“Yes,” Skald said wearily. “I know what Per said. I’m coming.”
If I am to be Viking, I must do as my Captain asks.
He turned, and somehow managed to convey to the inhabitants of the cave that he was leaving, but that he would be back. They watched him, unblinking, until he turned and followed Tor.
He very quickly realised that Tor had been right about the weather. The wind whipped up snow into his face, and threatened to blow him off the path below the skull-rock. He used his staff to lever himself against the wind’s force and slowly made his way downwards, following the barely visible figure of Tor ahead of him.
Now that he’d stopped trying to converse with the people in the cave, the memory of the wyrding came back to him once more, made stronger by the sight of the snow whirling around him.
Blood and snow. Drums and doom.
And now he had the memory of the roar in his head, not knowing whether it was real, or something that had escaped with him out of the wyrd.
He felt his cloak. It had already stiffened where the Alma’s blood had soaked into it. His right arm hurt, and he knew it was because he’d used it, over and over, to thrust a knife into the beast. But he had no memory of it. It was in a black hole inside his mind that he couldn’t reach, wasn’t sure he wanted to reach.
But with every step down the hill his heartbeat pounded louder, echoing in his head.
He wasn’t at all surprised when the roar came again, closer now, from somewhere inside the group of huts. Ahead of him Tor started to run. Skald began to hobble faster, using his staff to try to maintain balance.
Screams rose from the settlement, high pitched wails of terror.
“Tor,” Skald shouted, but his voice was lost in the wind.
Everything was white, a dancing sheet of snow that swirled around him as if alive.
And in the snow, blood. Drops of it at first, like beads of red ice.
Per’s dogs barked.
Then came another roar, the fury of a beast.
White turned red and drums beat in his head.
He hobbled forward to the edge of the settlement. He had just reached the first roundhouse when something heavy cracked him on the back of the skull and he fell into darkness.
7
Tor was halfway down the hill when he heard the roar from within the settlement. He looked back, but couldn’t see Skald anywhere behind him -- the snow was getting too thick.
But if he is behind me, he will be safe.
Tor hefted his axe and broke into a run, moving as fast as he could through the muddy slush and snow. Somewhere ahead of him a Viking screamed. It was a wail that spoke of pain the likes of which no man should be forced to endure. Tor threw caution to the wind and leaped down the hill.
By the time he arrived at the first hut the sound had stopped and all was quiet.
He stood still, hearing only the pounding of his heart in his ears, the soft hiss of falling snow and the whistle of the wind around the edges of his helm.
The wolfhounds started frenzied barking.
Huginn, Muninn.
Tor ran towards the noise, aware that he was heading back to the same spot where they had killed the first beast.
When he arrived at the East Side of the settlement he almost thought he was dreaming, reliving the earlier scene. A group of Viking stood in a semicircle while the dogs barked and yelped at a white creature cornered at the midden between the two buildings.
But this was no pregnant female. The beast towered above the Viking, half as tall again as the tallest man, near four feet wide across the shoulder with muscles bunched and taut like rocks under the skin. It was snow-white all over apart from on the palms, where the skin was tough and leathery, almost black. Shaggy hair hung around its thighs like a thick kilt that almost reached its knees and it smelled, musky and almost rancid, like a boggy pool after a run of hot days.
The bloody ruined corpse of the female hung from one huge hand, and it cradled one of the mangled foetuses in the other. It ignored the dogs completely, and the dozen Viking arranged around it were unsure what to do next.
Per arrived seconds after Tor.
“Huginn, Muninn. Heel.” Per shouted. “Come to heel.”
But the dogs had their blood up, and refused to obey, taking turns at trying to run in and nip at the ankles of the beast.
“You men, back to the boats with the rest,” Per shouted.
Several of them moved, but Kai and his men stood their ground, spears held towards the beast.
“Kai. Get back to the boat. We are leaving this place.”
Kai and his men stepped forward, spears in front of them. Still the beast ignored them.
“You run if you wish Father,” Kai said. “But we have a troll to kill here. And this one shall be mine.”
The beast laid the bloody foetus on the ground, gently, almost reverentially. It stood, head down, stroking the fur of the ruined corpse of the female, then laid her on the ground alongside the foetus.
“Kai,” Per said softly. “Step away. You have no idea what you are facing.”
Kai laughed.
“It is a beast, and I am Viking. What more do I need to know?”
He walked forward, prodding the tip of a spear towards the beast.
And finally, it turned its attention to him. It stared straight at him. Huge nostrils flared, steaming slightly in the cold air. It ran a thick red tongue over cold blue lips, then raised the upper lip in semblance of a smile. Its arms hung loosely at its side, but it flexed its fingers, curling and uncurling them. Tor had seen the same action in angry men in their cups in the Great Hall.
He is preparing for a fight.
Tor wasn’t the only one to notice.
“Kai,” Per said again. “Stand away.”
“I am no coward Father,” Kai said as he took another step forward. “I at least will not flee.”
He has learned nothing from the last time.
The beast watched him come forward. It curled its fingers one last time, and its muscles tensed. But it never took its eyes off Kai or the spear.
Kai prodded the spear at it.
When it moved it was with a speed that surprised every man there. It grabbed the spear and pulled the shaft towards itself. Kai was so surprised that he forgot to let go and was dragged right into the creature’s reach. It raised a hand, fingers splayed, nails ready to rip like talons. Kai was struck immobile, unable to do anything but stare at his doom coming for him.
“Kai!” Per shouted, and ran forward, sword raised. The beast turned and swung in one movement, a closed fist smashing the Captain in the side of the head. Only Per’s helm saved him from a caved skull, but he fell to the ground, senseless, his sword falling away to one side. The beast stamped a huge white foot down on Per’s chest, just once, and the Captain lay still.
Kai scrambled backward on his arse away from the beast and struggled to his feet. He looked at Per’s still body and a grim smile played on his lips.
“I am Captain now,” he called. “Back to the boats.”
The beast raised its head and roared. Kai’s henchmen needed no other excuse. They turned and fled. The remainder of the Viking looked down at the Captain and, deciding that discretion was the greater part of valour joined them.
“The Captain may not be dead,” Tor said, grabbing at Kai’s arm. He was brushed off. “Your father may still live.”
“He is as good as dead,” Kai said. “But if you want to make sure, stay then, and die with him like a good little pet.”
Kai left to join the other departing Viking.
Tor stood there with the wolfhounds at his side. The beast stood over Per’s unmoving body, like a cat guarding a recently caught mouse. Tor stepped forward and showed the beast his axe, but it just looked at him from those pale milky eyes.
Tor didn’t want to press an attack, but the Captain still hadn’t moved, and might need help urgently. The beast curled and uncurled its fingers again.
It wants a fight
. It enjoys the battle.
But it showed no sign of being impetuous, and seemed happy to wait for him to make the first move.
The dogs decided matters for him. They snarled, and pounced in attack at the same time.
Huginn died almost immediately. It leaped for the throat as it had been trained. The snow-beast caught the dog in mid air, heaved the closing jaws away from its throat and threw the dog away. Huginn smashed against the wall of a hut with so much force that his ribs burst in broken pieces from the chest. The dog fell to the ground in a pile of broken bone and torn flesh, leaving a bloody stain on the wall.
The death wasn’t completely in vain.
Muninn leapt and latched its teeth in the beast’s throat, at the same time tearing and scratching at the torso with the claws on its rear legs. The time it took the beast to grab the dog gave Tor the opportunity to step in and wield the axe. He swung it sideways, as if chopping at a tree. He embedded the blade deep in the beast’s side, so deep that the blade grated against bone. He tugged, trying to release the weapon, but it was stuck fast, and when the beast spun round towards him it dragged the handle from his hand, taking skin that had been frozen there with it.
Tor rolled away, turning just in time to see Muninn be torn to pieces, ripped apart like a piece of wet cloth. Its insides became its outside and red guts fell with a splash in the snow at the creature’s feet.
The beast pulled the axe from its side. Blood flowed. It raised its head and bellowed in pain. The noise was so great as to shake fresh snow from the roofs of the nearby huts. It held the axe in one great hand, studying it, then threw it aside.
Its pale gaze fell on Tor again.
It opened its mouth, showing long yellow teeth, the top canine broken in a ragged stump. The red tongue rolled like a lump of meat as it roared in the wind. Once again Tor smelled old fish.
It showed him its smile again as it came for him.
Tor’s hand touched cold metal as he rolled away, and he grabbed for it in desperation. When he stood, it was with Per’s long sword in his hand.
The beast came on, roaring worse than any thunderstorm, the wind at its back whipping snow into Tor’s eyes. He could do little but raise the sword and brace himself. It hit him so hard that he was thrown back against the stone wall of one of the houses. Pain flared in his back and the full weight of the beast fell on top of him as both of them crumpled to the ground. The stench so close up made him gag, and all he could see was a wall of muck-caked fur. He fought, trying to release the sword. The weight was too much and he was trapped. The beast brought its face up and looked straight into his eyes. It opened its mouth and dripped a heavy rope of drool down onto Tor’s chest.
And now I die.
Tor composed himself for the inevitable end, but the weight suddenly lifted away, and the beast whimpered. Tor tried to stand. The whole length of the sword was red with the beast’s blood.
I have caused it pain.
He used the sword to push himself upright. The beast stood near Per, holding a hand to a deep wound in its left shoulder. Blood poured both there, and from the axe wound in its side.
Tor stepped forward and showed it the sword again.
It roared at him, but it did not have the same strength in it as previously. It bent, lifted the corpse of the female, and bounded away, lost in the snow in seconds.
Tor considered following, but a weak voice from below made him look down.
“A fine blow lad,” Per said. He coughed, and blood gushed down his beard as he tried to get to his knees. He groaned, and went white as pain hit him.
Tor helped him up, and Per managed to stand, leaning heavily on Tor’s shoulder.
“It is gone?” he asked.
Tor nodded.
“For now at least. I cut it with the axe, a blow that would fell a good-sized tree. And still it came at me. I would not like to face its like again.
Per laughed. “Nor would I lad. Nor would I.”
More blood came up.
“Busted inside somewhere,” he said. “It had heavy feet.”
Tor made to hand him the sword.
“No lad,” the Captain said. “You carry it for a while. I doubt I have the strength. Get me to the boat.”
In lieu of the sword, Tor passed his axe to Per as something to lean on. Together they hobbled through the huddle of roundhouses.
It was only then that Tor though of Skald. He realised there had been no sign of his friend since they’d parted on the hill.
He’s probably still there, Tor thought. Practising his mummery.
The snow was thicker now, and the wind picked up, howling around his ears and throwing biting cold onto his face. He tried to look towards the hill where he’d left Skald, but all was white.
“The boat it is,” he whispered. “But I’ll be back soon.”
As they left the scene of the fight Tor saw Per look back at the broken shells that had once been the wolfhounds.
If there was a tear in the Captain’s eye as they made for the shore, Tor chose to put it down to the pain.
8
Skald was lost somewhere deep within the wyrd.
He lay on his back amongst a sea of rustling grass as silken cloud wafted across an azure blue sky. It felt like he had lain in this spot forever. Indeed he had no thought of moving, not on so beautiful a day.
There are no drums.
Part of him was aware that the wyrd was showing him something new, a place he had never before been. Another part, a large part, did not care, being content to lie and watch the clouds make patterns that almost resolved into faces.
He lay there for a long time. What finally got him moving was his curiosity.
The wyrd has never done anything without a reason. It seems I must discover what that reason is.
He looked around for his staff, but it was nowhere to be seen. He pushed himself upright with both arms, and winced in anticipation of pain to follow.
But it did not come. Both of his legs worked as they had before the accident, and he walked across a lush green meadow with confident strides. The sun felt warm on his face and the air smelled of summer flowers. The soft buzz of bees was the only noise on the windless morning.
Skald felt alive. More than that, he knew he was in the wyrd, and knew that this was the natural order of things.
This is truth.
If Valhalla was anywhere it was in some section of the wyrd, of that he was certain.
Maybe this is my Valhalla, he thought. I may be no warrior, but surely I will get some measure of peace?
The meadow seemed to go on forever, but Skald had nothing else he needed to be doing that was of any import. He wandered, watching the bees, running his hands through the grasses.
He’d been hearing it for some time before he realised there was someone singing in the distance, a high floating lay that he almost recognised. He walked towards the song, cresting a small hill and looked down.
An old woman sat on a long flat stone by a languid river. Despite the heat of the sun, she wore thick furs that covered her from head to toe. As Skald approached she lowered the hood. She was almost bald and as Skald got closer he saw that her whole head -- scalp, ears and all, was covered in tiny tattoos.
Never breaking from the song, she smiled and slapped on the rock beside her to indicate he should sit.
He sat down, cross-legged on the stone.
The first time I have done that without pain since the rock gave way under me.
And still the old woman sang.
After a time Skald began to recognise patterns in the song, and a while after that he started to understand.
It was her telling.
Before the snow came there was only stone.
And the stone was alone, in the blackness, even before the light, even before any songs were written. The stone desired company, but there was only cold and dark and empty. And the stone cried.
Where the stone tears fell, they dug holes in the firmament of the night
. And silver and blue fire came from the holes, a fire that blazed in the heavens and gladdened the cold heart of the stone. And so the stars were formed.
The stone sang to itself in the dark, and the stars came to listen. And the stone loved the stars so that he sent out to them for one to come closer, to warm him there in the dark.
And one came close, to better hear the song of the stone. And they sang to each other, the stone and the star. The star warmed the stone, and the stone cooled the ardour of the star. And from their love they made the world of light and stone together. And they brought forth the land and the seas. And they made a song to care for their creation. And he was the first, their son, our Father.
And there in the earth our Father grew strong in the love of the stone and the stars. But as he grew, he too became lonely. And he sang to the sun, and he sang to the stone, but they have their own song, one that he could not sing.
So the Father taught himself new music, tunes that made the earth move and give forth trees and herbs, fish and fowl. But still the Father was lonely, for although he loved his creations, none of them could sing for him.
So the Father took the sound of waves crashing on beaches and wind blowing through trees. And he took the whistles from the birds and the barking cough from the dogs. And from the cats he took the crying wail, and from the wolf, the Grey Shadow, he took the howl in the night. All these noises he took, and he blew them into the stone, and mixed them with tears from his own loneliness.
And for a whole tour of the earth round the sun he moulded the stone with his tears, and in the moulding he added the new song he had found. And slowly we his children were born, and our song with us.
In the stone we were held with the Father, and our souls were empty. And we were one with the stone and the stone was one with us. And so it went for long aeons. The Father told us tales of his youth, when even the stars were young, and he made us promises that we would always be with him.
But there came the day that the wind God came in a great rush, and with her she brought the great ice. The ice covered the whole world, so that even the Father was not safe from its ravages. And the ice leeched into us and through us and separated us from the stone. For the first time we were parted from the Father, and we stood alone before the force of the wind.
Berserker Page 4