Warning: Spoilers.

She stared into his eyes. Giants had reared him. Another giant had he slain, and many mighty warriors. He had won in battle against warlocks and had passed through a land of the dead. Never had she seen anything more bleak than his eyes.

Her thews slackened. She bowed her head. “I’m sorry, father,” she whispered.

--Poul Anderson, War of the Gods

Few authors have channeled “The Northern Thing” quite like the great Poul Anderson. The ancient Norse myths and Sagas ran strong in his Scandinavian blood, even when he was writing reams of science-fiction set in the vast reaches of space. At various points in his career the seven-time Hugo winner returned to Mimir’s Well for another draught of cold Northern waters, including 1997’s War of the Gods (Tor).

I really enjoyed this book. Truth be told it is not as strong as The Broken Sword or Hrolf Kraki’s Saga, but it’s good Anderson, which makes it better than most heroic fantasy.

The War of the Gods is a retelling of the tale of Hadding, a Danish warlord and the son of Gram, king of Denmark. When Gram is murdered, young Hadding is hidden away and fostered by a giant. Giants and gods stride freely through its pages, in glorious full color. War of the Gods perhaps suffers a bit from too much retelling of Norse myth, but we can forgive Anderson for this indulgence. He earned it. Anderson was 70 at the time it was published and just four years later would pass into the halls of Valhalla himself.

War of the Gods is a pastiche of saga literature, a quasi-obscure but compelling literary tradition which began with H.R. Rider Haggard’s Eric Brighteyes and continued with the likes of Arthur Gilchrist Brodeur’s “Vengeance,” E.R. Eddings’ Styrbiorn the Strong and Robert E. Howard’s “Spears of Clontarf,” all the way into the present day. War of the Gods would not be Anderson’s last return to Viking lore and lands: Mother of Kings (2001), an account of Gunnhild, wife of King Eirik Bloodaxe, was still to come.

War of the Gods contains everything I like about these fantastic retellings of Viking Age heroes, including the struggle of free will vs. inexorable fate (which the Vikings referred to as their “wyrd”). This remains a pressing issue today, now waged in the research of neuroscientists. The story is told with a prose style that melds modern language with the rhythms and structure of the old Norse Sagas—“this happened then this happened.” There is no moralizing or judgement rendered by an omnipotent authorial voice, just straightforward depictions of violence and romance. We are left to interpret them as we may.

After spending time in exile Hadding comes into his own, gains power and a following, and carves out his own kingdom on a bloody path to avenging his slain father Gram. But, interestingly, War of the Gods offers a sophisticated, equivocal perspective on what could have been a simple revenge story. Hadding is too much the wrecker of mead-halls and not enough of the statesman in his youth. He leads many men to their deaths in dangerous raids and pitched battles, and invokes the wrath of the elves after absentmindedly killing one of their brethren, invoking a powerful curse that nearly leaves him in ruin. It’s a familiar story of great heroes doing great but ill-advised deeds, leading to avoidable tragedies. Tom Shippey described this Viking urge to die in combat, sword in hand, as a sort of death-cult. J.R.R. Tolkien both greatly admired and drew inspiration from these stories while finding their implications troubling, and in his stories attempted to reconcile this wild pagan spirit with Christian mercies.

An incredible tension grips the tale, at multiple levels. Why can’t Hadding settle down and rule in peace and prosperity? Why must he always hear the sword-song, and continually return to the sea to go a-Viking? Likewise, a great underlying tension exists between Hadding and his wife and queen, Ragnhild. She is the daughter of Haakon of Norway, to whose mountains she longs to return, and day-by-day grows restless in Denmark, and in her marriage. The pair even separate, briefly. Viking women enjoyed an unusual degree of freedom, and could even divorce. Anderson portrays Ragnhild as fiercely independent, imbued with her own wants and passions, but also loving, sad, resigned, and wishing ultimately to reconcile with her husband. She experiences great difficulty in childbirth, and a third birth claims her life and that of their stillborn daughter. Hadding’s final words to his wife are incredibly touching:

He bent over to close her eyes. “You were a warrior,” he said. “I could never have fought the fight you did. Wherever you are bound, let them honor you.”

In some respects the book is a bit of a “farewell to all that,” a subtle critique of a Viking lifestyle that ultimately ran its course, incomparable with a modernizing world. Hadding sees with clarity, albeit too late, that violence is not the path to a meaningful life. His daughter is fey, and his son turns a deaf ear to his father’s pleas to follow a different path than that of the Viking. Hadding is unable to influence either, perhaps because he was not around enough to properly raise them or forge a stronger relationship. Hadding cuts a sympathetic, tragic figure, and in the end is elevated to the realm of myth, and may return to earth one day as some once and future king.

Early in the book Hadding, held captive and awaiting execution, enthralls his captors with a wild tale of Odin. Seeking a vision beyond death, the one-eyed god hangs himself on the tree Yggdrasil, returning from his ordeal with a vision beyond that of mortal men. In some respects Anderson himself was straining to see beyond death, searching for deeper truths late in his career and his life by examining and re-examining these timeless Northern stories.

Brian Murphy is the author of Flame and Crimson: A History of Sword-and-Sorcery (Pulp Hero Press, 2020). Learn more about his life and work on his website, The Silver Key.