Path of Gods Page 14

  Audun sighed. ‘It’s never easy, is it?’

  Ulfar smiled. ‘Easy?’ He glanced at the stocky blacksmith. ‘Where’s the fun in that?’

  *

  Daybreak brought with it more snow still.

  ‘This weather feels like we should be a damn sight further north and later in the year,’ Thormund muttered as he packed up his tent.

  ‘You’re just not fat enough,’ Audun said, patting the bony old horse thief on the back.

  ‘These are lean times,’ he replied, ‘lean times for man and beast. Although your mother didn’t seem to mind so much.’

  Audun tensed, but Ulfar, crouched over the disassembled tent, interrupted, ‘Now, now, Thormund: age is getting to you! You’re confusing things again. I’ve never met our Norse friend’s mother, but I’m pretty sure that unlike your girlfriends she didn’t have hooves.’

  Beside them, Mouthpiece chortled, an odd, wet sound, but no less honest for it.

  ‘Whelp,’ Thormund said.

  ‘Codger,’ Ulfar replied.

  ‘Get up!’ Oskarl said, striding across the campsite. ‘Up and ready! Now!’ His calls were largely unneeded by now, though: the men from Stenvik had been well-drilled and Sigurd’s warriors were good to go soon after the first man woke.

  Elsewhere in the camp, Ivar turned to his sister. ‘I wish that fat Eastman would shut up,’ he muttered.

  ‘He will,’ Greta muttered. The siblings sat hunched together under a pile of old blankets. ‘He’ll catch an axe one day – hopefully with his face.’ Next to her, Ivar chortled. ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ he said, grinning at her. ‘Because you’re definitely angry at the Eastman.’

  Greta punched him in the arm. ‘Shut up,’ she snapped.

  ‘Ow! Go and punch Ulfar if you’re still this mad,’ he said.

  ‘Neither of you will do anything.’ Karle’s voice came from above and behind and the siblings scrambled to turn around, knocked their heads together and flailed as the blankets fell off them, revealing an assortment of rags stuffed down into trousers and up sleeves.

  ‘We’re sorry, Prince Karle,’ Greta said on her knees, trying in vain to sort out her clothing.

  ‘Yes,’ Ivar added, ‘we’re sorry. We won’t—’

  Karle looked down on them as they shuffled around on their knees self-consciously. ‘No, you won’t. But you will keep an eye on Ulfar and that thick-necked friend of his. Understood?’

  ‘Yes! Yes, understood,’ Greta blurted out. ‘Keep an eye. Not too close. No punching.’

  ‘Good,’ Karle said. ‘Report back to me.’ He crouched down and looked them in the eye. ‘And me only,’ he added.

  The white-clad prince rose and left.

  When he was out of earshot, Ivar turned to his sister again. ‘This is all your fault! If you hadn’t insisted on following the army just so you could see that stupid, skinny, moon-faced idiot one more time—’

  Greta punched him again, but Ivar didn’t stop; he went on crossly, ‘We could be at home now! In front of a nice warm fire – with hot broth!’

  ‘We’ll still get there,’ Greta said, ‘and what’s more, we’ll get there with the goodwill of Prince Karle, which means we’ll do plenty of trade in Uppsala.’

  ‘How?’ Ivar whined. ‘You have no idea! It’s cold and miserable and if I have to eat more slop I’ll die. Come on then – tell me your plan!’

  Greta didn’t answer; she just kept her eyes trained on the shapes rising in Sven and Sigurd’s camp.

  *

  Black tree trunks and white snow turned the world grey, cold and wet to the touch. Forkbeard and Jolawer’s armies trudged across the never-ending fields and valleys, through the forests of towering pines and past lakes coloured steel-grey by the thickening clouds overhead.

  ‘Is it just me,’ Mouthpiece said, ‘or are we going back exactly the way we came? To the Danes?’

  ‘I liked him better when his face was broken,’ Thormund muttered behind him.

  ‘Feels like I’ve not seen the sun for a hundred days,’ Audun said.

  ‘Cold,’ Ulfar said, ‘and getting colder. Oh, look,’ he added, not even bothering to hide the disgust, ‘there he is. Our saviour.’

  A bright white man-shape was clearly visible, coming out of a copse about two hundred yards to their left, a bow slung over his shoulder. Behind Karle were four men, struggling under the weight of a full-grown elk.

  ‘I don’t care what he did,’ Mouthpiece said. ‘I’m having stew tonight.’

  ‘Careful,’ Thormund growled behind him, ‘Or you’ll be having only the bits you don’t need teeth for.’

  Mouthpiece spat. ‘That’s the way of it, old man,’ he said. ‘I’m hungry.’

  ‘We all are,’ Audun said. ‘Doesn’t make Karle any less rotten.’

  ‘That’s one way to say it,’ Thormund muttered.

  They walked on in silence, listening to the shouts of the hunters as they delivered their prize to the cooks and disappeared again into the distance. As the day passed, they left one forest in the distance, only to find themselves entering another.

  ‘This is an old wood,’ Audun remarked, stroking the bark of a pine tree as he passed.

  ‘Just like Thormund’s—’

  ‘Shut up, whelp. I can thwack just as well with an old stick,’ the old man interrupted, to chuckles from the men around them.

  ‘Not a lot of life here,’ Ulfar noted.

  ‘Just like in Thormund’s trousers!’ Mouthpiece started, ducking a swiftly thrown snowball.

  A pale dusting of snow had reached the forest floor, but above them a canopy of white and green filtered and dampened the light.

  ‘Careful where you tread, boys,’ Thormund said. ‘Don’t smack into any trees and don’t trip on roots. A bit of bad luck and that’s your neck snapped.’

  They picked their way uneasily through the woods, breathing a collective sigh of relief when they saw clear sky once again. In front of them, low hills and snow-covered fields stretched as far as they could see.

  Audun leaned in towards Ulfar. ‘What are we going to do? They’re headed south. We’re going in the wrong direction.’

  Ulfar took his time before answering. At last he said, ‘We’ll have to make our own way.’

  Audun looked at him. ‘Tonight?’

  Ulfar nodded.

  A while later, with light fading, the forest just a thumb’s-width-wide line in the distance and the field before them stretching on for ever, the hunters came back for the third time.

  ‘What’s this?’ Audun said, peering at them.

  ‘Hmm?’ Ulfar said, not quite bothering to move his head any more.

  ‘Someone’s missing.’

  Karle’s hunting crew was reduced to him and two others, one of whom was walking with a limp, and this time they were empty-handed. Ulfar glanced up the line and could vaguely make out Sigurd, Jolawer and Forkbeard in conversation.

  Soon after, Alfgeir Bjorne’s voice boomed over the heads of the men, ‘Stop! We’re sleeping here. Tents!’

  Lumbering like oxen, the men trudged into their assigned groups and spread out around the field. Soon enough, weary voices were barking commands and teams of axe-men walked off towards a nearby cluster of trees to fetch firewood.

  As the light faded completely, Karle’s team arrived, and Audun watched from a distance as the tall, white-clad hunter dismissed his men and stormed towards the leaders’ tents.

  ‘He looks miserable,’ said Ulfar, beside him. ‘That’s good for a little warmth.’

  Beside him, Audun chuckled. ‘I’ll drop a hammer on his toe for you one day.’

  ‘Don’t do that,’ Thormund said. ‘Boy’d catch fire from pure joy.’

  Smiling to themselves, Ulfar and his men continued building tents.
<
br />   *

  The armies of the two kings fought the darkness by building a host of small campfires. Food was prepared and distributed, and slowly quiet descended. After the day’s march, no one was in much of a mood to do anything but sleep.

  Ulfar, Audun, Thormund and Mouthpiece had just settled when Sven came over to the small fire they’d built.

  ‘Hello, old man,’ Thormund said. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Karle said they were attacked by a rabid wolf,’ Sven said. ‘I pointed out that wolves live about thirty days’ hard ride north of here, but he didn’t budge. Wolf, he said. Ripped out a throat and got the leg of another before they got a clean shot. Took six arrows to slow him down and another three to kill him.’

  No one had anything to say to that, until Mouthpiece broke the silence. ‘And Karle didn’t take him as a pet?’

  This got a laugh, but Sven’s eyes had lost their customary sparkle. ‘There’s something wrong with the world,’ he muttered. ‘I know my bones are old, but I can feel it.’

  Ulfar and Audun traded glances, but kept their peace. Sven didn’t stay long, and once he’d gone, Thormund crawled under his furs and Mouthpiece followed soon after.

  Audun and Ulfar sat in silence and watched the skies. When wispy grey clouds drifted across the moon Ulfar got up, went to his tent and picked up his walking bundle. He was joined by Audun, who silently pointed towards the hill and the treeline in the distance. After taking their tents apart they moved, like ghosts, between the dark triangular shapes on the ground.

  Ulfar’s hand shot up and they both instantly crouched down, making themselves as small as possible in the darkness. A large man was moving towards them.

  Oskarl.

  Without a word, the big Eastman stopped, sniffed the air – and then burped loudly, ducked down and crawled into his tent. Within moments a sharp, nasal snore cut through the darkness from his direction. Audun tugged at Ulfar’s shirt and motioned him forward. Ulfar rose and picked his way through very slowly, very carefully. Guards had been posted, but they were all half asleep and the two men slipped through their grasp easily.

  After the sea of tent-hides the snow dunes were uncomfortably bright in the moonlight. Ulfar led, striding through the powder, Audun following on his heels.

  They had not got more than fifteen paces away from the camp when a torch flared up ahead of them, a slice of sunlight in the darkness. A pile of snow shifted and a figure rose, slowly and clumsily. ‘Stop!’ it shouted.

  Night-vision thrown by the flames, Ulfar squinted, trying to make out the features. ‘. . . Ivar?’ he said, as quietly as he could.

  ‘Yes!’ Ivar shouted, triumph in his voice.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, shut up,’ Ulfar hissed. ‘We’re leaving – we’re going north. We’ll be out of your life for ever.’ About two hundred yards to their left another pile of snow changed to a human shape that stumbled towards them.

  ‘No, you’re not,’ Karle’s voice said behind them. Ulfar and Audun turned. The prince stood at the edge of the camp, smiling, with five spearmen at his back and his bow slung over his shoulder. ‘We can’t have people just running off when things get a little difficult. What kind of army would that be?’ The spearmen started wading through the snow towards them, brandishing ropes.

  ‘Do we go?’ Audun muttered under his breath.

  ‘No,’ Ulfar whispered, ‘that’s what he wants. We’d be dead in five steps. We’ll try our luck with the kings.’

  ‘You must have really put some sparkle into your promises,’ Audun said, looking at Greta, who was standing by Ivar’s side. They looked an odd mixture of smugly triumphant and miserably cold.

  ‘I can’t even remember,’ Ulfar said as the spearmen bound his hands. ‘But I hope this makes us even.’ He cast a glance backwards and caught a glimpse of Greta’s face. ‘And then again, maybe not.’

  Karle led the way, walking quickly through the snow, as the two of them were half dragged and half pushed to the outside edge of the camp. Ivar and Greta had tried to follow, but Karle told them to stay. Ulfar was sure he’d heard Greta hiss at the prince.

  ‘This is not good,’ Audun muttered.

  Ulfar looked ahead, over Karle’s shoulder. ‘You’re right.’

  Moments later a stocky guard blocked their path. ‘What do you want?’ he said.

  ‘Forkbeard,’ Karle said. ‘Something he needs to know.’

  The guard looked suspiciously at them, but Karle did not budge. Turning, he stalked off to a large tent in the middle of the clearing and moments later, Forkbeard emerged.

  ‘What do you want?’ he said, sighing.

  ‘Found these two trying to run off,’ Karle said.

  ‘Hm,’ Forkbeard said, eyebrows lifting a fraction as he looked Ulfar and Audun over. ‘Stenvik men, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Audun said. ‘Audun Arngrimsson and Ulfar Thormodsson.’

  Forkbeard seemed to be turning something over in his mind. ‘Fetch Jolawer Scot,’ he said. ‘Make sure you give him their names: Audun and Ulfar.’

  As the guard ran off towards the camp of the Swedes, Ulfar glanced at the man who held their fate in his hands. He looked bored.

  When Jolawer arrived, he was accompanied by Alfgeir Bjorne.

  ‘Ah. Jolawer,’ Forkbeard said.

  ‘Oh shit,’ Ulfar muttered, dread sinking into his bones. Audun glanced at him. He too knew that this was not a good situation to be in.

  Jolawer Scot looked at Ulfar, and for the first time he thought he saw shades of the old king in the young man’s face. ‘Yes,’ he replied, looking at Forkbeard.

  ‘These men are under your command, and they were trying to run away.’

  ‘I see,’ Jolawer said.

  Ulfar glanced over at Karle, who could hardly contain his glee. He’d placed them right in the middle of the game board and Forkbeard had made exactly the move he’d hoped for. Now, in this biting night cold, under the stars, Jolawer Scot was being forced to make a decision on their future.

  ‘They may very well be working for King Olav,’ the young king said, ‘and as such, they cannot be trusted. Kill them.’ Alfgeir Bjorne spluttered beside him, but Jolawer stopped him with a raised hand. ‘If they walk away from this, news will spread and it will cost us a lot of men.’

  ‘It’ll cost you a lot more if you kill them, son,’ Sven said from the darkness, almost conversationally. ‘We’ve taken quite a shine to your boys, you see.’ Forkbeard, Jolawer and Alfgeir turned around. Behind them, Sven and Sigurd stood at the head of a group of Stenvik men at least fifty strong. Standing silent and still in the darkness, they radiated the kind of menace you could only get by living by the blade and refusing to die for a long, long time.

  ‘So if it’s all the same to you,’ Sven continued, ‘we’ll pick up our two straying sheep and be gone. You’ll round up five times our number on the way south, especially if King Olav is the bait.’

  ‘We thank you for your hospitality,’ Sigurd said, ‘and value your friendship highly, but we need to leave your service.’

  The silence that settled spoke hard words. Guards around Forkbeard moved hands to weapons, but he stilled them with a raised hand. ‘Where are you going?’ he said, an edge to his voice.

  ‘North,’ Sigurd said.

  ‘Why?’ Jolawer said. ‘King Olav is coming south now.’

  ‘We know,’ Sven said. ‘We’re going to visit a . . . friend.’

  *

  The Stenvik faction broke camp before sun-up. There was no noise, no talking and soon, no tents. As the world turned from black to grey to white, Sigurd ploughed forward at the front of the line while Sven drifted up and down, checking on friends, explaining their decision and eventually coming to Audun and Ulfar. Oskarl strode up ahead, near Sigurd, like a mastiff with his master. Thormund and Mouthpiece had stayed behind, arguing sensibly
that they had a better chance of survival in a bigger group. Ulfar couldn’t help but think that they might have made the wrong choice. After Forkbeard and Jolawer’s endless column, walking with only a hundred men felt like a relief.

  Sven appeared next to them. ‘Fine mess you’ve put us in, boys,’ he said, smiling.

  ‘Didn’t have to push too hard,’ Audun said.

  ‘True, true. I still don’t know everything, but both me and the old bear’ – Sven gestured up towards the front – ‘have been feeling it for a while. There’s something wrong up north, something different, and if your tales of Valgard start coming together with reports of King Olav moving at speed without most of his men, and the world breaking, there’s only one thing we can do.’

  ‘Which is?’ Ulfar said.

  Sven’s face hardened. ‘Go and fix it.’

  They didn’t say much after that, just focused on putting one foot in front of the other. Sigurd was a surprisingly canny trek-master, making sure they stopped early, camped well and sending out a rotation of men to forage and, on lucky occasions, hunt. While most of the Stenvik men remained stone-forged and silent, those who went out agreed that the wildlife that they’d known all of their lives was acting differently somehow: more skittish.

  Though they varied greatly in size, age and bearing, Sigurd and his men all had two things in common: they’d all survived for a very long time, and they were no strangers to hardship. They moved steadily northwards, overtaking the army campsites quickly. When they passed the field where Forkbeard and Jolawer had faced off, moving between the two nearly snowed-over and half-burned stacks of firewood in the middle, Ulfar paused and turned to Audun.

  ‘What if that Erik character is lying?’

  ‘I had thought about this,’ Audun said, looking around. The ghost of that night still lingered in his vision – Karle shooting from the dark, Alfgeir wrestling, the flames rising ever higher – but now the field was dead; no life, just snow: grey above, white below. ‘I think he’s telling the truth, though.’

  ‘Why?’ Ulfar said.

  ‘I just do,’ Audun said.