“Hold fast men,” Tor said. “We have killed many of these beasts already this night, and we shall send many more to join them. Hold the circle, and we will come through this.”
One lad, Petr Axelsson, was tardy in joining them. Petr was, like Tor, on his first Viking. Back in Ormsdale he had been the tallest, the strongest lad of his age, and had regularly bested Tor on the fighting ground on which they trained. He had the strongest arm that had been seen in the community since Per himself had been coming of age.
It is not his arm he has need of now. It is his heart.
Petr stood in a bare patch of ground some twenty yards from the rest of the Viking. Fear had him in its grip and he could barely lift his sword for the trembling that coursed through his body. Hot piss ran from his breeches to puddle at his feet, and he whimpered, like a dog with a brutal master, a dog that knows a skelp is coming.
“Petr,” Tor called. “To me. To the circle.”
But there was no reply.
Tor stepped forward, but Bjorn pulled him back.
“Stay in the circle lad,” the sail-master said. “’Tis our only hope.”
“But Petr is in need of aid.” Tor said.
Bjorn shook his head.
“It is too late for him. We have the rest of the men here to worry about now.”
Tor saw that Bjorn was right. The closest Alma loomed over Petr. The Viking did not even raise his sword as the beast lifted him up in one huge hand.
Petr screamed. Tor had heard nothing like it since the night of Skald’s accident, when they had reset the big bone in his friend’s thigh. But even that had not held the same air of utter finality that he heard now. It was the scream of a man who knew he was doomed, and it chilled Tor to the bone.
The Alma opened its mouth wide and clamped teeth into the boy’s face and skull, one long tooth going through the lad’s cheek like a knife into an apple. It bit down and Petr’s head caved in, blood and brains and bone running down the Alma’s chest.
It sucked hungrily. It was the most obscene sound Tor had ever heard, and it seemed to go on forever. All round him Viking involuntarily cried out, and from somewhere across the circle came the noise, and smell, of violent retching.
Only when the beast was sated did it drop the body, a lifeless bundle of rags and bone that was half of what the lad had been in size. The beast shook its head violently from side to side and flecks of blood and brain flew in the air like water off a wet dog.
“We cannot fight such as these,” someone called out. All around the circle men lowered their weapons, and one man broke off and ran, heading for one of the roundhouses.
He never made it. An Alma leaped on him, grabbed him close and squeezed. Blood spurted from mouth nose and ears. His rib cage gave way and he collapsed inwards like a squashed pillow. The Alma threw the body back. It landed at Tor’s feet, no longer recognisable as having once been a man.
The Viking grouped together tightly, the circle closing once more.
“Steady,” Tor called. “Remember men. You are Viking. If we are to die this night, we shall die like Viking.”
The group of Alma closed in fast. They came on like trained fighters, light on their feet, almost loping, frost-white eyes fixed on their targets, hot breath steaming in the cold night air, hands curling and uncurling as they flexed their muscles. As one they roared.
The stockade suddenly filled with thunder.
“Stand firm,” Tor called.
Bjorn stood by his left hand.
“If you get to Valhalla afore me lad, save me some ale.”
“Only if Per has not finished it already,” Tor laughed.
Then the beasts were on them.
Tor’s sword took the first through the neck even as it reached for him, almost taking off the head. Hot blood spurted from the wound and hissed as it hit the firebrand, but the flame held steady. More blood splashed on Tor, on his helm, his cloak and his leggings. He felt the heat of it as it steamed in the night air.
As it fell the beast’s body created a temporary barrier that the others would have to step over to reach him. Bjorn sent a second beast down on top of the first that had a wound from neck to groin. It spilled its guts at their feet as it fell and the smell stung in Tor’s nostrils. Breathing through the mouth didn’t help much.
“Are you sure Per is dead?” Bjorn said. “For surely he has just farted.”
Tor smiled grimly.
Around them Alma tried to reach the Viking, but spear and sword were making a ring of iron that they couldn’t penetrate. Tor and Bjorn were able to stand behind the dead beasts at their feet and fend off the others behind with the firebrands and the cold iron of their swords. The Viking to their left had the same idea, and as more Alma fell, so the pile of bodies grew higher, and their chance of defence grew.
Another beast stretched for Tor but it had to reach far forward and he was easily able to slice at the arms, once, twice, cutting through to bone both times. As it tried to back away the beast was pushed forward by the weight of other Alma behind it, and Tor cleaved its skull with a heavy downward blow. It fell on his face in front of him, and an idea suddenly hit him. He set its mane alight with the firebrand, and had to retreat a step as the beast burned.
He had earned himself and Bjorn a few seconds of respite and they were able to stand back as the other Alma stayed well away from the flames. But all too soon the fire died. Through the smoke they saw the beasts come forward again. Bjorn and Tor stood their ground, and sent another two beasts down to join the smoking pile.
But it did not go as well elsewhere.
A stretch of the circle to Tor’s right buckled as a man went down under the force of a blow from a huge hand, three new red furrows running down his face from forehead to chin. Three Alma immediately leapt forward into the gap, swinging their arms like clubs, knocking the defenders aside as if they were no more than kindling for a fire.
Tor thrust his sword down the throat of the nearest beast to him, feeling the vibration all the way up his arm as teeth bit down on the iron. He pushed harder and the point exited at the back of the Alma’s neck in a bloody spray. He tugged the sword free and the beast’s head lolled sideways, taken near clean off. Satisfied it was too near death to attack again, Tor turned to his left.
“Can you hold them here?” he said to the sail-master. “We must get the circle reformed or we are doomed.
The older man had a livid red scar running from his brow down his right cheek that crossed over his eye ridge, but the eye below still stared at him, blue and clear.
“We will hold. For as long as is needed.”
Tor nodded, and leapt into the affray to his right, sword singing and flashing. Everywhere he struck gouts of blood flew. He took an Alma’s arm clean off with one stroke, and an instant later thrust his blade into the groin of another, ripping up to its sternum.
His action gave the Viking behind him time to regroup. He cut at another Alma and missed his stroke, slipping to one knee in a puddle of slush and gore. But there was a man behind him ready with a spear to thrust it forward, taking the beast in the chest. That slowed the Alma down enough to allow Tor to step back into the circle of iron and flame.
All around, the battle ebbed and flowed. Alma fell, but there always seemed to be more in the ranks behind, and Tor felt the weight of his blade drag at his muscles and bring the first twinge of complaint.
We will not last much longer.
24
Skald arrived at the shore out of breath and with fresh pain shooting the whole length of his leg, spasms threatening to have it give way under him with every step. Only his will kept him going forward -- that, and the noise of battle from within the stockade.
He knew that there was little he could do in the kind of melee that was going on in there.
But I can distract the big male. That I can do.
His plan was simple. Attack the male, and stop it directing the efforts of the other Alma. Beyond that, he hadn’t had time
to think. If he did slow down, he was afraid that the futility of what he was about to attempt might become painfully obvious, and that he would lose what little resolve he had. He kept his eyes straight ahead.
The Alma watched him coming along the shore. It let him get within ten yards, then roared a battle cry at him.
Skald stood his ground and raised the hammer above his head. Using all of his experience of shouting over drunken Viking in the Great Hall, he roared back at it.
It stared at him, and Skald almost laughed at the puzzled expression on its face.
It took a step forward.
Skald took a step forward.
It stood up to its full height and beat rapidly at its chest with the palms of its hands, the noise echoing in the hills above like distant drumbeats.
Skald hit the hammer against his staff in a fast pounding rhythm.
Again it stood still, studying him, wary now.
It took another step forward.
Skald matched it.
He was now almost within reach of the beast’s huge arms, and could smell the damp fur, like Per’s dogs after a walk in the rain. Its breath steamed when it breathed. It shot an exhalation out through its huge nostrils, twin plumes rising upwards from them. Then it drew back its lips and smiled at him. It fell into a crouch and swayed from side to side.
Skald was painfully aware of the noises of battle behind him.
This is not working. If you do not do something, they will all die.
“You first,” he said to the Alma.
It tensed its muscles and sprang at him. Skald had been waiting for it. He leaned back and, with as much strength as he could muster, threw the stone hammer at the creature’s head.
His aim was true. With a dull thud, the hammer hit it right between the eyes. The beast fell in a heap at his feet and Skald screamed his victory to the night.
But he had celebrated too soon.
The beast wasn’t fully unconscious. It threw out a massive hand and grabbed Skald by the left leg, dragging him to the ground beside it. Skald felt its nails pierce his flesh. There was a flush of wet warmth as blood ran inside his breeches.
He tried to roll away, stretching, trying to reach for the shaft of the hammer with his right hand. It was just beyond his fingertips, and even as he thought he just might reach it, the beast dragged him back again.
The beast lifted its head. It was groggy, and its huge tongue lolled out of its mouth, dribbling ropy drool on the ground. Skald kicked out at its face with his good leg, and again, but the hand that had him gripped tighter around his leg and pulled.
The beast was now coming around. It shook its head and rumbled deep in its chest, then looked up, its eyes finding Skald.
It stared into his face. The mouth opened, and the tongue sunk back inside. Its lips turned back, revealing yellow fang-like teeth as long as Skald’s fingers. He felt its hot breath on his face as it panted, then lunged for him.
Skald instinctively brought up his left hand, just as the beast bit down. Teeth met the wood of his staff, and splinters flew. The beast twisted its head violently from side to side, wrenching the staff from Skald’s grasp and spitting it away. Its head came up again, mouth open wide. It bellowed straight in Skald’s face.
Without warning, the red rage came on him. The last he remembered before it washed away all thought like a wave was reaching for the beast’s head with his hands.
25
Tor cut at the reaching arm of an Alma and took the hand off at the wrist, having to close his mouth to stop it being filled with hot gushing blood. The beast barely slowed, and even when he thrust a blazing firebrand into its mane, setting its whole upper torso aflame, still it came forward. It was only stilled when Bjorn joined him and they both thrust their swords into the wide chest. Even as it fell it reached for them with the bloody stump.
Bjorn spat on the body.
“Stay down you devil.”
Tor thrust his sword through the chest, just to make sure. He looked up, expecting another beast to be right behind, but there was none there. He caught a glimpse of white as a beast retreated back over the stockade wall and realised that it was the last of them to go.
We have beaten them.
Dazed Viking stood and looked at each other, as if surprised to be still alive.
They would not just depart. They were close to finishing us.
Something else has happened.
He broke the circle and sprinted for the walkway, taking the crude steps two at a time.
The Alma retreated towards the shore. The large beast that had led them rolled on the ground, struggling with something that clung to it and tore at its face with fingers hooked like claws. At first Tor thought it might be one of the small people from the cave, but when the attacker raised his head and howled Tor knew him straight away.
Skald!
A berserker is on him.
Tor jumped over the stockade wall, falling heavily on the other side but rising in almost the same movement. Behind him Bjorn called out, but Tor paid him no mind. All his attention was on Skald and the beast.
The beast prised Skald away from its face and managed to stand, groggily at first, then with more assurance. It held Skald at arm’s length as the man screamed in its face, spittle flying, hands flailing, trying to reach the beast’s eyes.
The Alma studied Skald for tow heartbeats, then lifted a hand to strike.
Tor was too far away to do anything, too far to try to throw his sword.
Skald!” he shouted, and tried to run faster, but he knew he was too late.
One skelp from that hand, and the Skald will be dead and gone forever.
The hand came up, and Tor flinched. But when it came down it was merely to give Skald a tap. It was enough to jerk his head sideways and make him slump unconscious in the beast’s arms. The beast stroked Skald’s head, almost tenderly, then turned towards the forest. It hooted, three times, and the remaining Alma followed.
No!
Tor screamed as he covered the ground between them. As he approached he raised his sword, but the beast turned, and Tor had to divert the killing stroke for fear of hitting Skald.
Almost contemptuously the beast backhanded Tor away.
It felt like being kicked by a carthorse. He flew, feet completely off the ground, a bundle of flailing limbs, hitting a tree, hard. Grey seeped in at the edges of his sight.
The last he saw before darkness took him down and away was the beast walking into the forest, the limp figure of Skald hanging in one huge hand.
26
When Skald came out of the wyrd he thought he must be back on the longboat, and in a storm at that, for he seemed to be lurching up and down and from side to side, so much so that his guts churned and he tasted acid in his mouth. He had suffered the effects of the sea more than enough in the past month to know the symptoms.
But the boat never smelled like this.
Something warm had him in a grip round the waist, and once more he smelled damp fur. He half-turned his head and looked directly at a wall of white hairs mere inches from his face. That was all he could see, but the smell was a lot stronger now, and he needed to turn away, else he might throw up.
Turning the other way, he looked down at the ground. He could just see it in the moonlight; enough to know it was passing by at a dizzying rate. Once more his insides churned. He closed his eyes, and it helped a little.
He had no memory of how he got here.
Wherever here is.
A beast had him, he knew that much. But the last thing he remembered was facing the large male on the shore and roaring at it. Now he felt as if he’d been awake for days without sleep or food, but with no memory of what he’d been doing in that time.
It has happened again. I am Berserker.
He wondered why he was still alive. Indeed, he seemed to have no major injuries. His leg hurt, but that was an old story that he was well used to.
But why would the beast take me alive?
<
br /> He could think of several possibilities, and they all filled him with creeping dread. He considered trying to escape, but he had no weapon – his knife was with the small people, and where the hammer had fallen only Odin would know. His hands were pinned to his sides. When he tried to squirm free the beast merely gripped him tighter and he was forced to keep still if he wanted to breathe.
He felt tired and worn out, as if he had raced Tor up a hill and down again. His mind was full of questions that he could not answer and there was no escaping the clutch of the beast that carried him.
Rather than try, he let the tiredness take him.
Held in the hands of an Alma, being carried ever further from any hope of a rescue, Orjan Skald fell into a sound, almost peaceful, sleep.
27
When Tor woke he had to squint against bright rays of sunshine that threatened to lance straight through his head. It seemed that every muscle in his body hurt. He was sitting upright, the floor beneath him seeping cold through his breeches.
Where am I?
He tried to move, to push himself up to stand, but his arms refused to obey. At first he thought he might have been struck immobile, back broken by the blow dealt by the beast. The memory came back to him, of the Alma, walking silently into the forest, Skald hanging limply in its hand.
Skald!
Once again he tried to stand. But when he twisted, he realised he was bound, tied firmly to a post. As his eyes adjusted he found that he was inside one of the roundhouses.
Kai stood in front of him. He was wearing the wolf cloak and had his father’s sword belted to his waist in the leather scabbard.
He saw that Tor was awake. He aimed a kick that caught Tor in the ribs and brought searing pain all down that side.
“Welcome back pup,” Kai said. “As you can see, I have recovered what is rightfully mine.”
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