“Chants.” I said out loud, meditating, even. Perhaps if I meditated on my inability to write that would help? I needed to do something, after all. I had come a long way and so decided to absorb the local atmosphere, as it were. I closed my eyes, Seidr playing in my mind and concentrating on that and that alone I drifted away.
I must have dreamed for a while for I felt myself slipping away. I tried to keep a grasp on my inability to write, but it seemed trivial now somehow. I was standing on the beach and in my dream came ashore three brothers: Hakon, Ulf and Sigurd, stepping ashore from the long slim boat, the sail being stowed, the oars pulled in behind them. Clad in leather and metal, axes at their belts and long, thin swords in their hands they stood on the sand and shale, sniffing at the air. I stood before them but they did not see me, and I wondered why they sniffed at the air so. I looked behind me, across the snow drifts towards a low house and from the chimney rose a thin plume of smoke, and then I knew.
The house was different somehow; only one story for a start, and longer. Yet as I stood watching the three figures run past me towards the building it all began to fade.
“Volur.” I heard myself recite, though I did not know where this came from, “Seidknor. Visendakona. Sorceresses all. Come to me. Help me write my words again. I have travelled far.”
Everything faded and I startled awake, the book on Viking history dropping from my lap noisily, the peat fire roaring and lighting the room, that and the laptop screen being the only forms of light visible.
Cursing myself for falling asleep again I stood and turned the living room lights on, returning to the chair after I had done so, wiping my face with my hand and trying to get myself back together again.
I felt hot and dizzy and wondered if my strange dream and current condition was down to me over exerting myself when I decided to shift the snow for no apparent purpose than perhaps a slight case of agoraphobia about being snowed in. I rested my head back in the chair and let my mind clear.
There came then a sudden thump on the front door so loud I swear it shook the whole house. This was not a sound like someone knocking on the door. It sounded like something had been thrown at it. The sound echoed around the house, falling to silence. I had been so shocked by the loud noise that I must have stood in shock, finding myself on the other side of the fire, staring at the door as if waiting for another noise.
Nothing came.
I stood gulping in the room, staring at the door, my heart hammering in my chest. How could anyone be out there? The snow was almost as deep as the windows of my hire car. Why would anyone come out in this weather to just knock on the door? I waited. Minutes passed, yet there was no other sound. I felt sick and hot with fear. I knew I would have to open the door, for I would not sleep if I did not do so. Yet perhaps I wouldn’t even if I did open it.
“Who is there?” I shouted as loud as I could, but of course there was no reply. My voice shocked me; it sounded reedy and afraid, and although was precisely how I felt, I could not help but feel disappointed that I had not tried to disguise this.
I edged forward, my arm rising as I approached the door. I put my hand on the door handle and listened. The door was thick and I suspect i would not have heard anything outside under any circumstances, but I swallowed hard and ripped the door open.
The doorstep was empty.
All that I could see in the pale blue moonlight was the snow I had banked away from the door before. I bent and looked but there were no marks in the snow at all. I went to take a footstep outside, but hesitated. I remembered what McTeigh had said about not leaving the house without being properly clothed; but it was not just that. Something had made that noise against the door, and it was not there now, yet perhaps whatever it was was not too far away, and so carefully examining the door for signs of damage and seeing none I tentatively stepped back and slammed the door shut, the dead seal locking instantly as I did so.
I wandered back into the room, wiping my brow, walking past the laptop. I stopped, for there were two words on the screen. Two words had been written on the document on which I had written nothing, for I was not currently capable of doing so.
“Blood eagle”. said the words, and I went to the window, looking out across the field of snow that receded as it met the sea at the end of the drive. The tall slim black spikes of the ruined spear seemed to swim and move in my sight as I stared at them, almost as if there was something, or someone out there in the snow. I shook my head and the poles were just poles again and so I returned to the living room, shaking my head as I made my way back to the armchair and sat down, trembling slightly, waiting for the thud on the door again, my nerves jangling.
Eventually I fell asleep.
***
Sometime in the night I must have taken myself off to bed as when i awoke the blankets were pulled firmly about myself, the room semi dark. I looked at the clock and I was surprised to see that it was twenty past nine in the morning, and so just getting light. I felt refreshed after my exertions of the day before, but my face felt cold and when I got out of bed and made my way to the bathroom the room was cold, my breath frosting in the air as I walked. Surprised at just how cold it was I touched the radiator. Stone cold. I ran the tap and after a while it was obvious that hot water was not going to be forthcoming.
I got myself ready in rather a rush and more or less ran down the stairs. It was still a little murky, dawn apparently being a desultory affair this far north, and so I flicked the light switch on. Nothing. Futilely I flicked it a few more times in vain. I warmed my hands in front of the peat fire that was still burning, though by the look of it all power had gone off for everything else.
This could of course be down only to the oil from outside, which was odd, as I knew that the tank was full of oil. There was only one thing for it. I would need to go and have a look at it myself.
I put on my coat, hat and gloves once again and opened the door. The snow was now getting icy and so as I crunched into the drift it collapsed away from me as I threw myself at it almost, striding up the path I had made and then half walking, half digging my way around the front of the cottage. It was not far of course, but as I forced myself through the snow it took me about twenty minutes to round the house and approach the oil tank up against the side of the house.
As I turned the corner however I found I did not have to advance any further for the cause of the problem was obvious. Oil ran in a dark black pool down the path, down the side of the house and away into the field. It was shining in the weak morning light, pooling in thick gluts about the grass as if it was blood. Oil was everywhere!
I stumbled forward a little more to see if I could see what had happened, and as I did so something small and bright flickered in the oil in the morning sun, pallid and pale though it was. I reached forward and saw a long snapped piece of wood on the ground, and the end, having fallen from the hole it had pierced in the oil tank was a small triangular piece of stone.
I leaned and picked it up. It was flint, and sharp as a razor, it looked old and evil, somehow.
“Spear.” I said out loud, and turning fought my way back towards the house. The oil tank was obviously now empty even if it could be repaired. I strode back into the house, shivering from the cold and went and tried the telephone. Now there was no dial tone at all. I looked at the laptop, and now there was a second line of text below the first.
I looked at it. The same words. “Blood eagle.” were repeated underneath, centered in the document as before, though this time the font was larger. As if something was drawing nearer somehow.
***
They are fools. Driven by cowardice and lust for their own land they seize upon anything to cast evil at myself and my two brothers. They locked us on the beach, the wind cold and merciless and we heard them supping our ale and eating our meat, taking our women. These things we had taken from the farmers ourselves; seized from them and their weak god.
Yet now our own people do the same. Our people! They take u
s to the beach and strip us naked, swords ready, and we are held. The blood eagle. A warrior's death. I have no fear for Valhalla awaits, but in my mind I have a doubt. As my brother’s ribs are split and his lungs ripped from his living body he dies and soon I will be next after Ulf. Yet the Seidr remains, and I know this. Myself and my brothers are not due for Valhalla just yet. We cannot die.
I was in a panic, though I had the presence of mind to warm myself by the fire. I still had three sods of peat left and I estimated that each sod lasted a few days. The house was cold yes, but I could survive as long as the fire was lit. I had plenty to eat that did not require cooking and I could melt snow for water. I knew also that I could not leave the house. The town of St Margaret’s Hope was about ten minute’s drive away, but no doubt the roads would be impassable even if I could dig my car out and get it started.
No. My best bet for now was to stay put and hope that the snow would soon melt. I took a trip to the window and saw the sky was grey and overcast, giving me nothing to determine if more snow was incoming or not. I knew however that if it was then I was in a whole lot more trouble than I already was. Cursing myself under my breath for putting myself in danger by travelling this far north at this time of year on a whim I remembered the words on the laptop. Blood Eagle.
I was adamant that I had not typed them, but at the same time I did not know what they meant either. The flint spear that had pierced the oil tank was baffling me too and lacking any real focus on what to do next I picked up the Viking history book and looked in the index to see if I could find anything on spears or the like. I could not, but in the index I did spot the words, “blood eagle” and so I turned to the page indicated and began to read.
“The ritual of the blood eagle is attributed mostly to the Vikings of Norway in which the victim was cut from behind with a long, slim sword, the torturer digging his hands into the victim's torso and to the front, and separating the ribs in such a way that they came out through his back, giving the illusion of wings, and thus a "bloody eagle". Although gruesome, the ritual almost always caused instant death, whether it be from blood loss or shock. The Vikings however were not overly fond of rituals that resulted in such an easy passing, and although not much is available to scholars in the way of evidence, some historians stating that the “blood eagle” ritual was apocryphal, it is mentioned time and time again by those who chronicled the Viking history, though this was of course not by the Vikings themselves who were largely illiterate and therefore did not leave their own accounts or histories.”
I put the book down, feeling sick as I did so. Why had these words appeared on my screen? I sat staring at the fire as the day grew around me. I was not hungry and did not notice the time passing. I reflected on what had happened. The words had only appeared on the screen and the sound on the door only appeared after I had dreamt of the Seidr. No. More than that. After I had meditated on it. Then the oil tank was wrecked. What had I done? What had I disturbed?
I looked up from the fire. Outside night was falling, and I wandered away from the warmth of the flames to the window and saw the even fuller crescent moon colouring the snow outside with its light. At the end of the drive the pillars of the ruined pier seemed to catch the light of the snow and I leaned forward slightly, a movement from that direction catching my eye.
As I watched three of the spikes from the pier seemed to move slightly, as if heading towards the house. I laughed aloud at how preposterous this idea was, but I leaned forward on the cold wood of the window sill again and saw three shapes moving slowly up the drive, the moonlight catching their forms as they advanced on the cottage. I saw them come slowly closer, though the dark even with the moonlight was too weak to reveal them.
Then they stopped and I saw now that they were three figures. The moon must have passed through a cloud and pale blue light lit them. They were old. Seaweed and ragged cloth hung from their skeletal shapes, old battered leather armour covering the rotting flesh and bone of what remained of their bodies. Two wore battered metal helmets about their bone raddled skulls, one bore an axe, and the two others long, slim keen swords that seemed to catch the moonlight and reflect it.
One reached out an arm towards the house and I moved back, fearful of the creature's gaze. but it made a gesture and the bones of its first clenched in a skeletal fist and then I heard the snow begin to fall down the chimney, the hiss of snow as it hit the fire, extinguishing it, the room beginning to fill with thick, loamy smoke. I cried out loud in fear and panic, noticing also that outside the snow was falling once again.
I watched in disbelief almost as smoke began to fill the living room, the snow that had fallen down the chimney creating a thick, acrid smoke that had started to fill the house. I panicked and ran into the kitchen, slamming the door shut and racing to the kitchen drawers and selecting the biggest knife that I could find. Already however smoke was pouring under the gap of the door and so I flung it open and considered heading upstairs, but I knew that this was futile. I did not know what to do, but as I stood unable to move the decision was taken from me as a deep thud hit the front door, followed by another and then another, the final deep boom splintering the wooden frame of the door and sending the whole door in pieces flying into the house, wood falling everywhere, the door disintegrating as if it had been struck by the hand of a giant.
The kitchen knife in my hand fell to the floor and I wandered trance-like towards where the door of the cottage had once been. Snow flurried in from outside, the night now clear and starry, the snow lit by the slight moon nonetheless, revealing the three shapes standing at the end of the gully I had dug, watching me.
Their faces were skeletal, yet I swear they grinned at me, and the taller one of the three made a gesture for me to come forward with its bony hand, the movement oddly human.
Yet they were not human. They had not been human for a very long time, though they had obviously once been. I found myself powerless to resist and I slowly walked forward towards the three figures, who as I slowly approached turned their backs to me and began to walk slowly through the snow towards the sea.
The snow did not impede me now, seeming strangely solid underfoot as if it was frozen or fixed there. Slowly the three figures moved, their silence a strange contrast against the wind and snow that roared around me, the cold seeming to seep into my bones until by the time we reached the beach I could feel it no longer.
The three moved even more slowly now, and when the sea began to lap at their skeletal feet they stopped and turned to face me.
Vikings of old they were I knew, and I saw into their minds too. Summoned unwittingly from their sleep of death by the Seidr I had meditated on they came to do what they did best. What they always did. They came to take what was theirs, and to kill all those who were in their way, whether they tried to stop them or not.
“They wonder why we do not raise their farms.” said a voice in my head, the visible jaw bones of the first figure at the front of the three moving in time with the words as if it was speaking them.
“Why would we? We just take what is there already, for it has been made to work. Why move a building just for the sake of moving it? Our efforts are best spent on battle, and war and blood.”
“Enough words.” said the second figure behind the first slightly, moving forward and around to my right side, watching be through the holes in its skull where its eyes should have been as it did so.
The figure on my right moved forward and the sword it held slashed impossibly fast towards me, cutting open my shirt and leaving a deep scratch across my chest, blood already beginning to form there. It was only skin deep I saw, but the other figure lunged forward and tore the tattered remains of my shirt from me.
I cried out aloud in the cold as each of the skeletal figures took hold of an arm each, holding me tightly. I tried to pull away but their grip was strong; like a vice.
“Our brothers failed to see the way of Seidr.” said the figure in the centre, moving towards me and sheathing i
ts sword, pulling out a small handled dagger instead. It had a long thin blade that flickered in the moonlight.
“They did not trust us and so here on the shores of our home they gave us the rite of the blood eagle so we would be despatched to Valhalla where we would ale and eat in the halls of our forefathers until the days of Ragnarok, when even the gods will die and all things will come to an end.”
“Yet the Seidr does not permit us to leave.” said the second figure holding my left arm.
“I am Ulf; known as the wolf, and my brother here is Sigurd, victory guardian.” he said, pointing at the figure holding my right arm.
“My brother here will give you the rite of the blood eagle. There is power in a name, and he is Hakon, known as the pride of families. You must tell them this when you enter Valhalla, for we hear that they have forgotten us, and your speaking of our names may remind them. We were human too like you, but the Seidr does not let its disciples go easily.”
The figure in the centre holding the dagger nodded and stepped towards me, its skull now but a few inches before me.
“Blood Eagle.” It hissed, and the skeletal face smiled, snow floating down around us, the wind howling as the three creatures stood as if waiting. Then it began.
I felt almost a thud in my chest and the blade moving inside me; cutting. I felt cold as it moved down, making an incision, moving slowly but carefully, the creature staring at me as it did so with its cold, dead eye sockets.
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