"We have to get out of here," said Gunnar in a monotone, then resumed backing away, his eyes fixed on the trees.
"What is it?"
"Something bad here." He was ankle deep in the water now, stumbling against roots.
Bjólf scanned the treeline, but could see nothing.
Gunnar splashed towards the ship and heaved himself up and over the gunwale, his face pale. He spoke in short, urgent bursts. "Some... pestilence... a man. Half dead. More than half..." He fixed Bjólf's eyes with his own. "We have to get out of here."
Bjólf had never seen Gunnar like this. He turned back to the tangled wood, thinking of his crew's desperate need for fresh food and water. "Are you certain?"
"I saw it, this close" said Gunnar, grasping Bjólf's arm. "It was a man. Eaten away. Dead. But alive... I saw it, up close."
Bjólf stared at his friend, then back at the trees.
"I saw it too." The voice came from behind him. It was Atli. So quiet had he been these past few hours that Bjólf had almost forgotten he existed. Now, the eyes of the entire crew were upon the boy. He spoke confidently this time, as if relieved to unburden himself of the matter. "Not here. Back there. In the water. A man. Dead... and alive." Several among the tense crew shifted nervously, recalling the thing pulled up on Finn's line.
Bjólf eyed the lad with a mix of concern and anger. When it came to their survival, he trusted Gunnar beyond all men. But he had no patience for superstitious talk. He gestured towards the blank wall of foliage. "But there's nothing..."
His voice trailed away as a weird, strangled cry - neither human nor animal - rose from the depths of the forest. Then another, off to their left, like the wheezing of broken bellows. The whole crew tensed, hands on their weapons, eyes scanning the trees. A third, baleful groan came - close by, this time. Then the sound of movement in the undergrowth; something moving clumsily, not caring whether it was heard. Not the way any animal moved.
And another, deeper in the trees.
And more, to the other side.
"Get us out of here," said Bjólf.
The men snapped into action, extending the oars and pushing the ship away from the bank - slowly, slowly - all eyes on the dark trees, no sound but the creak of the ship and the unidentified groans echoing in the dead air.
"D'you see them?" Gunnar asked Fjölvar, his eyes frantically searching for signs.
"I see nothing," said Fjölvar. At that, the leaves shook, and something crashed in the thicket. Bjólf's men heaved on the oars to pull them into clear water.
"Let's hope they can't swim, whatever they are," muttered Fjölvar. But there was hardly a man aboard now who was not thinking of that thing in the water.
"The line!" called Thorvald. Bjólf looked. He could just make out the rope Gunnar had abandoned on the shore, its outline snaking through the water from the ship to the forest's edge. It was drawing tighter as they moved. Thorvald, at the port bow, tugged hard upon it, sending a line of spray into the air. "Hook's caught fast on the roots."
Without a word, Gunnar took the coil of rope from him and threw the whole lot overboard. "Go!" he said. A few of the men looked questioningly from Gunnar to Bjólf.
"Do as he says!" barked Bjólf. He gave Atli a hard look as the oarsmen settled into their rhythm, then stalked off towards the stern.
Atli was glad to have said what he did. He felt a closer bond with Gunnar. But he had not liked the look Bjólf had given him. Turning away from the ill-fated shore as Úlf took the ship out at a sharp angle, he looked across the starboard gunwale, into the yellow fog, one arm wrapped around the thick mast.
Then, for the second time in as many days, he saw the towering head of a dragon charging out of the fog towards them, the iron teeth on its prow just moments from biting into their hull.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE DRAGON'S TEETH
With a deafening crunch the bows of the oncoming craft hammered into the Hrafn, striking at an oblique angle just ahead of the steer-board. The battered vessel tipped violently, her starboard side lifting crazily, her port side almost driven below the waterline, the mast whipping through the air as every timber and rivet cracked and groaned in protest. It was only Atli's grip on the mast that saved him from being hurled against the port strakes. The shuddering impact had thrown three of the crew clean off their feet, and as she righted herself, Grimmsson's ship - fully laden, and far heavier than Bjólf's even when empty - ploughed on inexorably, its ironclad, brightly-painted prow raking along the Hrafn's side, shearing two oars outright, the splintered shafts flying from the hands of their owners and smashing into the backs of the oarsmen before them, crushing one - Gøtar the Swede - hard against the gunwale. He gave a short, stifled cry as the air was squeezed out of him.
What happened in the next few minutes was to shatter any remaining illusions Atli may have had about the realities of life among the vikingr. Men on both sides scrambled for any weapons that came to hand, while Grimmson's crew - looking every bit as confused by the collision as Bjólf's - reached out to the rival ship, grasping over the gunwale. It was clear to Atli that they intended to board. Then he heard Bjólf, who had been standing at the stern and was one of the closest when the two ships clashed, suddenly roar with terrifying ferocity, flying at the invaders with a huge axe, which he swung in great arcs around his head. The battle-cry set a fighting spirit spreading like fire through the men, and they surged forward to meet their foe. This time, they would not shrink from battle.
It had taken some moments for Bjólf to recover his senses after the shock of the impact. But the instant he understood what had happened, he had thrown himself into the attack. The thoughtful, circumspect man who Atli knew was quite gone. Bjólf launched himself at the first of the invaders - a huge fellow with food in his beard, who was fearlessly straddling the gap between the vessels and already had one foot on the Hrafn's deck. It was a gesture for which the man would pay dearly. Bellowing like thunder, driven by a burning anger, Bjólf swung the axe high above his head and brought it down with every ounce of strength, severing the man's leg above the knee and embedding the blade in the boards. Without hesitation, he heaved it free, hefting its bloodstained blade in great wheeling curves, as the man - pale as a ghost - tottered backwards aboard his ship, leaving his leg behind, his face contorted in utter disbelief. Flying so fast at the end of its shaft that the air hummed around him, Bjólf's blade caught another square under the chin, then cut straight through and around to take the head of a third, each exploding in a spray of gore. The head bounced and rolled on the deck, leaving a crimson trail in its wake.
The rest of Bjólf's crew, meanwhile, had not stood idle. They knew well that once aboard, the invaders would have the upper hand, and had grasped anything they could to fend off Grimmsson's men. Led by Gunnar, who had driven his spear into two men before Atli had time blink, and spurred on by the shouts of Godwin the Axeless, a solid row of defenders had formed rapidly along the gunwale where the two ships touched, each one wielding a weapon to keep the attackers at bay: spears, boat-hooks and oars - even an iron anchor, swung wildly by a Norwegian called Háki the Toothless, who struck one man a terrible, crunching blow across the jaw. All these weapons were thrust mercilessly at the enemy crew, inflicting horrible injuries on the invaders. This was no time for chivalry. Behind them a second rank of men had formed; led by the short but formidable figure of Thorvald Two-Axe, who cast colourful insults above the clamour. They armed themselves heavily with helm, shield and blade. Magnus Grey-Beard, meanwhile, scurried the length of the ship, tending wounds as best he could, while Finn and Fjölvar, perched on the prow, picked off the loftier among their opponents with their bows. As the battle raged around him - so close that flecks of the blood of their foes splashed upon his face - Atli stood sweating, rooted to the spot, still hugging the mast and gripping his hand-axe in terror, the shouts of pain and fury ringing in his ears.
In the fight that followed, it was the aggressors' own impatience that proved
their greatest downfall. In their hunger to engage the enemy, and with an arrogance known only too well to Bjólf and his men, they had armed themselves for attack, taking up swords and axes: weapons suited to close combat - close combat that they were now denied. They struggled to raise spears, shouting bitter obscenities at their foes. In frustration, some threw axes and clubs, one of which sent Kylfing sprawling on the deck. But the place where the prow of their ship overlapped the Hrafn was small, and in their eagerness they had become crammed against their own gunwale, with those behind unable to wield their weapons to any effect, and those in front trapped between their fellows and the vicious, thrusting points of Bjólf's men.
At the stern, finding his opponents' resolve had mysteriously melted away, Bjólf took up the huge, sweaty, severed leg of his first victim by its blood-soaked bindings and heaved it back at his attackers in contempt. It crashed into the chest of a broken-nosed man with a braided beard and then fell at his feet; he staggered unsteadily and promptly vomited over it. Among the attackers, Bjólf realised, a space had cleared where he stood. None now dared to face him, filled with fear at the mere sight of this man, his body bathed in their blood. Up at the prow of the enemy ship, in the midst of the melee, he finally caught sight of Grimmsson. Spying his rival, his sword held aloft, Grimmsson turned and fought to make his way towards him, keen to settle the score, but his own men hemmed him in, he shoved and struck at them in exasperaton.
Bjólf saw his opportunity. Grimmsson's men had not been given the chance to get their hooks into Bjólf's ship, and already the gap near the Hrafn's stern was widening as the two vessels drifted in the current. Grabbing an oar he shoved hard at the hull of Grimsson's ship. "Come on!" he cried. Several in the second rank of defenders - including Thorvald and Finn - immediately lowered their weapons and took up oars to push.
Under the sudden exertion the ship slid away from the attackers, and as the gap widened, Gunnar and his men joined the effort, planting their oars and spear-shafts against the side of Grimmsson's ship and heaving with everything they had. Grimmsson's crew, furious that their quarry were breaking free, hacked and hammered at them, trying to dislodge the forest of poles that were pushing them apart. But already, in the fore section of the Hrafn where there was clear water on both sides, Úlf had hastily mustered the men, and under the power of almost half their oars, they were now pulling steadily away.
At the enraged bellowing of Grimmsson - red-faced and streaked with sweat - part of Grimmsson's crew scrambled to their own oars, while the remainder, fuming and outraged, sent all manner of axes, arrows and other missiles raining down upon the deck - even a boot bounced off the yard. On this occasion, however, his crew - less disciplined than Bjólf's men - were far slower off the mark.
"Give it everything you've got," called Bjólf as they began to pull away from their pursuers. Gunnar heard him muttering under his breath, then he seemed to spy something in the water, and in the next moment was kicking off his shoes and throwing off his bloodstained tunic.
"What is it?" said Gunnar. He scanned the water where Bjólf had been looking, but could see nothing. "This is a Hel of a time to change your clothes..."
Bjólf simply smiled and threw off his shirt.
Gunnar gawped at him. "What in Frigg's name are you doing?"
"Going for a swim," said Bjólf, then added: "Don't wait for me."
Without another word he slid over the port side, hidden from Grimmsson's ship, and disappeared under the water. Dodging down as a fresh volley of arrows hissed past, Gunnar stared after the dwindling trail of bubbles in astonishment.
Grimmsson's crew were getting into their own rhythm now, but already there was a full length of clear water between the vessels, and the Hrafn was gathering speed. For what seemed an impossibly long time, an increasingly anxious Gunnar saw no sign of Bjólf. He had no idea what his captain could have in mind. He only hoped it wasn't some stupid, final act of defiance. A hero's death and an eternity in Valhalla were all very well, but on the whole he'd rather that his old friend lived, to drink and laugh and fight another day right here on Earth.
Then he saw him. In a dangerous and unexpected move - to which their pursuers were entirely oblivious - he had emerged right in front of the toothed prow of Grimmsson's ship, and, as it advanced toward him, flung his right arm up and caught hold of the lowest of its iron spikes. For a second he clung there, just above the waterline, a rope held fast between his teeth. Hurriedly, he wrapped the rope around the spike and knotted it tight. And finally Gunnar understood. His eyes at last picked out the slowly tightening line, stretching from the prow of Grimmsson's ship back to the root-snarled shore from which he had only recently fled.
Bjólf waited for the next thrust of the oars and flung himself forward, his powerful arms plunging into the water, legs kicking for all they were worth. Gunnar knew Bjólf was a strong swimmer, and with his first great spurt was even pulling away from their pursuer, but it couldn't last; within a half-dozen strokes they would be upon him.
Bjólf was caught between the two vessels now, his enemy starting its creeping advance toward him with each pull on the oars, his salvation drawing further from reach. A shout went up from Grimmsson's ship. Several arrows zipped through the water, narrowly missing their new target. On the prow Grimmsson himself appeared, and grabbed the bow from the archer there. He wanted this pleasure to himself.
"A line!" called Gunnar. "Get me a line here!"
Eyvind hurried to him, a wet length of rope coiled around his shoulder, which Gunnar grabbed and hurled out into the water as far as it would go, wrapping the rest around his arm and waist. Bjólf spied it as it snaked out from the stern. But, fast as he was, Gunnar could see it would be two or three strokes at least before he would make the rope. And that would be too late. They were picking up rhythm and speed now, bearing down on Bjólf, and by some great effort even gaining on the Hrafn. Another arrow flew from Grimmsson's bow and shot into the water a hand-width from Bjólf's head - so close that Gunnar caught his breath.
Then, just moments before the barnacle-crusted keel would have driven over him, the vessel made an inexplicable turn to port. Grimmsson looked around in confusion and alarm as the helmsman fought with the tiller. The line was now pulled tight, the ship's momentum pulling it round in an arc towards the shore. "Hold fast..." muttered Gunnar through clenched teeth, a prayer for the resilience of the rope going out to Thor. "Hold fast..."
It was all Bjólf needed. In the next moment, he grasped the line, wrapping it around his wrist, and Gunnar hauled upon it, and he and Eyvind heaved him up out of the water. "What kept you?" said Gunnar.
Bjólf looked back, just in time to see Grimmsson's ship - nearly broadside-on now - crash into a knot of overhanging branches, both Grimmsson and its prow disappearing into the jumbled, prickly mass as it finally struck the shore and shuddered to a halt.
There was a roar of fury and a final hail of arrows and other missiles, most of which now fell far short. But just when it seemed they were out of range, Oddvarr, who had taken up his oar near the stern and was in the process of cracking a joke at Grimmsson's expense, caught a spear clean through the shoulder. Hurled with what must have been exceptional force, it passed out the other side and stuck in the deck, pinning him in place at his rowing station until Magnus and Eyvind were able to break the shaft and free him.
In response, his eyes blazing with anger, Bjólf picked up by the hair the head of the man he had felled and hurled it with all his strength at the receding vessel. Atli heard it thud sickeningly upon Grimmsson's deck - a grim reminder to all who would seek to take this ship from its captain.
He stood in silence for a moment, dripping on the deck, his lungs aching with the effort. Once again, they had prevailed. But as he and Gunnar watched the other ship melt into the fog, a curious change came over its crew. New cries went up. A kind of panic seemed to take them. And, just before it finally disappeared from view, it appeared to both men that the crew had turned savagely
upon each other, as if gripped by a kind of madness.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
WAR TOKENS AND WOLF'S FOOD
"A fair few rivets rattled loose along the steer-board side," said Úlf, half hidden below the planking. "Caulking's gone in places. We'll need to get some tar on that."
Crouched at the edge of the raised planking, Bjólf looked on anxiously as the big, heavily muscled man - the ship's filungar, learned in the ways of ship-building - continued his examination of the hull, ankle-deep in water. Behind him, Grimm the Stout, who fully lived up to his name, and Áki Crow-Foot, a lanky Dane from south of Ribe, bailed water steadily, while all around a three-quarter crew kept up a brisk pace at the rowing benches. Having no replacements for the two lost oars had meant moving one from port to starboard. They would be fine rowing that way for the time being, fifteen oars a side, although Bjólf knew there was not a man aboard who was not praying for a breath of wind.
"The timbers?" he enquired.
Úlf frowned and ran a huge hand along the point of impact. "Ribs and thwarts are sound..." He grunted and nodded to himself. "Top two strakes are cracked, but they will hold."
Bjólf sighed with relief. He was still master of his own vessel, they were not sinking, and compared to the terrible damage inflicted upon their impetuous attackers, their casualties had been light. Bjólf had often had occasion to curse his acute sense of caution - a trait reflected in his crew. But not today.
Úlf stood and slapped the gunwale where Grimmsson's ship had struck. "We picked up a souvenir, though..." Above the water line, projecting through one of the oak strakes and held so tightly by the wood it had completely plugged the hole it made, was the sharp tip of a rough iron spike, snapped off Grimmsson's prow. "He bit off more than he could chew this time!" chuckled Úlf.
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