Path of Gods Page 17

  The two hunters, bone-tired, stumbled into their tents and were asleep almost as soon as they hit the ground.

  *

  The sun was up there somewhere, Ulfar thought, but it did not feel like it wanted to be. The trees were bigger than he remembered, the massive trunks smooth and the colour of a crow’s feather. Must be something to do with the distance they’d travelled. The people of the western valleys always banged on about their big trees, how just one tree would do as a house, a boat and a year’s firewood for a family and so on. Yes, that had to be it: they must have gone past the big lakes and up into the heavy forests of the west that stood on the edges of the land of the Norsemen. It would get worse before it got better, too. If the stories were true there were days and days of woodland to go before they’d hit the valleys: days of travel until they’d be able to see further than their outstretched arm.

  So all he needed to do was place one foot in front of the other. Left, right, left, right, left, right . . .

  Ulfar looked down at his feet and his stomach twisted. Thin strands of fog were swirling unnaturally around his shins, floating on top of the snow and covering it in a grey sheen. Around him the trees stretched to the skies, impossibly smooth, impossibly round. The snow felt wrong under his feet, too: like someone’s idea of winter in a forest, rather than the thing itself.

  ‘Show yourself,’ Ulfar said.

  The dogs were first to arrive: Geraz, broad-shouldered and pale, followed by Frec, a giant black mastiff with head held low and fangs bared. Above, two ravens settled on nearby branches and quorked conversationally at him. A moment later the man was there, just as if he’d stepped through an invisible doorway. He was tall, grey-haired, propped up by a thick staff and in all other ways exactly like Ulfar remembered from the walk so many days ago.

  ‘It’s you.’

  *

  ‘Of course it’s me,’ the old farmer replied. ‘Fjolnir. You remember, don’t you?’ Audun remembered all too well. He could see the hut, he could feel the shame as he hid under the bed, and when he left . . .

  The old man studied him with a twinkle in his eye. ‘Do you still have it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Audun said, his voice barely more than a whisper.

  ‘Good. You’ll need it.’

  ‘It makes me ill,’ Audun said, ‘if I use it I’ll die.’ He remembered exactly where he’d put the belt; it was coiled up in his bag. But no – though he didn’t remember putting the belt on, now it felt heavy around his waist.

  The old man smiled at that, wistfully. ‘We all die,’ he said. ‘That’s how we get in this mess in the first place. But you will need to use it. Keep that in mind. And besides, my gifts are good. I gave you the stag, didn’t I?’

  *

  ‘What do you mean?’ Ulfar snapped. ‘I caught that with Audun!’

  ‘The stag that stood so still that it could have been frozen?’ the tall man said. ‘The animal that ran away from you, straight at the only other man within miles? Come now, Ulfar. You’re sharper than that, aren’t you?’

  Ulfar felt a surge of annoyance. ‘Shut up,’ he said, but the words felt limp coming out of his mouth. ‘You’re—’ He went to speak again, but nothing followed.

  ‘Call me what you want,’ the grey-haired man said. ‘You’ve already taken one of my gifts.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Mead of Skalds,’ he replied calmly. ‘And you have drunk it, so you have wisdom and understanding beyond any human. It will take you a while to learn that you do, though.’

  Ulfar stared at the old soldier. ‘You—’

  ‘—are wasting time,’ he said, waving away the words. ‘You need to go straight north without delay.’

  ‘To Trondheim?’

  *

  ‘No,’ the old farmer said. ‘Trondheim’s gone.’

  Audun frowned. ‘Gone?’

  ‘Dead. Overrun. Beyond our scope. Let the kings of men’ – he laced the word with contempt – ‘deal with that one. No, you’re going to Gallows Peak.’

  ‘Why?’ Audun said.

  *

  ‘Because that’s where he is going,’ the farmer said.

  ‘Who’s he?’ Ulfar said.

  ‘You know.’ A dismissive hand-wave.

  ‘And what makes you think I’ll do as you say?’ Ulfar snapped.

  ‘You hate me,’ the grey-haired soldier said, ‘but you hate him more.’ When Ulfar didn’t argue, the man smiled and reached down to scratch Geraz behind his ear. ‘So you will talk to your men and you will march up to the mountains. It is the best thing you can do now.’

  ‘Or else?’

  *

  The farmer shrugged. ‘Valgard fights his way to the Rainbow Bridge and baits the gods into fighting him. He knows that the Fates say the gods will fight on mortal soil when the gates of Hel open wide, so he’s figured out that the reverse is also true: he reckons all he needs to do for the end of the world to come about is for him to pick a fight here. Naglfari sails, Fenrir breaks his chain, the Wyrm of Midgard rises and the waves along with him, Jotuns walk the earth and it all ends in pain, death and destruction. Then a handful of humans and gods arise from the ashes, but with a new ruler: him.’

  Audun watched as the old man formed the sentence, chewing on it like a piece of rotten meat.

  ‘In a word,’ he said, ‘Ragnarok.’

  *

  ‘Wake up—!’ Sven’s voice cut through the cold morning air. ‘Get moving! I want to get home so I can scratch myself twice in the same place!’

  ‘You do that all the time!’ someone shouted from a nearby tent.

  ‘That’s why we never shake your hand!’ someone else shouted from across the site.

  ‘No, that’s just because you recognise the smell of your mothers,’ Sven shot back.

  Around him men were crawling out of their low tents, shaking snow off hides and hair. Before long, Sigurd’s group of leather-faced greybeards was ready to walk. Audun and Ulfar packed their tents, neither in the mood to speak.

  *

  Snow fell on marching men and wind swept it away. The forest swallowed them on the south side and four days later spat them out on the north. The time passed slowly, in silence.

  On the morning of the fifth day, Ulfar approached Sven. The old man had cut himself a walking stick that was his own height and then some and he leaned into it as he walked, pulling his feet out of calf-deep footsteps in the snow and pushing on, one step at a time.

  ‘Where are we?’ Ulfar said.

  Sven made a noncommittal noise. ‘Somewhere in the west of Svealand, I think.’

  ‘How long will it take us to get to Trondheim?’

  ‘At this pace?’ Sven said, looking back over the row of greybeards marching doggedly through the snow, most clutching walking sticks of their own. ‘We’ll be there tomorrow.’

  Ulfar hesitated. The old rogue’s usual good spirits seemed to have vanished. ‘Will it be easier going if we . . . if we turn towards Gallows Peak? There’ll be fewer bloody trees there,’ he added hastily.

  Sven shot him a sideways glance. ‘Gallows Peak,’ he said. ‘You want to go into the mountains? Now?’

  ‘Only to – uh – get easier walking,’ Ulfar said, reddening as the words came out.

  ‘We’re in the middle of nowhere because of you, the mad bastard with the hammers and the old bear’s gut feeling,’ Sven said, snow crunching underfoot. ‘Unless you want to finish the rest of your journey and face whatever you’re going to be facing on your own you might want to consider telling me everything, always – starting with right now.’

  Ulfar swallowed and searched for courage. ‘A few days ago, after we caught the stag, someone came to me in the night,’ he said.

  ‘Oh fuck a motherless goat. Of course he did,’ Sven said. ‘Thought his hand might be in this. Go on.’<
br />
  *

  Ten days’ walk to the south, Jolawer Scot marched at the head of his army, Alfgeir Bjorne beside him, and Karle skulking close behind. Some distance away, not close enough to hear but close enough to see, Thormund and Mouthpiece trundled along side by side.

  ‘Thormund,’ Mouthpiece said, and watched until the old man on his right turned his head ever so slightly to indicate he was listening. ‘Where is he leading us?’

  ‘Towards the coast, I imagine,’ Thormund said.

  Mouthpiece walked on in silence for a while. A hundred yards or so to their left marched Sweyn Forkbeard’s column. Jolawer’s army looked small by comparison, but for the moment that didn’t matter; they were on the same side. For now.

  The snow fell silently, soft and white, all around them: not yet heavy but insistent and unstoppable. Their shoulders were soggy with it and lamb’s wool caps glistened with a mix of new-fallen flakes and freshly melted drops.

  ‘It snows a lot,’ Mouthpiece tried.

  ‘It’s winter,’ Thormund snapped.

  ‘All right,’ Mouthpiece said. ‘It’s not my fault.’

  But Thormund simply huffed, sank his scrawny neck further into his furs and marched on, ignoring him.

  ‘Thormund,’ Mouthpiece said.

  ‘What?’ he snarled.

  Mouthpiece shot him a glance. ‘Did a mink bite your arse this morning? You’re spikier than Sigrid’s underskirt.’

  Thormund snorted. ‘I just don’t like where this is headed. Should’ve stayed with Sigurd and Sven.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he’s taking us to the sea, you idiot. Fucking hate the sea.’ Thormund kicked at the snow and Mouthpiece took an involuntary half-step away to his right. ‘Boats. Always boats, near the sea.’

  ‘Move it,’ the man behind him grunted.

  Mouthpiece hunched his shoulders and bent his head, but as he put one foot in front of the other and tried his best to stop his mind and his mouth, he couldn’t help but think of lambs in slaughtering season.

  *

  When the sun started its fall towards the horizon, Forkbeard signalled for the halt. Tents were raised quickly and the camp set up as the sky above them turned from the dirty white of sheep’s wool to sword-grey, speckled with fat snowflakes.

  ‘I cannot think of anything finer than a horse right now,’ Thormund said, rubbing at the outside of his leather shoes. ‘My feet feel like they’re my father’s, and he’s been dead for twenty years. I’d give anything for a horse to ride.’

  ‘Even if you were Forkbeard?’ Mouthpiece said.

  ‘All his treasures and his lands aren’t making his arse any less cold and wet, are they?’ Thormund said.

  Mouthpiece made a face at him. ‘So you’re saying you’d give a kingdom for a horse?’

  ‘Yes,’ Thormund said.

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ Mouthpiece said. ‘I—’

  ‘Shut up,’ Thormund said.

  ‘What? I—’ Mouthpiece began.

  ‘I said be quiet,’ the old horse thief hissed, urgency in his voice. ‘Listen,’ he whispered. Around them the low murmur of tired men ebbed and flowed, the occasional burst of laughter or shouted insult rising then sinking back down into muttered conversation.

  Mouthpiece glanced at Thormund, whose face was carved in stone, a picture of concentration. ‘What—?’

  A bony hand shot up to silence him.

  ‘It’s gone now,’ the old man whispered after a moment, but his hand was still raised. His eyes suddenly sparkled. ‘There,’ he said. ‘Listen!’

  Mouthpiece strained to sift out the sounds of the camp: there was something else, just on the edge of hearing . . . When he realised what it was, he sighed. ‘It’s a cow,’ he said. ‘Or, you know, one or two cows.’

  Thormund turned to look at him. ‘I know it’s a cow,’ he said slowly. ‘I am, in fact, fully aware that it is a cow.’

  ‘Then why are you so scared?’ Mouthpiece blurted out.

  The horse thief smiled then, and suddenly he looked less like a helpless old man and more like Sigurd and Sven. ‘Because I’m alive,’ he said, ‘and because I like you, despite your face and your constant yapping, I’ll tell you something: if you hear a cow in pain and it’s calving season, that’s a good thing. But if you hear that same noise in the middle of winter, far away from any farms, in the snow—?’

  Mouthpiece fumbled for the truth, but didn’t find it. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said plaintively.

  His eyes and ears trained on something in the shadows, Thormund pulled the knife from his belt, cleaned it, ran a finger along it to test its edge and, satisfied, stuck it back in its sheath. ‘Neither do I,’ he said, scanning the camp, ‘but something’s about to happen, and when it does, I want to be in the right place.’ Then he produced another three knives of different sizes from various places, including his sleeve, cleaned them and slid them back into their hiding places.

  Mouthpiece clutched the battered club he’d been given. The wood felt comfortably worn in his hands and he cursed himself for feeling scared. He was travelling with possibly the biggest army the North had ever seen and he was allowing a jumpy old horse thief to unsettle him. No, Mouthpiece thought, I’m safe here, safe as I can be. The realisation made him relax some, enough to get comfortable under his furs and get to work pushing the cold away. There would be another day tomorrow and maybe whatever was bothering Thormund would leave with the rising sun.

  As he felt dull, cold sleep crawl over him, Mouthpiece’s thoughts were of life by the blade and how it wasn’t at all like he’d imagined.

  *

  ‘RISE! RISE, YOU BASTARDS!’ Alfgeir Bjorne’s voice was followed by thundering, stomping footsteps. ‘WE’RE UNDER ATTACK!’

  Mouthpiece woke up with a start, his heart in his mouth and his stomach in his feet. He crawled out from under his shelter and into the night and immediately had to throw himself to the side to save his face from a collision with the knees of a group of running men. ‘Thormund!’ he shouted, but there was no answer; glancing across, he saw that the old horse thief’s tent was already empty. Mouthpiece pushed himself onto his feet.

  The camp was a sea of flickering shadows under the torches moving swiftly, all heading towards the southern edge of their newly formed tent town. Shouts bounced from one side to the other as the chieftains exhorted their men to get on their feet and get to arms on pain of death and worse. In the distance Alfgeir was bellowing commands. Prince Karle’s white cloak flitted into, then out of a pool of light in the distance.

  Mouthpiece looked around for someone to ask what was happening, but no one volunteered any information – and then his head finally woke up and he understood what he was hearing.

  Underneath and behind the panic, the shouting and the clanking of thousands of men getting up and ready to fight in a hurry was a river of sounds; Mouthpiece, still dazed by the abrupt awakening, staggered towards it, trying to figure out exactly what he was hearing.

  There were animals there, somewhere – but there was more, too.

  ‘THEY’RE COMING!’ someone screamed up ahead. The closer he got to the south end the steadier the light was. In front of Mouthpiece, Jolawer’s warriors were hastily establishing shield-walls, facing south. Mouthpiece noted that they’d tied torches to the longest pikes and stuck them in the ground, enveloping them in a pool of light that created a big half-circle in front of them.

  The sounds were coming from the darkness beyond, but Mouthpiece still couldn’t quite place it; it sounded like trees breaking, like the sea at night like one continuous wave of dull, dark misery.

  There was no warning, no official declaration, no command given to stand firm. One moment the flickering flame-lit circle was empty and then, they were there: a herd of white-eyed cows staggering at them out of the darkness. Swords rose and fell, but
it all took too long; the big beasts didn’t go down quickly enough and the shield-wall, after holding for a heartbeat, collapsed under the sheer weight of the animals blundering forward. Time slowed down for Mouthpiece; he saw the breach in the shield-wall ahead of him and felt the push as men staggered backwards, pushed by the onslaught. He took two steps back – and was almost shouldered to the ground.

  ‘Get back!’ Alfgeir Bjorne roared as he charged past, yanked up a pike with a torch on it and thrust it at a dying cow. Steam rose up from its flanks as the flames melted snow and consumed flesh, but the animal didn’t flinch. Mouthpiece heard Alfgeir’s muttered curses mixed in with the screams of men suddenly plunged into darkness.

  ‘More light!’ the old warrior screamed. ‘More fire! And get back!’ But it was too late: ahead of them men were trying in vain to stem the tide of mindless animals lowing their disquiet at the world. ‘More fire! Quickly!’ he kept repeating as disembodied noises drifted on the air, the unnerving pain-sounds of the cattle weaving and twining with the dull thud of blades hacking into flesh and the sharp screams of fighters being trampled, breaking under the weight of the animals.

  And now there were other sounds in the night as well: dogs barking, bleating sheep and human voices: a discordant, broken chorus of them.

  ‘He has risen.’

  The words, repeated over and over in dull voices, made Mouthpiece’s skin crawl. He turned to run – and saw a wave of torches, sweeping over towards them from the other camp.

  Forkbeard.

  The words were out of his mouth before he could close it. ‘FORKBEARD’S COMING! GET BACK!’

  A heartbeat later Alfgeir Bjorne’s voice boomed, battlefield-loud: ‘STEP BACK – NOW! SHIELD-WALL!’

  Mouthpiece watched as if in a dream as the line of torches coming towards them broke into three sections and flowed smoothly away from each other like water down a hill. The middle slowed down as the other two groups curved around the dots of light surrounding Alfgeir Bjorne.

  A bony hand closed on Mouthpiece’s shoulder and yanked him away from the flickering flames. Before he could turn, Thormund hissed into his ear. ‘Shut up, boy, and stick with me.’