Yet, as they ran the gauntlet of these blankly staring spectres, both sides stunned into an eerie silence by the sight of the other, a change seemed to come over them. Slowly, as if waking from sleep after taking a draught of bitter wormwood, some of the spectators seemed to come to their senses, a light returning to their eyes. They began to murmur to one another as they watched the men march past. Their limbs, too, seemed to stir into life, and some hurried alongside as the party advanced, expressions of excitement creeping across their tired faces as, bit by bit, they realised what this awesome band of fighting men might mean to them.
At the near end of the hall, as they approached, stood a lone, hunched figure, whose gloomy presence, in the space of a moment, seemed to suck the life back out of the party.
Dressed in clothes of once fine quality, topped with a cape of charcoal grey, the man nonetheless seemed an ill fit for his clothes, as if he had somehow shrunk inside them, like a piece of air-dried meat. Yet his skin was so pale that it hardly resembled anything that had ever been alive, and his tiny eyes seemed themselves so devoid of colour that they hardly seemed composed of a distinct kind of matter from his face. This was long and lean with high cheekbones. His thin nose projecting from his pallid, bony face like a blunted axe blade. On either side of it hung curtains of long, lank hair - strikingly blond. His thin beard seemed to sprout only from the end of his chin, and hung beneath in straggly tendrils like the roots of an onion.
The only man in this place who appeared of useful age - around thirty summers, Bjólf would guess - he and he alone appeared unimpressed and unmoved by the sight of the warrior band. In fact, it seemed to Bjólf there was brazen hostility in that peevish scowl. He glared dismissively at Bjólf's crew, looking them up and down with as cold and unsympathetic an eye as a slave trader judging a potential purchase, then cast Halldís a similarly hard and sneering stare. Then, without a word, he turned with a brusque and petulant flourish of his cape and stalked off into the shadows.
Halldís turned to face Bjólf and his men apologetically, her confidence somehow shaken, as if mere sight of the pale man had brought doubts to mind. "I am sorry. What am I thinking? The hall is not prepared. There is no fire in the hearth. It has been closed up for some time and is disarrayed - more a meeting hall for mice and spiders than a fitting place to welcome men." She laughed awkwardly, then looked downcast. "It would shame me to show you into my father's hall in such a condition."
"The sky is hall enough," said Bjólf, with a shrug. He looked about him, at the great open space that extended north of the great hall - evidently a gathering place - in its centre a stone well, richly bedecked with all manner of wild blooms. He gazed up at the sun, a hand shading his eyes, fleetingly catching the scent of the flowers on the breeze. A sense of wellbeing washed over him for the first time in many days. "We're men of the outdoors. The air is fresh and the weather is fine. Better to enjoy it than lurk in the dark." He cast a fleeting glance after their skulking friend, now lost in the shade cast by the hall.
Her face beamed with a smile. "Ragnhild, have benches brought out. And prepare the hall." She turned back to Bjólf. "This evening we honour you with a feast!"
A great murmur of approval rose from the men. Ragnhild clapped her hands with glee before hurrying to her task, and a rush of excitement spread through all about as if the villagers were finally awoken from their torpor. "Food..." muttered Gunnar in grateful anticipation, then rolled his eyes skyward. "Thank you, old Troll-Beater, for looking after our needs." And he raised his Mjollnir hammer pendant briefly to his lips.
CHAPTER TWENTY
BREAD AND BEER
For some time they sat as the great clouds hurtled overhead, eating the bread and beer that was brought by willing hands. The bread was gritty and tough - poor flour, thought Bjólf, adulterated with acorns or who-knows-what to make it go further - but the butter was sweet, and the beer, though thin, was welcome relief for their parched throats. Ragnhild and Halldís passed amongst them with great flagons of the stuff, raising spirits wherever they went, broad smiles upon their faces.
"So, have you found out what all this is about yet?" said Gunnar.
"Enjoy the moment, old man," said Bjólf dismissively. But Gunnar knew only too well when his friend was avoiding the issue.
"It's plain they think we have come to fight for them," he said. "It seems we may have survived a battle only to get involved in a war."
"Let's see how this unfolds," said Bjólf. "Perhaps it's in our favour. And if not, well, we restock, make our excuses and get on our way." Despite his cheerful tone, he did not look entirely convinced by his own words.
"At the very least, she should know that we're not the army she thinks we are."
Bjólf looked him straight in the eye. "So, do you want to tell her before the feast, or after?"
Gunnar looked into his beer, then back up at Bjólf, and grunted in assent. He took a great swig, then passed his hand across his wet mouth. "There is something strange here. No young men. The remainder looking like the walking dead, in spite of rich land all about. A wall penning them in like frightened cattle. And a woman lord of a hall!"
"It's not natural!" laughed Bjólf.
"Well, it isn't!" protested Gunnar. He looked about him at the inhabitants of this stronghold, at the haunted expressions behind their smiles. "Are they under siege from the pestilence we witnessed, do you suppose?"
"Maybe. But that doesn't quite follow. You don't fight plague with an army."
"Unless it gets up and walks," said Gunnar.
Bjólf said nothing in return, but simply sat, chewing on his bread, frowning at his own thoughts, and watching Halldís weave to and fro between the benches. He found himself captivated by her. Not that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, but there was... something. A curious mixture of strength and vulnerability that he had not encountered before. As she laughed with the men - at the unashamed joy they took in her company, at their gentle flirting - he nonetheless saw a kind of fragility, even sadness, behind the confident persona she presented. And yet, when she drew apart from them to the heavy wooden table upon which the ale had been set, standing lost in her own thoughts and for the moment distant and melancholy, it seemed that it was quite the other way around - that somewhere beyond that sad demeanour lay a core of defiance and courage. She caught him watching and looked away hastily, busying herself refilling the flagon with ale. He stood and moved to join her.
"We're grateful for your hospitality," he said.
"It is an honour," she replied.
Bjólf smiled, sipping from his horn-cup. "Perhaps you have slightly too high an opinion of us."
"It is not matter of opinion," she said, not meeting his eye. "It is my duty. High-born or low, you are our guests, and deserving of every courtesy. That's what my father raised me to believe."
"A man of ideals. That's a rare thing these days."
"He was a good man," said Halldís, hanging her head, "until this loathsome conflict destroyed him."
"The feud with Skalla?" probed Bjólf.
His words seemed to sting her. She dragged the heavy flagon to her hastily, causing some of the ale to slop out on the tabletop as she did so. Frowning, she mopped at it in irritation. "I do not wish to speak of it." Her voice was hard, angry. "Nor will I have his name mentioned here. It is an obscenity among the people of Björnheim." Then, after a moment, she seemed to relent, and for the first time a look of gloomy resignation came over her. A deep sigh escaped her lips, and she began to speak in slow, measured tones. "They came in black ships from a dark fortress in the fjord, and have grown in strength as we weakened." She looked at Bjólf almost apologetically. "We are far from kings and their laws." She looked away again, troubled by memories. "Unimaginable horrors came in their wake. For five years they have taken our crops and livestock. They have enslaved our men and dishonoured our women. It is more than a feud. It is a curse they have brought down upon us."
"But you sent
for help..."
"More often than I can remember. None of our emissaries escaped this valley. Each time the bodies of our people - or parts of them - were sent back to us. They were the lucky ones." She shook her head, as if trying to rid it of the dark thoughts that rattled inside. "Those men... they are few in number, but their masters command a dark magic. And so, as you see, we cower in this prison of our own making."
Bit by bit, Bjólf was beginning to build a picture of this place - of this woman - and their desperate history: the oppressed community, the fallen jarl, the lost spouse. Yet each new piece of information he gleaned, illuminating as it was, seemed only to lead back to the same inevitable question. He thought of the bracelet upon her wrist, and of its twin upon the ravaged body in the sea. The body of the husband that he alone knew was dead. The body that was dead and yet still moved. "I had wondered," he began, "if these walls were measures against the plague we had seen hereabouts."
Halldís stared at him, wide-eyed. "I should not have brought you here," she whispered, and hurried away.
Bjólf gazed after her, more bemused and troubled than ever.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
A BOAT
Time passed swiftly for the rest of the crew. Halldís buried herself in her duties as hostess, the beer flowed freely, and all had begun to be lulled by the general good cheer of the occasion when a shrill shout brought them suddenly to their senses.
"Boat! Boat!" It was the reedy voice of a boy waving frantically from the watchtower. Bjólf and his crew were immediately on their feet, heading to the gate, weapons ready. The local people's reaction to the cry was equally swift, but their sense of urgency took them in quite the opposite direction. As Bjólf's crew raced past, mail and weapons ringing, they retreated rapidly, melting away into their homes, terrified.
"Look at them!" said Godwin in disgust. "Like frightened sheep!"
Arriving at the gates, Bjólf hurled himself up the uneven ladder to the covered platform of the watchtower where the young, skinny lad still stood, spotty beneath his straggly blond hair and red-faced, pointing down towards the water's edge.
Before he had even made the top of the tower, Bjólf had heard Úlf's distinctive whistle fade in and out on the stiff breeze that now blew at his back. It was the signal indicating another vessel, yet Úlf had not raised an alarm. Bjólf narrowed his eyes, looking down towards the harbour where his ship sat - at an angle now on the mud, where the tide had left it stranded. At first he did not see it. There was no sign of his men on the ship - they would have concealed their numbers, he knew - but beyond that, there seemed to be nothing unusual about the scene, just his ship, and a few small boats... Then he realised. Out in the water, almost obscured by his own craft, a small boat, sitting low in the water, drifted gently past, apparently brought by the current, its upper strakes and curving bows gaudily painted in a familiar style. He could see no sign of life, but within it was a curious shape, partially covered by a large swathe of dark red cloth. Another whistle went up - the sign that all was clear - and Bjólf saw the characteristic shape of Úlf Ham-Fist stir in the stern, his big forearms reaching out to the water with a boat hook to catch the passing craft.
"Open the gate!" called Bjólf as he threw himself back down the ladder. The gatekeepers hesitated, looking timidly from him to Halldís, who had herself just arrived at the rampart.
"Do it!" she cried.
They set about the task, hastened by several of Bjólf's men who lifted the weighty oak beam clean out of their hosts' hands and tossed it aside. Atli jumped back as it crashed at his feet, then joined them as they heaved on the creaking gates.
Within moments, Bjólf and his band were striding into the harbour mud, where Úlf had hauled the small boat up onto solid ground. The decoration upon it was unmistakable now. It was the row-boat from Grimmsson's ship. As he approached, he saw the big man - who was afraid of nothing on earth that Bjólf knew of - staring down into it, quite motionless.
"What is it?" said Bjólf as he came up alongside, breathing heavily. But he could see for himself now. Inside Grimmsson's boat was a single oar, a large wooden chest girt with black bands of iron, wrapped around with a heavy chain, half-draped with a cape of fine manufacture, and an expertly-wrought Frankish sword, its blade slicked with something black and sticky. Nothing else. It was immediately clear, however, what had caught Úlf's attention. On the top of the chest was a single, clear handprint of blood, still glistening in the early afternoon light.
The other men crowded around the boat, each staring at the strange sight.
"Things did not go so well for Grimmsson, then," said Gunnar. He prodded the abandoned sword-blade tentatively with the tip of his spear. "What is that? Is that blood?"
"If it is," said Godwin, "it's like none I've seen."
"Not from a living man, anyway," said Njáll.
Atli, catching only the occasional sight of the boat between shifting bodies of the other men, shuddered.
"Open it," said Bjólf.
Úlf stepped forward, his mace raised, and gave the iron lock a crashing blow. Bits of metal were sent flying. Bjólf threw off the chain and heaved the heavy lid open. The men murmured in awe at its contents.
Atli at first struggled to get a glimpse of what so impressed them. Then, as they moved, he caught sight of it, glittering in the sunlight. A precious hoard such as he could not have imagined.
Njáll whistled. "Arab dirhems, English silver pennies, Byzantine gold... this is the cream of their booty."
"Such valuables would only be in this boat if someone had been trying to make off with them," said Thorvald.
"Or more likely if the ship was lost, and they were trying to make an escape," added Godwin.
"So, what became of those who loaded it into the boat?" asked Njáll.
"The greater question must surely be what happened to the rest of the crew," said Godwin.
"Dead," said Bjólf.
Thorvald frowned at him. "All of them? The whole crew?"
"Or they fled for their lives. From a threat greater than the lure of this booty."
"Grimmsson's crew doesn't run," said Gunnar.
"And no one lets go a sword like that while they have breath in them," added Njáll.
"Then that leaves only one possible fate," said Bjólf.
"But what could wipe out an entire crew like that?" said Atli.
Gunnar looked about at the dark, blank walls of forest that surrounded them. "There's something out there. Worse than plague."
For a moment all the men looked around them, shifting in anxious silence. The thickening, mountainous clouds finally succeeded in obliterating the sun, casting a chilling pall over the company.
"Looking on the bright side," announced Fjölvar, attempting to dispel the gloom, "in the space of a day we have gone from being poverty-stricken victims of that dishonourable bunch of inbreds to having the greater part of their plunder."
"Perhaps we should quit while we're ahead," mused Thorvald.
"I vote we take what food we can and get out," said Godwin. Several nodded and muttered their agreement.
"We cannot leave," said Bjólf. The men fell silent.
Gunnar frowned at him. "One more successful raid, we said, remember? We have that now. Grimmsson finally destroyed and enough plunder to set us all up for life."
"I am sick to my stomach of running," said Bjólf. "We chose this life to be free from tyranny. Now here we are retreating from it."
"This is not our fight, my friend." Gunnar said. "And it is not tyranny we have to worry about. There is something different here. Something deadly... That wiped out eighty warriors like that." He snapped his fingers.
"The people here expect it of us," said Bjólf. Then, after a moment's hesitation, added: "She expects it."
Gunnar's voice hardened. "We made no deal. There would be no shame."
"There would," said Bjólf, tapping the side of his head, "In here." For a moment the two regarded each other, deadlocked.
Finally, Bjólf pulled himself away and raised his voice to the rest of his men. "It is your decision. Stay or go?"
For a moment there was silence. Few could honestly say they were for staying, but none wished to speak out openly against their captain.
"Stay," said Atli. The men parted, turning to him.
Gunnar stared in surprise. "Now I feel shame. You have an uncanny knack of complicating matters, boy!"
Godwin gave a heavy sigh, nodding in reluctant agreement. "This little man is making us look bad."
"While you ladies are deliberating," interrupted Úlf, giving the hull of the Hrafn a slap with his huge hand, "allow me to point out that there's no way we're shifting this out of the mud without nature's help."
Bjólf looked at his beloved ship, held fast.
"How long until next high tide?" he asked, squinting at the edges of the mudflats.
All then looked at Kjötvi. He leaned heavily on his spear, looking back at them awkwardly. Gunnar noticed that he had bored a hole in the sliver of leg-bone and now wore it on a thong about his neck like a talisman. Kjötvi shrugged. "Tide's at its lowest. It'll be another quarter day until it's at its peak again. Around nightfall. Then again in the morning, when it will be high enough to get us off the mud for nearly half the day. But if we are still here at midday tomorrow, we'll likely be stuck again."
Bjólf nodded. "Then the decision is made. For now, at least. We stay put and take stock in the morning. See what another night brings. Which means, gentlemen," his voice rose with enthusiasm and not a little relief, "that tonight we feast!"
There was a mutter of assent from the men, mingled with muted approval. If they were forced to stick around to partake of a feast, well, maybe that wasn't so bad. Catching Atli's eye for a moment, Bjólf gave the boy a smile. He had earned the respect of many of the men today, men not easy to win round.
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