Magnus crouched behind a boulder, watching Snaekulf prepare the sauna. The room was carved directly from the hillside. Turf walls bulged out for a couple of feet. The fire pit and heating stones were just within the doorway. The benches were further back inside and higher up. Smoke rose through the roof hole.
Snaekulf filled a bucket at the pool and set it inside the sauna. He stripped off his clothes and stepped inside. He pulled shut the heavy, hide-lined door. Magnus stood up then. “Now!” he shouted.
The men ran to the sauna and levered a huge boulder against the door. Svart brought a bucket of water from the pool and poured it into the smoke hole. A great cloud of steam rose from the sauna. Inside, Snaekulf screamed. Then he howled like an animal and the door shuddered as he slammed against it. It had taken four men to roll the boulder against the door, now it moved back an inch. Magnus motioned the others forward and men crowded against the stone, holding it fast. The upper edge of the door cracked and Snaekulf punched it and broke it until he could wrap his fingers about it and rip it away. Cool air was rushing into the sauna now through the hole in the top of the door. The berserk would not be cooked alive as Magnus planned.
“Hold fast!” yelled Magnus. Svart pulled out his sword and raised himself onto the boulder with his left hand. He stabbed into the opening but hit nothing. He drew back and stabbed again. Snaekulf’s hand darted out above the blade and grabbed Svart’s wrist and squeezed it. Bones crackled and Svart screamed. He released the sword and Snaekulf pulled him shoulder deep into the sauna. He broke the man’s arm. Then he broke it again. The men pressing against the boulder heard the bones snap both times. Snaekulf howled in rage and triumph.
“Hold fast!” yelled Magnus again, but a slave fell away from the stone, his eyes rolling in fear. Another man followed. The slaves and one of the farmhands fled. Magnus, Ketil, and the other hand backed away, reaching for their weapons. The boulder shot forward and the door flew after it. Snaekulf roared out, dragging screaming Svart by his broken arm. The berserk was naked, bright red from the steam. He opened his jaws wide and howled in rage and snapped his teeth together. He grabbed Svart’s belt, lifted him overhead, and smashed him against the boulder. Svart’s back was broken and he lay moaning on the ground.
Magnus thrust at Snaekulf but he was afraid and backed away even as his sword poked forward. Snaekulf dropped and dodged the ineffective blow, then rose with Svart’s sword in his hand. He stepped forward and swung the weapon. The blade caught Magnus just above his ear and sliced across and down. Eyes bulging, the top of Magnus’s head went flying off and his open jaw flapped against his neck.
Ketil and the farmhand turned and ran. Snaekulf came after them. He overtook Ketil and cut his leg off below the knee. The farmhand ran faster and Snaekulf threw his sword at the man. The blade flew between the man’s legs and he tripped and fell down. Snaekulf was on him immediately. He grabbed the man’s head and twisted it back, breaking his neck.
Snaekulf ceased howling. He surveyed the scene: Four men lay scattered about the meadow. He growled once, then slouched up to the pool where he washed the blood and sweat from his body. From time to time he shivered a little. His hands shook and he raised them out of the water and stared at them, willing them motionless. After a while, he rose from the pool and fetched his clothes and weapons. He never looked toward Svart, who lay whimpering, unable to move, or down the hill toward Ketil, still alive but bleeding. Snaekulf mounted one of the horses and rode away from the sauna.
Magnus’s wife, Ingveld, stood stone-still outside her house, arms folded and eyes hard. Thorolf questioned the slave who knelt before him shivering in fear. “How many of you were there? Did you actually see Magnus die?” The man’s teeth were chattering too hard for speech. He nodded yes to every question, whether that made sense as an answer or not. Thorolf stopped interrogating the slave. “We’ll find out nothing here. Come on, we’ll ride up to the sauna.”
Colm and Bjorn hadn’t dismounted. They kicked their horses into action. Thorolf mounted and galloped after. Adals and the other two farmhands followed. Two slaves brought up the rear. Ingveld watched them ride off, her mouth pressed into a hard line.
They came upon the dead farmhand first, then spotted Ketil. The man was unconscious but still alive. Bjorn wound a strap around his leg and stopped the bleeding. Svart was alive, too, but there was nothing to be done for him. He was paralyzed and, one way or another, would die soon. Thorolf straightened his body out on the grass and tried to make the man comfortable.
The slaves and farmhands were transfixed by the sight of Magnus’s body and the head lying on the grass that seemed to watch them with bloody eyes. Thorolf saw them exchanging frightened glances and knew they would be no use in a fight. He called the men over and instructed them to make litters and transport Svart and Ketil, each to his own farm.
The horses were tired and foam flecked. The men caught fresher mounts from those left by the others. Thorolf said, “We will go tell Ingveld.”
“No!” said Colm. “We will go to the Trollfarm. He will seek me there.” He didn’t wait for an answer, but rode off down the hillside. The others followed. Colm, Thorolf, Bjorn, Adals—they were four, just as many as those the berserk had left for dead.
Gwyneth came outside when she heard Gagarr barking. She recognized Snaekulf from a distance and went back inside the entryway to the house. Carefully, she dried her hands on her apron, then took up the spear and waited there.
Snaekulf dismounted and Gagarr snapped at him. Snaekulf kicked the dog, not terribly hard but enough to send him howling. He kept his eyes fixed on the doorway the entire time.
Gwyneth heard Gagarr’s yelp but could not see what had happened. She tightened her grip on the spear. Snaekulf suddenly filled the doorway and Gwyneth lunged at him. Snaekulf caught the spear behind the head and yanked it from her grasp. He snapped the shaft and threw the piece with the spearhead behind him into the yard. He prodded Gwyneth back inside with the blunt end of the broken shaft.
Gwyneth backed into the house, shamed at being herded like an animal, like the slave she once had been. Her eyes blazed but she kept backing up, past the fire pit to the raised woman’s platform at the end of the longhall. Here she kept her distaff, her spindle, other women’s tools, and the bundle of wool she was spinning. Snaekulf poked her onto the platform and she sat down hard.
Snaekulf sat on a bench and looked about. “Your husband is gone.” It was not a question. Gwyneth kept silent. “But he will be back. I will wait.”
“Don’t expect hospitality!”
“No. I could not accept it anyway, not in the house of a man I am going to kill.” He glanced up at her. “Even a berserk has honor, you know.”
“That remains to be seen. What honor can there be in a life dedicated to murder?”
“It is true I deal in death, but there is honor there. I once served King Haakon but he is dead now, and I have fought against Harald Greycloak and his brothers too long to ever serve them.”
“And just how does a faithful berserk manage to survive the death of his lord?”
Snaekulf looked at her and for a moment Gwyneth thought he might smile, but his expression never relaxed from the fixed mask of bared teeth and staring eyes. “I was in the south when it happened, fighting other battles. Otherwise, yes, I would have died with Haakon.”
They were silent then for a time. The fire smouldered in the pit before them, the pungent sheep-dung smoke rising to fill the roof space. Gwyneth reached for her distaff. Snaekulf’s eyes followed her but he did not tense. He does not fear me, thought Gwyneth. The thought reassured her and troubled her. She was reassured because experience had taught her that frightened men are unpredictable and sometimes violent, but she was troubled by her own weakness and ineffectiveness. She thrust the pointed end of the distaff into her belt and took up the spindle and began twisting a thread from the hank of wool. Even with death in the house there was no use sitting with idle hands.
The thre
ad lengthened. The only sounds were the whir of the spindle and an occasional pop from the fire. Gagarr thrust his muzzle into the room and whined.
“Ah, Gagarr! You are all right?” In answer the dog flopped onto the floor and nipped at a flea on his backside. “I thought you had killed him,” said Gwyneth.
“There is no honor in killing dogs,” said the berserk. “I only kill men.”
Gwyneth was chilled by his words. “How does one become a berserk, anyway?”
“I was born so. My grandfather was a berserk, they say. I am named for him.” Snaekulf shrugged. “It is my fate.”
“You served a Christian king. I didn’t know Christians could be berserks.”
“I don’t know either. I belong to Odin. When he is ready for me he will strike me down in battle—I may see him then, or he may take the form of my enemy. Anyway, the Valkyries will take me to his feast hall where I will meet other heroes that have fallen. We will drink and make poetry until Odin calls us to the final battle where all will die, even the gods themselves.”
Gwyneth had nothing to say to this, so she attended to her spinning. They were silent again. Gagarr began to snore and Gwyneth smiled in spite of herself.
“This is pleasant,” said Snaekulf. “Pleasant and peaceful.”
“Have you never thought of marrying?”
“Who would marry me? I am no use at anything but killing.”
“Someone married your grandfather.”
“Ah, but things were different then, I think. In those days warriors were appreciated. Now, everyone wants to be a farmer.”
Gwyneth’s spindle was full of thread. She snipped it free with the small scissors that hung from her apron. The thread was wound on a sleeve of bark that Gwyneth slipped from the spindle shaft. She placed the spool of thread with a row of others in the box beside her. Under the finished thread lay a sharp-pointed spearhead. She let her finger touch the hard steel briefly and firmed her resolve. She placed another bark sleeve on her spindle, drew a strand of wool from the distaff, twisted it onto the spindle, and began spinning again. After a few minutes, she let her hand stray over to the box of thread to touch the spearhead again.
Snaekulf said, “Sometimes I think I am a large animal with other, smaller creatures all about.” He looked at Gwyneth. “Like a cat in a barn full of mice. My world is no larger than theirs, but I am supreme in it.” His lips pulled back from his teeth and, once more, Gwyneth thought he was going to smile, but he only grimaced. “Of course, small creatures may be crafty; they may try to take the large beast by surprise. I suppose it happens. I suppose a swarm of mice might bite open a cat’s belly. Or perhaps, while the cat is distracted, one might go for his throat.”
Snaekulf stood up. “So the cat must be wary, too, and always watch the mice.” He leapt forward and Gwyneth recoiled, gripping the distaff while the spindle bounced against her platform and snarled the thread.
Snaekulf grabbed the thread box and turned it over. “Ah. What do we have here?” He held up the spear point. “Is this to clip thread?” He sat back down on the bench and turned the weapon over in his fingers. Gwyneth sat silently, looking into her lap. After a time she picked out the snarled thread, moistened the strands between her lips, and rejoined them. Then she began spinning again.
No one spoke. The dog slept. The fire smouldered. The spindle buzzed. They sat that way for a time—less than an hour—when Gwyneth heard the horses. The berserk heard them too. He stretched and pulled his shoulders back. Gagarr began barking. Outside, Colm called to him, “Quiet, Gagarr!” The dog recognized his voice and ceased barking and wagged his tail.
Snaekulf rose from the bench. He held the spear point in one hand as he turned away and reached for his sword hilt with the other. Gwyneth slid the distaff from her belt and lunged from the platform. She thrust the distaff forward and up with both hands, as though it were a spear, stabbing with all the strength she could muster.
She meant to catch Snaekulf under his ribs and plunge the distaff up in his guts, but she did not connect there. The pointed end of the distaff skimmed up past his spine and struck the back of Snaekulf’s neck just under his skull, pierced inward an inch or so, and broke off. Gwyneth stabbed again with the splintered shaft and pushed it into Snaekulf’s back as hard as she could until her weapon lodged in bone. The berserk tried to turn toward her. “Oh,” he said. “My.” Then his face smoothed and his lips went slack and closed over his teeth. He fell straight down, like a hanged man whose rope is cut, face forward into the fire pit. His shirt caught flame and his hair blazed up.
Gwyneth took up a bucket of water and threw it on the fire. The room filled with the stench of burnt hair and wet dung. Gwyneth looked down at Snaekulf’s body but she could not call up the strength to drag it from the pit. She collapsed back onto her platform and watched the doorway, waiting for Colm to come in.
Copyright © 2010 Mike Culpepper
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Fiction
BRING DOWN ONE
JOHN H. DIRCKX
“Your end needs to go about another yard north, Chris.”
In the harsh glare of the working lights above the stage at Pierce Hall, Ron Reese of Aardvark Amusements and his solitary helper were struggling to assemble a dunking stool. By two in the afternoon they had already put in a long day, and it wasn’t nearly over yet. Reese fervently wished the gaggle of nitwits gathered around them would go away and let them do what they had to do in peace instead of plying them with idiotic questions.
“How cold is this water going to be?” asked Vance Ballard.
“About as cold as it is when it comes out of the faucet,” Reese told him. “There’s no heater in here, if that’s what you’re asking.”
People from Hollywood didn’t impress Reese, particularly this middle-aged piece of beefcake whom he remembered as the class idiot at Matthew Arnold High about twenty years ago. Ballard—they had called him “Moe” back then—didn’t seem to remember him, and Reese didn’t bother to refresh his memory.
“I’ve got the hose connected to a cold-water line.” That was Don Studebaker, the chunky, self-important stage manager who showed about as much interest in helping with the project in hand as a union bricklayer who’d been asked to hang a door. “The water heater can hardly handle the demand from the rest rooms during a show. If we ask it for a hundred gallons of warm water at one go, it’ll break down for good and all.”
“Is this thing safe?” asked Mandy Follette, Ballard’s ditzy wife, who would have been even more stunningly beautiful without all those layers of rouge and mascara.
“It will be, once the tank is filled up to the line with water.” Reese held two tubular steel struts in alignment while Chris Stollard ran a long bolt through them and started threading a nut on it. “Provided,” he couldn’t resist adding, “that your diver is over eighteen and sober and doesn’t have any physical impairments.”
“I’ve got a gimpy knee and a bad shoulder,” said Ballard. “And I’ve got the surgery scars to prove it. That’s why I’m wearing a suit for this gig instead of swimming trunks.”
“Vance, you’re not wearing that suit to get dunked in a tank of water.”
Mandy’s comment was no mere idle remonstrance but an unconditional mandate from mission control.
“Well, you’re right about that, I’m not. That’s why I brought that old greenish gray thing you said makes me look like the Creature from the Black Lagoon. So when did you start worrying about the drycleaning bills?”
Mandy’s reply, liberally salted with street language, was cut short as yet another showbiz bimbo appeared on stage. This one was wearing a maroon blazer and a lime green scarf. Reese recognized him as Ballard’s campaign manager, Malcolm Garner, who had been at Aardvark yesterday to arrange for the rental of the dunking stool.
“You guys really need to watch the feuding in public,” said Garner. “Marital discord may not hurt anybody’s
image in Hollywood, but it doesn’t work on Capitol Hill.”
“Speaking of images, was this your brainstorm?” Ballard pointed to a freshly painted sign lying on the stage in readiness for mounting.
BRING DOWN THE BOMBER
ONE BALL $20 — TWO BALLS $35 — THREE BALLS $50
“I thought we agreed we were trying to get away from the picture of the muscle-bound moron in a football jersey.”
“Vance, you’re paying me to do that kind of thinking for you, remember? The vast majority of your voting public are morons. They find it easier to identify with a guy in a football jersey than with a shifty politician mouthing clichés and doublespeak.... Okay, don’t blow your top. That’s just the way things are.”
Reese and his assistant had finished attaching the top edges of the vinyl water tank to the framework. “If you’d like to start running in the water now,” Reese told Studebaker, “we can check for leaks and do a test run.” He looked at his watch.
Studebaker positioned the end of a hose in the tank and disappeared somewhere into the wings. By the time he returned, water was cascading noisily into the tank, gradually pulling the wrinkles out of its vinyl skin.
“How much water is going to splash out of the tank if he gets dunked?” Studebaker wanted to know.
“Some,” said Reese. “That’s why I had you put down the tarp.”
“This stage goes back to the days of vaudeville. It’s got more holes and cracks in it than an English muffin. There’s some scenery stored right below here, and a lot of electrical wiring—”
“Your tarp should take care of that. You’ll have a better idea after we run the test.”
Reese uncoiled a fifty-foot power cord. “Want to plug that in somewhere?”
Studebaker took the cord and examined the heavy three-bladed plug. “Why two hundred twenty volts if there’s no heating coil?”
“That’s the way they made it,” said Reese with a shrug. “It takes a powerful solenoid to release that perch when somebody’s sitting on it. Plus you’ve got the lights and the sound effects.”
Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine 01/01/11 Page 7