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Norway, 1886
“What’s your hurry, brother?” Sigurd asked, shivering against the cold. It was unusually bitter for the time of year and a harbinger of the season to come. While both men were used to the dipping temperatures, neither preferred them.
Johan glanced back, wondering how much to tell his twin.
Growing up, they had always known what each other was thinking. The two men were exact duplicates of one another in every way. Not only were they identical twins, but they had always acted and dressed the same. But life had taken them in very different directions.
Sigurd Larsen was one of the wealthiest men in the region, largely due to his lucrative timber business. He was also deeply devoted to God.
Johan, a man of the land, had very different priorities. He begrudgingly worked part-time for his brother if only to make their mother worry less.
They had often gone on long hikes in their younger years, spending days, even weeks, in the woods, but as time passed and Sigurd became more involved in running his business, they spent less time together, and the differences between them magnified.
Johan knew he couldn’t keep this secret from his brother forever. He halted and breathed in deeply. As he expelled the air, it came out as a visible puff, reminding him of when they were young. They’d pretend to be dragons and blow out long breaths as they ran in the yard. Neither wanted to be the knight. No, they both wanted to be the destroyer.
“Legend tells of a curse brought to these lands by the first king—”
“King Harald,” Sigurd said, getting a nod from Johan.
“Yes, Harald Fairhair. It is said that he visited these very trees during one of his campaigns—one of his last, in fact. He lived into his eighties, you know.”
“I do,” Sigurd replied, “everyone in all of Norway knows of King Harald, but what does he have to do with this?” He motioned to the woods around them.
“Quit interrupting me and I’ll tell you!” Johan snapped, his deep thunderous voice echoing around them. Then he grinned, getting an angry look out of his brother. Even in such a stressful time, Johan couldn’t help but tease his sibling. It was a way for him to keep calm when inside the damned forest, a feat not easily accomplished. Sigurd, however, appeared unconcerned.
Because he doesn’t believe... Yet.
Johan continued. “Very little is known about our king’s life after he unified our homeland. Yes, there are many stories about him, but most are thought to be romantic tales and nothing more, just overstated fictions.” He again drew a long breath, blowing it out hard. “But what some think really happened is that he found something out in the wilds—something that changed the course of his life.”
“This sounds like one of those ‘overstated fictions’, Johan.”
He nodded. “Quite so, but there’s always truth in even the silliest of comedies. Lessons that need to be learned and applied.”
Sigurd knew he was right about that, it was something their father used to say. “Go on.”
“Right...” Johan said, starting their hike again. “While famous for bonding Norway into one land, Fairhair was also known for something else.”
“And what is that?” Sigurd asked.
“He was obsessed with the gods of old, and with possessing their magic and power.”
“Gods of old? You mean Odin and Thor.”
“Indeed,” Johan replied. “Fairhair believed the mythology to be true, so much so, that he would routinely search for relics of the time during his various campaigns. He kept the findings, if any, private, only divulging what he found to other true believers within his closest circle.”
Sigurd’s eyes widen. “You’re one of them, aren’t you? A believer in the old ways.”
Johan simply nodded, silently answering his brother’s inquiry. He’d been a follower for nearly twenty years, but this was the first time he’d ever dared reveal it to his brother. “We’re almost there.”
“Almost where?” Sigurd asked.
Johan pulled a small book from his pocket, showing it to Sigurd. There was a symbol branded into its simple leather cover, a symbol Sigurd recognized.
“Is that a valknut?”
Johan held up the small tome. It was most definitely the famous three triangle symbol. The word literally meant “slain warriors knot.” This one had been altered slightly, however. In addition to the three interlocking triangles, there was also a single staff passing through the links horizontally. Everyone in the region knew of it. They also knew what it signified.
“Odin?” Sigurd asked.
“Yes,” Johan replied, turning the book upside down, “and no.”
Sigurd saw the book was now right-side up.
“An inverted valknut? What does it mean?”
“As you know,” Johan explained, “the traditional valknut symbolizes a warrior’s passing and also that of Odin’s power over that specific death. It is said that Odin could raise those from the dead that were given this symbol on their tombs.”
“I’ve never heard the second part of that before.”
Johan smiled. “Believe me, brother, it’s true.”
“And the inversion?” Sigurd asked, letting Johan’s cryptic answer slide.
“It symbolizes the curse—”
“A curse?”
“Yes. Some of us believe there is an ancient curse upon this land. Something belonging to the gods is buried here.”
“Don’t tell me you actually believe those stories.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to understand, brother. But you know, even if you won’t admit it, that there is a sickness here. Promise me brother, if we find what is damning these lands, be careful and do not lay your hands upon it.”
“Find what? What are you talking about? Who are these people you’ve gotten yourself involved with?”
“Protectors of a secret knowledge that goes back to the time of King Harald himself. It seems our greatest fear has been realized.”
“And what’s that?”
“That whatever Fairhair found here, he eventually put back.”
“What did he supposedly find?”
Sigurd watched as his brother’s normally unemotional face creased in worry. Johan didn’t spook easily. Something out here scared him and that alone terrified Sigurd.
“If what this book says is true, then we are getting close. After years of searching...”
“Years?”
Johan didn’t finish the thought, but instead resumed walking. “Follow me,”
They continued in silence for another twenty minutes. Johan stayed far enough ahead of his brother to keep them from having to speak. Sigurd did not press his brother for more information. He wanted their time together to be civil. They didn’t get to do things like this very often anymore.
They entered a small clearing and found no path to follow. Either it didn’t exist or....
“Which way?” Sigurd asked.
Johan flipped to a page in the back of his book, and then pointed to the northwest. He cautiously approached a thicket of low growing shrubs and pushed them aside to reveal another footpath just beyond, but instead of it being made of natural earth, the newfound trail was paved with cut stone.
“What is this place?” Sigurd asked, stepping through first.
“This path leads to the Resting Grounds.”
“A cemetery?”
“A tomb.” Johan said reverently. “The tomb of Harald Fairhair.”
“King Harald’s tomb is here?” Sigurd asked. According to traditional lore, the king was buried in a mound in Haugesund, more than a hundred miles to the east. “But if that’s true, it would be the discovery of a lifetime. Why haven’t you told anyone? People need to know about this.”
“Not this. The curse hangs heaviest here.”
“Enough, Johan!” Sigurd shouted, his voice echoing around them. Johan cringed at the sound. Sigurd must have noticed, for his demeanor softened. “Forgive me. I know this is important to you.”
Johan looked deep into his brother’s eyes, doing what he could to hide the fear in his own. “Come bror, I will show you.”
“Show me what?” Sigurd asked, heading down the trail. The footpath itself was the only unnatural thing before them. They were nearly ten miles outside of town and hadn’t seen another living soul for some time. Even the wildlife in the area was oddly sparse.
“Show me what, Johan?” Sigurd asked again, frustration ringing in his voice.
Johan glanced back at him, unable to articulate the fear he felt.
––––––––
They moved in silence for ten minutes, following the inclining path further and further to the northwest. It seemed to get colder with each passing minute, but Sigurd knew it was just a combination of the anticipation and exhaustion.
Except us. Sigurd tried his best to ignore his own apprehension.
The path banked out of sight around to the left, causing Johan to slow a bit. Mirroring his brother’s movements, Sigurd did the same. It was not until Johan drew his large axe that he questioned his brother’s sanity.
“What are you doing?”
“Being careful.”
About what? Sigurd asked himself. He was finished asking his brother any questions for now. All Johan’s answers did was lead to more queries.
The path narrowed, forcing Sigurd to fall in line behind Johan. Both Larsens were larger than average, giants to some, standing nearly a head taller than most men. They, like their father and grandfather before them, were each thick and powerfully built, and because of it, the only thing Sigurd could see was the back of Johan’s broad shoulders.
And his thick skull, thought Sigurd.
Whatever lay ahead of them was still a mystery.
Until, Johan stepped aside....
The path ended at a black iron gate set right into the side of the mountain. The metal was so dark that Sigurd could only describe the color as evil. The small amount of light that penetrated the canopy above didn’t reflect off its surface. The natural light absorbed into it like it was being consumed.
With great care, Johan opened the gate. Beyond lay the yawning darkness of a cavern. He picked up a large rotted tree branch lying nearby and tied a cloth around the end of the branch, creating a makeshift torch, which he lit with a matchstick, and then stepped into the opening. He looked back to his brother and nodded. Sigurd returned the nod and started forward, following close behind, gripping his own axe.
They traveled for a few minutes, deeper into the rock. The path dipped slightly, beckoning them further, and eventually bringing them to the mouth of a natural cave, much larger than anything either man had seen before. At its center was a raised coffin, black as night just like the gate. Surrounding it was a flowing mound of treasure—coins and jewels. It was truly a king’s wealth.
But when Johan lowered the torch the wavering firelight revealed only death.
The cave was full of bodies, long-dead judging by the rot. The only thing left was bone and whatever clothing they had worn. Sigurd breathed a silent prayer as they stepped further into the mass grave, tiptoeing carefully around them.
The number of carcasses wasn’t what caught Sigurd’s attention but rather their size. They were larger than even he and Johan—true giants, monsters from the depths of Hell. The bones were thicker than a man’s, powerfully built. Though human in shape, the skulls had long canines, like fangs, and the hands and feet curled into talons.
“What were they?” Sigurd gasped.
Johan turned and faced him. “They were us, Sigurd. They were men cursed. The king sought this secret for over fifty years, and unfortunately for him, he found it. It’s said to give the man who wields it unlimited power... But at great cost.”
“What was buried with Fairhair?” Sigurd asked, sweating despite the cool dank air in the cave.
Johan held up the journal again showing Sigurd the insignia. “Look closer,” he said. Sigurd did and saw that it wasn’t just a staff within the valknut. It had a pointed end and looked just like a...
“A spear,” Sigurd said, mystified.
Johan turned and made his way to the coffin, putting his weight against its lid. At first, it didn’t budge, but Johan grunted and began to move it. It wasn’t until Sigurd joined in, that they finally shoved it aside. The jet-black lid crashed to the floor, revealing the dead king in full battle armor. Clutched in his lifeless hands was a spear, black as obsidian and as tall as Sigurd himself.
“Gungnir,” Johan whispered in awe. “The favored weapon of Odin, the Allfather, king of the gods.”
Johan reached for the fabled spear, but Sigurd held out a restraining hand. “Don’t, brother. This doesn’t feel right.”
Johan ignored him
Sigurd desperately tried to hold back his brother, but Johan thrust a thick, powerful elbow into his face, knocking him to the ground. With a manic expression, he seized the weapon.
Holding his bloodied nose, Sigurd could see runes inscribed into the blade and shaft—runes he recognized but didn’t comprehend.
The language of the gods, perhaps.
Johan began to growl. His grunts quickly turned into screams about a curse—the curse. Backing away, Sigurd watched in astonishment as Johan began to change.
Johan lurched forward. Gungnir fell from his grip, returning to the forsaken coffin, landing on Fairhair’s chest. Johan gripped the crypt’s edge and howled into the air.
He sounded like he was dying.
Sigurd recoiled at the sound of cracking bones and at the sight of his brother’s skin stretching and tearing. Johan’s coat and shirt split apart as his bulk grew, revealing a pelt of gray fur sprouting from his back and shoulders.
Sigurd knew he should’ve been running, but he couldn’t. The sight of his only brother turning into a beast rendered him too terrified to move.
As Johan turned toward Sigurd, his face began to elongate. His eyes changed from their normal steel-blue to a sickening blood-red. His appearance was exactly that of the bodies around them. He looked human enough but had turned into what Sigurd knew was something much worse than a man.
His brother was in the grip of the legendary berserkergang.
Tears flowed down Sigurd’s face and he crossed himself, praying for the nightmare to end.
Lost in a primal bloodlust, Johan swept a dagger-tipped hand at his brother.
Sigurd dove between Johan’s legs and scrambled around to the opposite side of the coffin but could not avoid being raked by Johan’s claws. The wounds were deep. He could feel his blood flowing free and fast, soaking his clothes in seconds.
Knowing his life was near its end, and not seeing another way out, Sigurd did the only thing that he knew could stop the monstrous Johan. “I’m sorry, bror,” he whispered, and then reached into the coffin and took hold of Gungnir. He screamed as something snapped in his mind, then, he too began to transform into one of Odin’s bestial warriors.
He would kill Johan, and in return, he prayed his brother did the same to him.