by Lee C Conley
The mud swarmed with the beetles that feasted on the blood drenched soil. Black feathers of scavenging birds lay about. It seemed one or two had ventured too close to the more mobile dead, to their end.
The side of the pit furthest down the slope was shallower. Drag marks through the mud on that side, showed that many of the previous occupants had clawed their way free.
Another shallower trench lay nearby, empty, but again signs of escape showed on the ground.
How many bodies had been dumped here? It was impossible to tell. How many of these shambling corpses still roamed the area?
One of the dead clutched at Arnulf. It’s snarling maw snapping and biting the air. Its eyes had been pecked away, the skin of its legs peeled back and removed in sections. Its legs too damaged, it was unable to rise to its feet, as were the other remaining occupants, trapped here to rot away into oblivion.
‘Haf!’ said Arnulf, breaking the silence amongst the living. ‘Destroy them. End this!’
With a gesture from Hafgan, several of the warriors notched arrows and began to feather the occupants of the pit. The light but normally withering torrent of arrows gradually subsided. It quickly became apparent the arrows had little effect. Several of the bowmen lowered their weapons. Quivers near empty, they had wasted many arrows. One or two of the corpses had stopped moving, but others still grasped at them.
‘It’s as it was at the pass, Arnulf. Our arrows are near useless,’ said Hafgan quietly.
Arnulf frowned, then said, ‘Then we burn them.’ Gesturing to several of the men, he said, ‘Go gather what branches and dry grass you can, anything that burns. Quickly and don’t go far!’
The warriors dumped what they could onto the struggling corpses; there was not much, mostly thorny branches and dead grass. Arnulf threw his torch down to ignite the grass. A few others followed suit, their torches pitching into the pit.
As the flames grew higher, an orange light was cast upon the ruins about. The figures below seemed oblivious of the fire as it consumed them, hands still writhing and clutching upwards through the branches as the dead flesh seared and burnt. A sweet sickly smelling smoke rose and swirled off into the night. The warriors of Arnar stood watching in silence.
‘We return to the marquee, lads,’ said Arnulf after a while. ‘And make haste.’
The warriors turned and returned to the cart track. Arnulf stood a moment watching the blackening hands still clutching up at him. His hands shook, and he again steadied them upon the familiar comfort of his old axe. Fergus appeared beside him.
‘Poor bastards,’ said Fergus. ‘Old night take them. No spirit deserves such a curse. It’s a shame, though.’
Arnulf turned, his expression questioning. He noticed Astrid and two shield-maidens nearby. Hafgan awaited them a few paces behind.
‘A shame?’ he asked.
‘No giants,’ said Fergus.
Arnulf forced a grim smile, both men trying not to think of the horrors within the burning pit behind them.
‘Imagine the tales if we had found giants,’ mused Fergus.
‘I’d rather not. My eyes have seen enough terrible things these last night’s, old friend. Will I ever sleep again?’
‘Aye, Arnulf, the gods have stretched my nerves, too, but if I don’t laugh, I fear I may never again. Come, let us leave this place.’
Arnulf strode away from the pit, trying his best to keep his reserve in front of the other warriors. The hound padded along nervously beside him, staying close. His shaking hands, clutched tightly to his axe as he walked. His legs felt weak, yet he kept his stride steady, leaving the orange glow of the fire, flickering behind him.
***
As the group returned to the marquee compound, a small group of warriors came out to greet them.
‘We saw a fire, lord,’ said the lead man as they approached.
‘Aye, nothing to worry about,’ said Arnulf.
The returning warriors behind Arnulf exchanged glances but said nothing.
‘The warrior, I fear he has lost his mind,’ said the lead man.
‘He is awake?’ asked Arnulf.
‘Aye, but we have not been able to get near him. He was thrashing at his ropes, trying to get free.’
His arm is bad, we think he is blood sick from his wound,’ said one of the warriors.
‘That’s not all, lord. He became so violent in his rage, even bound, he began smashing his head against the walls in fury. He smashed his head in pretty good, lord.’
Fergus cursed.
‘How is he now?’ asked Fergus.
‘We tied him down. He is weak, and he hasn’t stopped bleeding. He’s making little sense, but he is still struggling in fits of anger, screaming at us. We have left him tied down.’
‘He is insane, lord,’ said another warrior darkly.
‘Show us,’ said Arnulf.
They followed the warrior back into the marquee. Olad lay on the table. He had been lashed down with rope but still he struggled violently, his eyes wild and dark. Blood smeared his mouth and his chest. Dried blood stained his hands. A foul putrid smell of decay hung about him. It appeared he had recently feasted on raw putrefied flesh. His face was bruised and bloody. His nose and ears bled. There was blood in his hair, and it had begun to pool around his head. Arnulf was shocked at the repeated force it would have taken to inflict this upon himself.
Arnulf looked down in disgust and seized the man’s arm to look. Olad roared in pain and fury, but was too weak to resist.
There was fresh blood on his clothes. Hafgan’s axe had not cut deep. The glancing blow made a shallow cut into his side and slicing up to his armpit. It bled still, the table slick with his blood.
Arnulf also quickly noticed the arm, it had blackened. He lifted it. It smelt of rot. The bite wound from the girl at farmstead had festered just like this. Dark tissue had spread around the teeth marks and the darkened flesh had moved up his arm onto his shoulder.
Hafgan stepped close and spoke quietly into his lord’s ear.
‘Arnulf, that wound,’ whispered Hafgan. ‘I have not seen it’s like, except…the girl.’
Arnulf dropped the arm and threw Hafgan a grave stare. Olad seemed to have passed out.
‘Did he wound anyone while you restrained him?’ Hafgan asked of the warrior who had led them.
‘No, Haf. None,’ replied the warrior.
Hafgan nodded. He frowned thoughtfully.
‘Lord,’ said one of the warriors suddenly. ‘He’s not breathing.’
‘Are you sure?’ said Fergus as everyone turned their attention to the bound warrior.
‘His chest no longer rises or falls,’ replied the warrior. He moved closer.
‘Careful, lad, don’t let him bite you,’ cautioned Hafgan.
The warrior reached forward and warily checked for breath with his hand, his eyes locked on Olad’s face. He shook his head.
Hafgan moved closer and picked up Olad’s limp arm. It was growing cold. He let it flop back down.
Hafgan shook his head and said, ‘It looks like he is with the gods, Fergus.’
Fergus cursed and sighed over the body his fallen warrior.
‘Poor bastard,’ muttered Fergus.
There was a sudden snarl as Olad jerked into a violent fit, thrashing against the ropes once more.
‘Varg’s balls,’ cursed Fergus in shock.
Hafgan jumped back in alarm.
‘Is he dead?’ exclaimed Fergus.
‘I would have sworn he was,’ replied Hafgan darkly.
All in the room backed away from the table.
‘One way to be sure,’ said Astrid in a grim tone. She approached the bound warrior. He thrashed wildly and snarled up at her, but the ropes were too strong. She unsheathed a seax from its scabbard at her waist and held the blade over him, ready to stab Olad’s chest.
She looked at Fergus, waiting for his command.
After a moment of uncertainty, staring into Olad’s dark wild eyes, Fergus s
ighed heavily and gestured for her to continue.
She plunged the blade into his heart. It made no effect. Still, Olad snarled and struggled. She pulled the seax free and stabbed again. She looked up bewildered. She knew she must have pierced his heart, yet still, he was not still. She growled angrily. Olad screeched in reply and snapped his jaws. His eyes had discoloured and darkened. The black of his pupils held a dark malice and stared fixedly at her.
Astrid took a step back, and then drew her sword. With a cry of frustration, she cleaved a heavy blow into the dead man’s head. And then another. After a third Olad flopped down still.
Astrid’s breathing was heavy. ‘Mother save us,’ she gasped. ‘How in Varg’s name was he still alive?’
‘I’m not sure that he was,’ added Hafgan after a moment.
The shocked wordlessness once again returned to smother all in the marquee into a fear tinted silence. Arnulf’s hands were shaking. He made a fist and collected himself. He turned to Fergus. ‘Whatever transpired here,’ said Arnulf, ‘it is done.’ Arnulf turned to the big warrior beside him. ‘Haf, prepare the men to leave immediately. We return to the lowlands, I will not spend a night amongst these cursed ruins. We take what we can back with us.’ He strode over to the great tome, still upon the table inside the more lavish tent. He took out the twisted dagger from his cloak, and the tattered journal, and placed them on the books cover. ‘We take these,’ he said, resting his hand upon the tome. ‘And get the men to gather as many of these other books and scrolls as can be carried. The scholars will take a look on our return. We will find out what they have been up to. And your father must hear of this,’ the latter said to Fergus.
‘And what of him?’ asked Hafgan, nodding to the warrior laid cold upon on the table.
‘We take him,’ said Fergus. ‘My warriors will prepare some means of carrying him.’
‘We should burn him,’ said Arnulf suddenly, ‘like we did the others.’
They all looked at him aghast.
‘I should return him to his family, Arnulf,’ said Fergus.
‘No,’ replied Arnulf. ‘We should not risk it. We take him back to the mound of dead in the valley and burn them, him with them. We cannot risk them coming back again.’
Fergus was silent a long moment, then he nodded.
Arnulf strode from the marquee with the hound trailing at his heals. He shook his head.
‘Still no answers, only questions,’ said Arnulf to himself.
‘Aye, questions for the College men I think,’ said Fergus, as he joined Arnulf. ‘Perhaps our scholars can shed some light on that tome upon our return. Answers to all this.’
The torchlight flickered shadows on his face, Arnulf gave a bitter laugh.
‘Indeed,’ said Arnulf dryly. ‘Scholars? They’re all College scholars…’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve never trusted their like. No honour, no desire for renown.’ He spat and continued, ‘As meek as lambs, yet still cunning and full of deceit.’
‘You think they will lie to us? To my father?’ said Fergus.
‘To hide the folly of their brothers? Perhaps, I could see that,’ said Arnulf, frowning. He sighed and threw a long searching look into the dark ruins about them, his gaze settling on the direction of the monoliths crowning the hill. Shrouded now in darkness, he could not make them out. But still his eyes lingered there a moment. He suddenly laughed.
Fergus looked at him bewildered. ‘Something funny?’ asked Fergus.
‘A giant’s hall,’ laughed Arnulf grimly.
Fergus chuckled also, and then, as the oppressive darkness stole his mirth, he said, ‘Come, old friend. Let’s leave this accursed place. I don’t like the way the shadows watch us.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
A Gift of Stone
They came swiftly from the darkness without warning. Faces painted in ghastly white skulls. There was no sound, the scene unfolding in silence. They seized his legs and dragged him away. Bjorn cried out in terror, but no sound would come forth. Clawing the ground, he desperately tried to escape their grasp. They were too strong. He dug his fingers into the soft earth leaving deep furrows in his wake. He reached out for branches but everything was out of reach.
He could see their bare feet, the skulls adorning their waists and the bone fetishes they wore in their hair. He couldn’t make out any of them clearly. Spears of sharpened branches jabbed towards his face as he was dragged along like the helpless prey of a hill cat. The scene seemed to be unfolding in a dreadful slow motion.
A ruddy glow appeared ahead through the trees, he seemed to be heading towards it. Then came the flicker of flames. Bjorn could make out silhouettes of manic savages dancing and wheeling around the fire. He could hear their whoops and shouts.
A loud horn blew. That same horn he had heard north of the border whilst making his escape. That same terrifying sound of pursuit, that which had spurred him onwards in terror, leaving his stomach in his mouth, those terrible horns of the hunt. The sound was appallingly loud, filling his skull with its mocking braying.
He was dumped on the floor beside the fire. A familiar face stared down at him from above the flames. A mocking grin upon his face, the Wildman did not even writhe or struggle as the flames licked over his skin.
Burly hands seized him once more. Bjorn fought and kicked but to no avail. He was bound to a pole and hoisted over the fire. He began screaming. Still he could hear no sound, just the crackling of the flames and the manic celebrations of the Stone Men as they danced around him. He wept, helpless and terrified. They had him, there was no escape this time, and they would eat him.
He sensed a dull thud which shook his body. A shrieking skull painted face suddenly thrust itself into his vision. The savage’s features were strange and heavy set. Her brow ridge and chin were pronounced. Her teeth filed sharp. She raised a charred arm and took a bite, tearing off flesh to the bone. She shrieked again and waved the arm in his face. The arm he knew. It was his own.
He shrieked again, panic and terror overcoming him as he watched her chewing his flesh. She raised a stone axe and screeched something at him.
The world around him slowed as she brandished the axe over him. The flames licked around him. The savages slowly dancing and wheeling in the flickering light. He turned to the Wildman, still alive, still grinning back at him through the consuming flames.
He looked into the darkness between the surrounding trees. Figures stood there watching, faces he knew, dozens peering from the darkness amongst the trees. He picked out the face of his father, stood watching solemnly. The Wildman stood watching also. And beside them, her face, a face he often longed to see again. The axe descended.
***
Bjorn awoke with a start, his heart pounding. A dream… Such a terrible dream.
He glanced over at the fire. He expected it to have burnt low to mere embers but, instead, the flame still flickered. The dawn was still some time off and the birds hadn’t yet awakened. His shoulder ached painfully.
There was an odd smell. He sat up suddenly as he saw the fire. A spitted rabbit sat over the flames, slowly dripping juices which hissed into the hearth. He had company.
His hand reached for his axe, it still lay beside him where he had left it. Looking about, his eyes fell on the intruder.
Calmly sat by the fire, the Wildman watched him intently. Bjorn cursed. Anger flared behind the hunter’s eyes. Bjorn sprang into a low crouch, his axe readied.
The Wildman made no move. He simply regarded the hunter calmly over the flames. The fire cast an orange radiance over the Wildman’s face. He then reached over the hearth and tore off a leg from the rabbit. The bones snapped as he tore it lose. The Wildman tossed the cooked meat at Bjorn’s feet and motioned for him to eat. The Wildman turned his attention back to turning the spit.
Bjorn remained on his feet, his eyes fixed on the Wildman. He had thought to attack the intruder.
Then he cursed again and slumped back down with a long sigh and retrieved the meat fro
m the floor. He sniffed at the Wildman’s offering and brushed off the dirt as best he could.
He had always enjoyed rabbit, and it smelt good. Yet, something in that smell repulsed him. He stared long at the rabbit leg until the grease began to run down his fingers. The hunter then threw his gaze at the rest of the rabbit cooking over the fire, its flesh charred and red, grease dripping into the flames with a hiss. The entire scene echoed his dream, his nightmare. He shuddered. His imagination placed himself on that spit, slowly turning over the flames.
Was he still dreaming?
Bjorn could not bring himself to take a bite, his stomach felt uneasy. He delicately handed the leg back to the Wildman and shook his head. The Wildman looked confused but took the meat from him and took a bite himself.
Bjorn sat back and regarded the Wildman. The Wildman stared back as he chewed, the grease running down his chin. Then the Wildman reached into his furs and drew out a crude knife. Bjorn started at the sight of it but before he could react, the Wildman threw the knife at the hunter’s feet. He then nodded and motioned for the hunter to pick it up.
The hunter picked up the knife and examined it, turning it in his hands. It was made of stone. A worked flint blade as long the palm of his hand, made from a long shard of flint. The handle was made of wrapped bark and bound tightly with sinew and strips of the same malleable bark, Silver Accai Pine he judged.
Although crude, it was a thing of breath-taking beauty and made with great skill.
‘You made this?’ asked the hunter shaking the knife.
The Wildman tilted his head and looked confused. He did not understand Bjorn’s words. The hunter sighed in frustration. He then gathered up separate hands full of dirt and twigs and closed them together in front of him.
‘You…make?’ asked the hunter slowly while pointing at the Wildman and pressing the dirt and twigs together, and then winding is hand around as if binding it all together. He then held the knife up, hoping the strange Wildman would understand.
The Wildman simply laughed.
Bjorn cursed under his breath.