Path of Gods Read online

  Path of Gods

  Also By

  Also by Snorri Kristjansson

  Swords of Good Men

  Blood Will Follow

  Title

  Imprint

  First published in Great Britain in 2015 by

  Jo Fletcher Books

  an imprint of

  Quercus Publishing Ltd

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © 2015 Snorri Kristjansson

  Map copyright © 2015 Morag Hood

  Artwork within text copyright © 2015 Nicola Budd

  The moral right of Snorri Kristjansson to be

  identified as the author of this work has been

  asserted in accordance with the Copyright,

  Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication

  may be reproduced or transmitted in any form

  or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

  including photocopy, recording, or any

  information storage and retrieval system,

  without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available

  from the British Library

  HB ISBN 978 1 78206 340 7

  TPB ISBN 978 1 78206 339 1

  EBOOK ISBN 978 1 78429 046 7

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters,

  businesses, organisations, places and events are

  either the product of the author’s imagination

  or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to

  actual persons, living or dead, events or

  locales is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  For Geraldine Cooke.

  Defender, believer, campaigner.

  Map

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Turn over for your bonus content!

  Tools of the trade

  Prologue

  The clouds parted, and just for a moment, the winter sun shone down on the smooth snow. What might have been tracks were now no more than ridges on a blue-white surface. A depression suggested that there might be a cave in the hillside, but it had long since been snowed in. The hills, solid and silent, looked down on houses that had once stood in defiance of nature; havens of warmth and safety in the unforgiving land.

  Now they were just empty.

  A strong gust rolled down into the valley, lifting white flakes from the ground and up, up, into whirling clouds of crisp, sparkling specks.

  They settled on roofs already covered in sheets of ice.

  They danced around black, barren branches.

  They covered frozen purple and grey fingers of dead men strewn about between the houses with arms stuck out at odd angles. Severed limbs draped in tendrils of black, frozen blood poked out of drifts. Where there were faces, they were carved in frost and horror.

  The silence was broken by a sharp, painful creak as the door to the longhouse inched open, screaming on bent hinges.

  A tall man stepped out onto the front step. His grey robes swirled about him, but he did not look touched by the cold. A wide-brimmed hat hung down to cover his right eye, but the left one gleamed as he took in the surroundings. Under a scraggly white beard, dried and cracked skin moved as his stony face broke into a smile.

  ‘So that’s how you want it to be,’ he said to the wind.

  High up in the sky to the south, two black dots appeared, growing bigger by the moment, spreading their wings and swooping down towards the man on the steps. Cawing loudly, the ravens landed with smooth grace at the man’s feet. He looked at them and raised an eyebrow. The big birds hopped towards him then flapped their wings and rose until they had settled, one on each shoulder. Behind him, the door creaked again as two big dogs padded out of the longhouse.

  ‘Then that’s how it is,’ the old man said, and started walking, following six pairs of footprints, heading to the South.

  Chapter 1

  SOUTH SWEDEN

  DECEMBER, AD 996

  For a moment everything stood still, etched in grey on black: dark forms looming in the shadows, hovering on the edge between moonlight and darkness. At the head of the half-visible army Sven and Sigurd Aegisson stood over the deer carcase, looking at the two travellers. The chieftain and his right-hand man looked leaner, somehow, and older, but more alive.

  Frozen halfway through drawing his sword, Ulfar could do nothing but stare. As his brain caught up, he started recognising other faces from Stenvik. He could see at least fifty of them, and there were obviously more in the shadows. Sven, front and centre, turned to Sigurd. ‘See? I told you the boy would turn out well. That’s the best impression of an idiot I’ve seen in a long time.’

  Sigurd spared him a faint smile, then, nodding to Audun, he walked towards the fire and sat down. Behind him, the silent warriors started moving with purpose. A handful, still eerily quiet, drifted back into the forest. Sven directed two men towards the deer. Knives flashed, and the scent of blood soon drifted towards the fire.

  Easing as gracefully as he could out of his fighting stance, Ulfar finally managed, ‘What – what news of Stenvik?’ Sliding his blade back into the scabbard, he sat down by the fire.

  ‘King Olav took the town as his own,’ Sven said as he sat down too. ‘He spared our lives, no thanks to Harald, but he demanded that we bend the knee to him and the White Christ. The boys were all smart enough to nod and smile.’

  ‘He couldn’t let us walk around because he thought we’d stir up trouble,’ Sigurd said.

  ‘Which, to be fair, was correct,’ Sven added.

  ‘And he didn’t have the stomach for the work. So he kept us locked up,’ Sigurd said.

  ‘And great fun it was, too,’ Sven said. ‘If I get the choice next time and the other option is a cage with a wolf, I’m taking the wolf.’ He gestured to another silent, bearded man who stepped into the circle, added some more kindling and blew gently until he was rewarded with a small but sturdy flame. As he moved away the flame disappeared for a moment, then the glow returned and quickly doubled in size, growing even more as warriors continued bringing firewood from the forest.

  ‘Then why are you here?’ Audun said.

  ‘Valgard poisoned us,’ Sigurd said.

  Audun and Ulfar exchanged glances, then looked at Sven. The old man’s eyes told them all they needed to know.

  ‘How—?’ Audun asked. By the other fire in the clearing, something sizzled and soon the smell of roast meat filled Ulfar’s nostrils.

  ‘He brought us our food. We ate it. Laced with shadowroot – well masked, too. I did taste it, but too late. The next we knew, we were being dug up.’

  Audun shivered and looked over his shoulder. ‘Who dug you up?’

  ‘A traveller,’ Sigurd said, and Ulfar mouthed the words as they came out of the old chieftain’s mouth: ‘Tall, grey hair, beard. Big hat.’ He had to stop as he was han
ded a dagger with a chunk of roast deer on the point. Sven continued, ‘He said he’d been passing through when he heard these two men talk about getting rid of some bodies. I’m not clear on the details, but there’s no doubt in my mind that he saved our lives.’

  ‘I bet he did,’ Ulfar muttered. He glanced at Audun, who looked similarly suspicious. ‘Then what?’

  ‘We had some debts to pay,’ Sigurd said. Suddenly the silence in the glade deepened. ‘So we did. Then we left to find Forkbeard, and now we’re here.’

  ‘Forkbeard?’ Audun said. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Olav has gone north,’ Sven said. ‘He’s in Trondheim now. If he digs in up there he’ll double his army in no time and then we’re stuck with him. Hakon was happy to sit on his peasants up north, but I doubt that the kinglet will be as pleasant. We need to convince Sweyn Forkbeard that he’ll be better off facing King Olav now, before he goes out west again to collect. If he doesn’t, he’ll be defending the shores of Denmark from cross-bearing Norse madmen in two years, maybe less.’

  ‘So all roads lead north, then,’ Ulfar said as another man handed him a chunk of roasted meat.

  ‘They always do, son,’ Sven said. ‘They always do.’

  *

  Morning brought thick grey skies and a bitter wind. Sigurd’s men kept talking to a minimum; they were up and ready at daybreak.

  ‘Here, take this,’ Sven said as Ulfar and Audun clambered to their feet. In the old man’s outstretched hand were thick-spun woollen trousers and tunics. ‘You look like the runts of a litter of runts.’

  Looking at Audun and himself, Ulfar had to concede the point. Travelling had taken a lot out of the both of them; their clothes were torn and bloody, and they both looked years older than they had only four short months ago.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  ‘It’s not for your benefit,’ Sven said. ‘You’re harder to fatten up if you’re cold, and we need something to throw at Forkbeard if he’s hungry.’

  ‘And your bony old arse won’t do,’ Ulfar replied as he struggled into the new clothes.

  ‘My bony old arse will do more than yours does,’ Sven batted back. ‘I’ve got a hundred hard bastards behind me. You’ve just got a mopey blacksmith.’

  Ulfar smiled. ‘That’s about right. But don’t worry – you’ll pick up more men soon and then we’ll be even. I’d say about seventy more sounds fair.’

  Sven chortled and grinned at Audun, who shrugged.

  Soon enough they were dressed and ready, and Ulfar asked, ‘Where are you looking for Forkbeard?’

  ‘I reckon we’ll do what we’ve been doing: find the nearest burned-out farm and track him from there,’ Sven said. There was nothing more to say, so they headed off, threading their way through the tall birch trees.

  The grey sky turned from wool to milk to dirty ice but the sun kept resolutely out of sight. When they cleared the forest they saw fields dusted with white stretching far into the distance, rising and rolling gently away from them. A single-track dirt road cut across the landscape like a scar.

  The sun was straight above them when Ulfar spoke. ‘I don’t like this quiet.’

  ‘It was fine until you ruined it,’ Audun said.

  ‘Where there’s roads there’s people, but we haven’t seen a single soul all morning,’ Ulfar muttered. ‘We might as well be alone in the world.’

  ‘Don’t worry, son. Trouble will find us,’ Sven said from the front of the line. ‘It usually does.’ They walked on in silence as the clouds above thickened into a dark grey mass. ‘Any time now,’ the old rogue muttered darkly, and sure enough, the first flakes of snow soon fluttered down from above. ‘Bloody snow,’ he added. ‘Just like you, Ulfar: pretty but useless.’

  ‘You say that, but at least I can— No, you’re right. You forgot annoying, though,’ Ulfar said.

  ‘Sven,’ Sigurd said. The tone of his voice made the men around him snap to attention immediately.

  Two hundred yards ahead of them a fox had wandered out of a thicket and was standing stock-still, sniffing at the air. It ignored the group of men and stared around; it looked almost as if it was listening to a silent tune.

  The eagle struck almost too fast for the eye to see. The fox yelped and fought, but it was no use. Powerful wings beat about its head, a strong beak tore at its ears, finger-thick talons dug into its back and clamped down on its spine. The eagle strained, and slowly the fox’s paws lifted off the ground. A screech tore the air as another eagle approached and also latched on to the terrified fox.

  The Stenvik raiders watched, stunned, blood dripping onto the snow from above as the two huge birds flew away, tearing at the screeching animal caught between them.

  ‘Get moving! Now!’ Sigurd shouted, and behind him the group of hardened warriors snapped to and trudged on. Around them, Ulfar could hear snatches of muttered conversation.

  ‘—never seen anything like that—’

  ‘—eagles hunting a fox? And two of them?’

  ‘—the stars ain’t right, I’m telling you—’

  The talk died down as they walked, but Ulfar couldn’t help but notice that every one of the old warriors kept their guard up.

  *

  A while after midday they came to a farm. Fields stretched out in every direction but tucked in a copse of trees in the distance stood a building.

  ‘Go for it?’ Sven said.

  Sigurd shrugged. ‘Might as well. See about news.’ A half-smile played on his lips as he glanced at Ulfar. ‘We’ll send in our local man.’

  ‘Told you he’d be useful,’ Sven said gleefully.

  Ulfar rolled his eyes and started preparing to explain why he was showing up at someone’s doorstep with a hundred hardened Northmen at his back. When they’d halved the distance, Sigurd motioned for a halt. ‘We’ll stop here, I think,’ he said.

  ‘Right. In you go, son,’ Sven said. Around him, the men put down their bags and set about finding a place to rest comfortably, dusting the snow off the ground where possible. ‘Take the ox with you if you want. Try to look friendly, though.’

  Ulfar unhooked his sword-belt and looked at Audun, who moved to his side without a word. They put the Northmen at their backs and walked down a worn road of sorts that was covered lightly with fresh snow.

  It looked good from afar, but up close the farm was very quiet indeed. The barren branches of the trees cast long shadows and the fading light did nothing to make the surroundings more pleasant.

  ‘Not much going on, is there?’ Ulfar said.

  ‘No,’ Audun replied.

  They looked around for evidence of battle but nothing was broken. The farm gate was open, but didn’t look like it had been moved for some time. The yard was empty, the stables to their left looked shadowy and lifeless and the barn door was slightly ajar. The house itself looked in reasonably good repair, but there was no flicker of flame anywhere to tell of life or warmth.

  ‘Hello?’ Ulfar shouted in a way that he hoped would communicate an absolute lack of intent to kill anyone. No one answered. He tried again, but again his voice echoed off the walls. He was about to move when Audun’s heavy hand landed on his forearm and held him back.

  ‘Wait and watch, Thormodsson,’ he mumbled. The hairs on Ulfar’s neck rose.

  Something moved in the farmhouse. Sounds of scuffling, something toppling over and a muted curse drifted out into the yard. A shape appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Strangers,’ it said in a thick voice. ‘Greetings.’

  ‘Greetings!’ Ulfar replied. ‘We come in peace, and would like to—’

  ‘No, you don’t,’ a voice said from inside the cabin. The shape in the shadowy doorway was joined by another.

  Wrong-footed, Ulfar stumbled on his words. ‘What do you mean? We wish you no harm.’

  ‘I know that,’ the second man said
as he came out into the yard to meet them. He was Ulfar’s height and Audun’s width, but he looked oddly grey, like he’d been ill for some time. The first man followed him out into the yard: younger, maybe in his teens, sandy-haired and friendly, but with the same big frame and square features. The men were clad in farmer’s clothes and unarmed, but they were a little . . . faded, somehow. ‘But you do not come in peace.’

  Beside him Audun tensed, but Ulfar smiled his best and tried to relax. ‘I am afraid I do not follow, my friend.’

  The big farmer’s eyes lit up. ‘This is not a time of peace. This is a time of war.’

  Familiar territory. Ulfar smiled a rueful smile and shook his head. ‘I know. Forkbeard is running wild around these parts, I hear.’

  Confusion flitted across their faces. ‘Forkbeard?’

  ‘Forkbeard. Danish King. Sweyn Forkbeard. Has a . . . big beard . . .’

  ‘. . . which he braids in a fork,’ Audun added.

  The big farmer smiled. ‘Oh, him.’ Beside him, the boy laughed. Caught up, Audun and Ulfar both laughed with them. ‘He doesn’t matter,’ the big man said, dismissively.

  ‘. . . oh? I mean, I agree, Forkbeard is not as important as he thinks he is—’

  ‘You’re not wrong there!’ the youth chimed in, and the big farmer ruffled his hair like a father would.

  ‘—but as far as we know he’s been running around the country­side here, burning and killing,’ Ulfar added. This was not going the way he had expected.

  The big farmer shrugged. ‘Way of the world. It all fits.’

  ‘All fits,’ the youth repeated.

  ‘How?’ Audun said, his face screwed up in concentration.

  ‘It’s the Rising,’ the youth said. His father nodded.

  ‘What is the Rising?’ Ulfar said.

  The big man looked at him as if Ulfar had asked him to explain water. ‘What is the Rising? Did you hear that, boy?’

  ‘I did!’ the boy said.

  ‘The Rising!’ the big man said, face lit up in fervour, ‘the Rising is when – when he has . . . risen!’