like a cat, swiping at Valgard’s stomach.
Like a tree in a storm Valgard swayed out of the way of the onrushing blades. His hand shot out and plucked the flying knife from the air by the hilt. A quick step put him to the side of the old fighter. He buried the knife in the old man’s spine, just below the neck. The momentum of Sven’s lunge carried him forward, but when he hit the ground the body was already dead.
‘Bastard,’ Ulfar said.
‘I could have made that last a LOT longer!’ Valgard screamed, looking down at Sven. Then, with visible effort, he regained control. ‘It’s regrettable. But if I’d inflicted on him only a small part of the pains of my childhood, he’d’ve been screaming for a month.’
He looked at Skadvald and Sigurd. ‘If you touch your weapons you will die too. What I’ve got planned will be a lot more fun if you stay around. I am only here for them.’ He turned to look at Audun and Ulfar. ‘And they do not get the option to—’
The sheer weight of Oskarl’s shoulder crashing into Valgard’s ribs pushed the air out of him. The Eastman’s big, meaty hand shot up and grabbed the collapsing form of the tall man by the hair on his neck. ‘You talk—’ Oskarl grunted, smashing the top of his head into Valgard’s face, ‘—way—’ and again. Blood gushed. ‘—way—’ and again, and bones cracked. ‘—too much.’
As he twisted Valgard’s body to the ground, Oskarl’s head snapped up to see Audun and Ulfar staring at him, open-mouthed.
‘RUN.’
The breath caught in Ulfar’s throat. This was how it’d have to be. He looked to the skies. The clouds cleared.
He didn’t dare think about what would happen if this didn’t work.
The rays of the midday sun
found the plateau.
Oskarl screamed as Valgard’s fingers dug into his flesh, tearing their way into the muscle, but he still held on, smashing Valgard’s head into anything he could find.
Multi-coloured light washed over the assembled warriors as a rainbow touched the place where Audun and Ulfar were standing.
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 hairstyles. 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.
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