Path of Gods Page 23

  Steel clashed against steel just next to his ear, and Mouthpiece opened his eyes in shock just as he saw Alfgeir Bjorne’s axe swoop past his head and a broken spear-head skitter to the deck at his feet.

  ‘Keep your fucking eyes open,’ the big warrior grunted.

  Behind them a commotion rose over even the battle noises. Mouthpiece hesitated for only a moment, but his nose and mouth exploded in pain and he stumbled backwards, hitting a rower’s bench with the back of his leg. His feet lost touch with the deck and for a moment everything was spinning upside down.

  Then there was nothing but black.

  *

  Finn adjusted the shield. Getting smashed in the mouth was the least that annoying little shit with the cudgel deserved.

  ‘Gunnar is coming! He’s falling on Forkbeard’s back!’ King Olav shouted, and the men in the shield-wall pushed harder. They had downed two and it was going well on Finn’s side but King Olav’s men were struggling with a grizzled old bear of a man who was laying about him with a hand-axe and a shield.

  ‘Hold this,’ Finn growled at the man next to him and yanked the man’s arm into the shield-strap. Then he pushed to the side and grabbed an oar. Lifting it like a giant club, Finn found the balance of the thing and raised it high enough to clear the shield. He slammed it down towards the big fighter, but the man’s shield came up just in time to deflect the oar. He was a wily old greybeard; he didn’t leave the opening Finn had hoped for but instead responded to the challenge by deftly taking two steps backwards, moving out of blade range.

  ‘Die, you bastard!’ Finn roared.

  The man looked up at him and grinned. ‘Make me!’

  Blades flashed on King Olav’s side and two of the man’s comrades fell, leaving the big warrior the only one of the attackers left standing.

  Finn grabbed a shield, drew his sword and pushed past the shield-wall. He bashed the hilt into the boss once for luck, then charged at the big man.

  ‘I am Alfgeir Bjorne, son of Asvald, son of Eyvind,’ the warrior growled at him. ‘And it will be my pleasure to kill you.’

  ‘In the eyes of the lord you will be weighed,’ Finn said, stepping in and sweeping the blade upwards in a powerful swing. The scrape as the old man just managed to get his shield in was music to his ears.

  Alfgeir kept his balance and stepped backwards over a bench, but Finn pressed the attack. ‘You will be measured!’ Voice rising, he hacked downwards with a most satisfying vibration as his sword smashed into the shield. His shield arm was up and ready to push through with a straight left, but the old man’s shoulder wasn’t there any more. Instead, Finn found himself having to pull his own leg backwards to avoid a murderous axe blow coming in at groin height. ‘And you will be found wanting!’ Finn bellowed now, sweeping his sword downwards. He caught Alfgeir’s axe on the blade and swept it to the right.

  The old man looked him straight in the eyes and grinned. ‘Is that what the king whispers to you at night?’ he said. Then the shield blocked out Finn’s vision and a sharp pain pierced his right cheek. A red haze coloured his eye as, stumbling backwards, he sensed more than saw Alfgeir close in for the kill.

  But then the old man stopped in his tracks, strong arms grabbed Finn’s shoulders and under his arms and he felt himself pulled in behind the shield-wall just as Alfgeir Bjorne collapsed onto the deck, three arrows sunk deep in his broad back.

  Standing in the stern of a ship maybe eighty yards away, the man in white nocked another arrow. Next to him, Forkbeard turned away and looked towards their stern.

  A sudden quiet settled over Finn’s end of the Long Wyrm. His forehead throbbed something horrible and he could feel the blood running down his cheek and into his beard, clotting and pulling at the skin.

  ‘Einar! Get rid of their archer!’ King Olav shouted.

  ‘He’s gone,’ Einar said. ‘He walked off to the other end.’

  ‘Put down the shields and lose the dead weight!’ the king shouted, and a handful of men darted past the dropped shields and grabbed bodies.

  Finn just heard the splashes as the corpses dropped overboard, then he heard Einar Tambarskelf’s bow, singing just above him.

  ‘Turn around!’ the young man shouted.

  ‘Oh for the sake of all that’s holy,’ King Olav muttered. ‘Rowers – to arms! Pass the shields down to the stern!’

  Finn staggered to his feet and tried to make sense of what was happening. There were ships all around their stern. He shook his head to clear the fog of pain and regretted it immediately.

  The Long Wyrm was rocking as screaming fighters leaped across the cold seas and landed on their deck. Foremost of them was a tall, fierce warrior, swinging his double-bladed battleaxe freely. Anywhere he moved, men collapsed.

  ‘FINN!’ King Olav shouted and Finn turned, squeezed his one good eye shut and opened it again to see a force slowly advancing from the bow. At the fore was a skinny man at least a head taller than the others who was wielding an oversized shield and the longest spear Finn had ever seen. One of Einar’s arrows caught the man next to him in the shoulder; the injured man was quickly pulled out of the front line and another immediately took his place. ‘Einar! Take him out!’ The sound of snapping wood was painful and sharp. ‘What was that?’ King Olav shouted.

  ‘The sound of Norway, breaking in your hands,’ Einar said, his voice leaden. Finn glanced at the young archer. Arms at his side, bow by his feet. No tension to the string. Two halves to the bow.

  King Olav turned to Finn. The king suddenly looked older, as if a flame within him had gone out. ‘They will kill us if they catch us, Finn,’ he said. ‘If we go, there is a chance our men will lay down their weapons and be spared.’

  Finn tried, but the words wouldn’t come.

  ‘Surrender.’ The voice was clear and carried remarkably well across the swell of the sea, the cracking of the timbers and the sounds of pain coming from the stern. Forkbeard walked down the centre of the Long Wyrm behind his men like a farmer surveying his field. ‘Surrender, King Olav, and we will spare the remainder of your men. We will also swear to leave Christians to practice their faith.’

  King Olav calmly put down his sword, but he kept his shield up. He looked across the Long Wyrm at Forkbeard. ‘There will be no truce. There will be no surrender. You and yours will burn: you will burn in hell.’ Then he took two quick steps to the side and leaped overboard.

  *

  King Jolawer Scot gritted his teeth, but did not speak. Instead, he waited for Forkbeard to finish his story. ‘What happened then?’

  ‘We fished out his second-in-command,’ Forkbeard said.

  ‘But no sign of Olav?’

  ‘No.’ Beside Forkbeard, Karle shook his head sadly.

  Jolawer looked at Erik and his men, sitting and quietly talking. Forkbeard and Karle had dropped their armour and weapons by the fire and pulled him over to talk. ‘Why not?’

  Forkbeard smiled. ‘Finn – his man – put the shield over his head to protect from spears, but Olav Tryggvason, the crafty bastard, grabbed his and gripped it between his knees.’ When Jolawer frowned, he added, ‘To sink faster.’

  ‘And you didn’t find the body?’

  ‘No,’ Forkbeard said. ‘I told you. There were about thirty ships there. But the sea’s freezing. He’s dead.’

  ‘I wish I could believe that.’

  ‘And I wish I could have been there to stop Alfgeir, but he just went straight for them,’ Forkbeard said. ‘There was nothing I could do.’

  Karle hung his head.

  Jolawer Scot looked away then, grief almost overtaking him, and he saw Sigrid approach from the lengthening shadows. Unusually, she stopped a good thirty yards away. ‘Sweyn—?’ she said hesitantly.

  Forkbeard motioned for her to come closer. ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘We’ve had travellers,’ she said.
‘Norsemen.’

  ‘And?’

  She glanced at Jolawer, but Forkbeard waved for her to continue talking. ‘We are all together in this,’ he said.

  ‘It appears,’ Sigrid said hesitantly, ‘that a force far bigger and stronger than Olav Tryggvason’s army is sweeping down from the North.’

  Forkbeard listened, but did not react. ‘Where are they going?’

  ‘Gallows Peak.’

  ‘Hm,’ he said. ‘So be it.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ Jolawer said, his voice rising.

  ‘I am not going to risk the lives of countless men over winter to go chasing stories,’ Forkbeard said quietly. ‘We’ll see what’s what come spring.’

  ‘You are a coward and a liar,’ Jolawer snapped.

  Sweyn Forkbeard froze for a single moment, then he turned and looked at Jolawer. ‘You know what? You bore me. So I think we’ll end this alliance now.’

  He raised his voice. ‘YOU TAKE THAT BACK!’

  By the fire, Erik and his men rose.

  ‘How DARE you say that about our Norse friends?’ The knife was in Forkbeard’s hand in the blink of an eye. ‘You fight for King Olav, don’t you?’ His voice sounded flushed with indignation; the glint in his eye told a completely different story. Erik and his men were moving towards Jolawer now, hands on hilts.

  Jolawer looked at Karle, and the cold hatred in his cousin’s smile hit him like a gust of winter wind.

  Only at the last moment did he notice a solitary figure waddling towards the Norsemen. The light at the man’s back cast his face in shadow. ‘Erik Hakonsson!’ The voice carried surprisingly well. ‘I’ve poisoned the rations of the filthy Danes, just like you ordered.’

  A moment of doubt clouded Forkbeard’s face.

  ‘Who in Thor’s name are you?’ Erik snarled. ‘And why are you shouting such nonsense?’

  ‘Come now! Yesterday you told me to mix shadowroot in with their mead and cut their grain with ground-up horseshit. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten?’

  ‘Who is this man, Erik?’ Forkbeard said.

  ‘Never seen him before!’ Erik shouted.

  ‘Yes, you have!’ the man shouted back. ‘Are you calling me a liar?’ The man’s path to the Norsemen lay past Jolawer; as he came closer, Jolawer could make out the man’s misshapen jaw and hastily bandaged head. ‘Karle killed Alfgeir. I was on the boat and I saw it happen,’ the man muttered out of the side of his mouth. ‘I’ll set them on each other. Run!’

  Jolawer blinked, then shook his head. He watched as the man’s hand moved slowly to an old club hanging from his belt.

  When he’d passed, Jolawer’s eyes met Karle’s again. The prince stared at him, scowling.

  ‘For Forkbeard!’ the mysterious man screamed, launching himself at Erik Hakonsson’s men, swinging his club wildly.

  ‘Get him!’ Forkbeard screamed. ‘He’s nothing to do with me!’

  The club connected with an arm and a skull, then froze in midair as Erik Hakonsson’s axe buried itself in the head of a warrior who had answered to the name of Mouthpiece.

  ‘Is that the best you can do, Forkbeard?’ Erik snarled as he pulled the axe free.

  ‘He had nothing to do with me, Erik,’ Forkbeard said. ‘Nothing at all – I promise you! I’ve seen you fight – if I did want to kill you I’d send some of the thousands of men I have waiting at my command over there.’

  Erik eyed Forkbeard and said nothing as he wiped the axe blade, very slowly.

  ‘Bastard,’ Karle said.

  Forkbeard looked at the spot where Jolawer Scott had been standing, but the young king was gone.

  Chapter 15

  THE MOUNTAINS OF THE NORTH

  LATE DECEMBER, AD 996

  Ulfar could feel the blood clotting in the ripped skin where the wolf’s teeth had torn his face to shreds. I should be screaming, he thought, then, No. I should be dead. Instead, all he had was a dull pulse in what remained of his cheek, along with one blind eye. He ignored it and looked down at Audun. The blacksmith was lying at his feet in the snow, doubled over, blood-coloured spittle cooling in his beard, the broad belt by his side.

  Then Ulfar looked up, and wished he hadn’t.

  Surrounding the men of Stenvik were faces, staring at them – nothing like an army; mostly peasants in rags, men and women both, clutching a variety of weapons – but there was something common to them all. Common, and wrong. The way they stood, the way they moved: there was no spark in their eyes.

  Nothing human, Ulfar thought. They just look . . . empty. Empty and stiff, like hastily made clay figures. And there were a lot of them, too; Ulfar estimated around two hundred and fifty, perhaps more. Add to that one wolf to every five men – and then the trolls, of course: twenty of those, some bigger than others, but all of them taller and broader than the largest of the Stenvik fighters.

  Ulfar looked at his travelling companions and brothers in arms. Some were wounded, others dead; they were all old and tired. His eye met Sven’s.

  ‘Well, son,’ the whitebeard said conversationally, ‘we sailed for a good long while, but I think this might be the shore.’

  Beside him, Sigurd Aegisson smiled. ‘Sven, my friend – I’ve never told you this, but—’

  The grizzled chieftain’s hand went up to intercept Sven’s answer. ‘You don’t half complain like an old woman sometimes.’ He hefted his axe, turned to face the trolls and took one step forward. For a moment there was quiet in the circle.

  ‘Who wants a go?’ Sigurd Aegisson growled.

  Nobody moved, although one by one the wolves started sniffing the air. ‘I SAID—’ Sigurd’s voice trailed off as the circle broke without a word. The trolls, moving together, stepped past the broken and wounded men of Stenvik without a second glance and lined up alongside humans and wolves, facing south.

  The Stenvik raiders looked at each other, puzzled.

  ‘Is this a new strategy?’ Oskarl, standing behind Sven, mused. ‘Are we supposed to run away now?’

  ‘Shut up,’ Sven hissed. ‘Let me think. We just—’

  A woman’s voice rang out, incredibly loud, and cut him off. ‘RIGHT, YOU GOAT-FACED BLUE-SKINNED GRANNY-FUCKERS. LET’S SEE WHAT YOU GOT!’

  The trolls formed a line. The dead-eyed humans and wolves followed them, moving mindlessly.

  ‘Looks like you scared them off,’ Sven said to Sigurd.

  Sigurd looked puzzled. He looked down at his axe. ‘That’s never happened before,’ he said.

  ‘The woods!’ Oskarl shouted. ‘Look!’ He pointed, and they all turned as a lone warrior emerged from the trees to the south. Then two more figures stepped out and stood next to him. They might have been half his width, and neither reached his shoulders, but they still radiated menace. Behind them a group of men moved into position, slow and measured, spreading out in a battle line about two hundred yards away.

  Sven looked around. ‘Who the hell is that? Anyone we know?’

  ‘Hold on,’ Sigurd said. ‘It— No . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. For a moment I just thought—’

  At that moment the trolls burst into action, charging the new enemy in a wave of death and destruction, followed by the humans and howling wolves.

  ‘We need to move – NOW!’ Sven barked, turning towards the fallen men. ‘Pick up what you can and go – we’ve got a couple of moments to get to higher ground! Help the wounded!’ He rushed to the nearest man on the ground and tried to pull him up. ‘Come on, move it!

  ‘Sven?’ Sigurd said. He hadn’t moved.

  The old rogue wasn’t listening; he just kept shouting, ‘What’s wrong with you all? MOVE!’

  ‘Sven!’ Sigurd snapped.

  ‘WHAT?’ Sven growled, whirling to face his chieftain.

  ‘We’re not running from the
trolls,’ Sigurd said.

  That stopped him. ‘Why—?’

  Sigurd pointed to the clearing. ‘Because they’re all dead.’

  Ulfar was vaguely aware of Sven’s mouth moving, but he didn’t hear a word; he couldn’t take his eyes off the fighters, who had moved like water, flowing past and through the trolls, lopping off limbs as easily as branches on old, dead trees. The battle, such as it was, had been over in moments. Ulfar saw the trolls knock maybe five of the fighters down, but at least three of those were getting back up. One of the new arrivals didn’t move, mostly because half of his head was missing; the rest were chasing and hacking down the peasants, with what, from where they were standing, looked like very little effort. The wolves had run off. ‘Smart puppies,’ Ulfar muttered.

  ‘Look at them,’ Sigurd said. ‘The only crew that fights like that . . .’ his voice trailed off.

  Sven finally managed to form words. ‘You’re right. Screw me sideways with a pine tree,’ he muttered. ‘I can’t decide if we’re saved or dead.’

  ‘What do we do?’ Ulfar said.

  ‘I think that’s pretty clear,’ Sven said, glancing at Sigurd. ‘We can’t run, so we’ll go greet their leader and hope he hasn’t found out.’

  ‘Found out what?’ Ulfar said.

  ‘That I killed his father,’ Sigurd said.

  ‘It’s never easy with you two, is it?’ Ulfar said.

  ‘Nope,’ Sven said.

  ‘Right,’ Ulfar said. ‘Well then. Let’s try and get our warriors up and standing, shall we?’ With that he bent down and hooked an arm under Audun’s shoulder. ‘Come on, big man. Up you get.’ He felt the full weight of the blacksmith through his arms and legs and grunted. ‘We need to get you eating less. You weigh as much as an ox.’

  Audun mumbled something incomprehensible.