"We must prepare," Bjólf said. "Bring all weapons from the ship. Everyone is to stay armed." He pointed at Grimmsson's chest of silver and gold. "Stow that aboard, out of our hosts' way. Thorvald - take Einarr, Grimm and Eldi and relieve Úlf's watch here." The men snapped into action, heaving the chest from the boat and clambering aboard the ship. "Godwin?" The Englishman stood at his captain's shoulder. "I want a man up on the ramparts. Keep the ship in clear sight at all times. And have four more men on hand below. I want to be able to open those gates at a moment's notice if need arises, whether we have our host's permission or not."
"One more night, Gunnar," he said, slapping his friend on the back. "Then we see."
Gunnar looked up from beneath creased black brows, his eyes scanning the slowly darkening sky. "A storm is coming," he said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
A FEAST
Thunder rumbled around them as they sat in Halldís's hall, arrayed along the mead benches with as many as would fit in the place. It had turned to a dreary night, with rain rattling on the great curved roof all around them. But the heat from the flames of the great log fire that crackled and popped in the central hearth set all their faces a-glow, swiftly driving out the damp and musty smells of neglect, restoring to life some of the grand and noble feelings of the past - feelings all too many had forgotten.
Their nostrils now were filled with the welcome, warming smells of bubbling stews and roasting meats, Sweet, heady mead had been brought forth, too, served first to Bjólf by Halldís herself. The doughty captain had drained the long, curved drinking horn in one, as tradition demanded, to the enthusiastic claps and cheers of his men. Even Halldís - presiding over the rest of the feast from the high seat at the centre of the hall, her cheeks flushed in the heat - had regained her former poise, and seemed, at last, to appear as one who sat at the heart of a proud community, the worries of the outside world, for the moment, completely banished.
The road to the evening's celebration had not, however, been without its obstacles. There had been a tense moment at the very start, when Frodi - the reeve of the village since the time of HallBjörn, and one of Halldís's most dependable supporters - had thrust himself in front of Bjólf's men just as they were about to troop in and reminded them, politely but firmly, that no weapons were to be carried into the hall. "We feast in friendship and trust," he said, "or not at all." All were perfectly well aware of the rules of hospitality, and the banishment of blades from the feast, but few gave them up willingly. Njáll, the Irishman, who claimed to have seen this very rule exploited to treacherous ends, even squared up to the old man, who nonetheless refused to budge. It fell to Bjólf to resolve the matter to the satisfaction of both sides. All weapons were left outside, but within easy reach, and under guard by one of his own men. Frodi eyed Njáll with some suspicion after that.
When the food was brought, that, too, fell a little short of expectation; a single roast pig, a few scrawny fowls, a leg of ham and - much to Gunnar's displeasure - a fish stew with mussels that was uncomfortably similar to their makeshift meal the night before.
"Mmm. Seafood," said Gunnar, sniffing the stew. Bjólf glared at him. The fare was certainly meagre, even by the standards of the average farmstead, but he had no wish to embarrass their hosts. Although one or two among the crew seemed to take the poor quality of the food as a slight, he understood that this, in all likelihood, represented the very best they had to offer.
"The mussels were gathered today," said Halldís, adopting a cheerful air. "They are at their sweetest now." But Bjólf could see that she, too, was aware that their offerings fell far short of what they would have wished.
"We rarely hunt game in the forest," added Ragnhild. "Not unless forced to do so." Halldís silenced her with a look.
Bjólf stood, then, and raised his mead-cup. "To the mistress of this hall, who honours us with this feast, and to new friendships..." All raised their voices together in the toast. He thought he detected a flicker of a smile upon Halldís' face.
"Thor!" added Gunnar, tipping a drop of drink upon the beaten earth floor before taking it himself - a small offering to the gods. Many about him did the same.
Soon, as bellies were filled, faces warmed and the mead hit its mark, the conversation blossomed, and the laughter grew. A harper struck up and sang a song of the adventures of Sigurd, and then Skjöld the Icelander, very drunk but all the better for it. Before long, crew and hosts were laughing uproariously together like the oldest of friends: Njáll was slapping a smiling Frodi on the back, forcing more drink into his already overflowing cup, Ragnhild was hooting and flapping her apron whilst eyeing up Gunnar with ever-decreasing subtlety, and Fjölvar was engaging the old man from the watchtower in some kind of drinking game at which he himself was very obviously cheating, much to the amusement of his neighbours. Finally, Halldís too, who at first had tried to keep a sense of decorum by pretending not to understand the jokes at Skjöld's expense, gave in to fits of laughter, wiping tears from her eyes. Bjólf was gladdened by the sight of her, feeling, at last, that there was something here worth fighting for.
Among them all just one sat apart, disdainful and humourless. In a far corner, the pale man sipped sparingly at his drink, watching Bjólf intently.
"Who is that sour-faced fellow?" asked Gunnar, slamming down his cup in irritation.
"Ah, now," said Fjölvar, perched on the edge of their table. "I have the story on that one, from Klaufi, our short-sighted friend at the gate. Remember?"
"You trust that old fool?" asked Bjólf.
"His wits are still sharp, even if his aim is not."
"It's not his wits I question," said Gunnar. "It's his eyesight. He called Filippus 'Miss.'"
"I always said he should grow a beard," quipped Bjólf.
"Fortunately, what he lacks in one faculty, he gains in another. He may have all the visual acuity of Odin's missing eye, but he is blessed with Heimdall's hearing." Fjölvar bent forward, adopting a confidential tone. "It seems those ears of his take in far more than any around him would imagine, and fortunately it only requires a few ales to get it out of him again."
Bjólf and Gunnar both leaned in closer to hear Fjölvar's findings.
"The lonely man is Óflár, son of Hallthor. He is cousin to Halldís, but while he is very much the son of her uncle, he was not born of Halldís's aunt..."
"Ah, the old story," sighed Gunnar. "One foot in the family, one foot out."
"Well, that matter has long since been forgotten. But it seems that, being the acknowledged son of Hallbjörn's brother, he believes he has been cheated of his birthright by the fair Halldís."
Bjólf nodded. "In other words, he thinks it should be his scrawny arse upon the high seat of this hall."
"I think Halldís graces it rather more agreeably," mused Gunnar.
"No wonder he looks so bloody miserable," said Bjólf.
"He failed to act when the time was ripe, and Halldís, knowing that the hall should not fall empty and feeling her father's loss keenly, stepped forward to assert herself. A popular move, by all accounts. Now he fears that popularity."
Gunnar frowned in exasperation at this pathetic tale. "So what is he doing now? Waiting for her to give up the ghost?"
"He could be in for a long wait," said Bjólf. "The girl is slight, but what she lacks in brawn she makes up for in spirit."
"She had more supporters back then," continued Fjölvar, "men who would fight for her cause, if need be - including Hunding, the one became her husband. But Hunding is lost, and they have since dwindled. And so Óflár bides his time."
Bjólf snorted. "If he intends to wait until all opposition fades away, then all he stands to inherit is a ghost town."
"It is nearly that already," grumbled Gunnar.
"This husband of hers, Hunding," Bjólf said, "what is his story?"
Fjölvar shrugged. "He took a ship to seek aid from the king. Its charred bones were found washed up two weeks later. Of the crew there was
no sign."
Bjólf nodded solemnly.
"Soon after," added Fjölvar. "Óflár made a generous offer of marriage to Halldís."
"Clearly a man of tact." Gunnar said.
"She roundly, and rather publicly, rejected him," said Fjölvar, spinning a knife idly upon the table. "He has not forgotten it."
As Godwin approached to join them, Bjólf looked up and, glancing beyond him, caught Óflár's eye with his own. He held his gaze until the other weakened and broke away. "You notice he is almost the only man here isn't either too old or too young to take a wife. Why is that?
Fjölvar looked across at him, too and frowned. "Why, indeed."
"Watch him," said Bjólf.
"Who is this 'Skalla' anyway?" asked Godwin, throwing his leg over the bench and slumping astride it heavily. "Has anyone found that out yet?"
Gunnar grunted as he lowered his mug, dripping beery froth from his moustache. "Hmm! Sounds like a girl's name."
"An ugly girl's name," added Godwin.
"None will talk of him," said Fjölvar. "Not even Klaufi." He threw up his hands. "I tried everything."
"I found the same," nodded Godwin. "As soon as the name is mentioned, the gates are shut and bolted."
"All I know is he is the captain of the clan with whom they have their feud," said Bjólf. "A river-raider. But he must hold some terrible power over these people that they will not even talk of him."
"I assume he is the reason for these fortifications," ventured Godwin.
"Perhaps," said Bjólf, staring into the flames that leapt in the hearth. "But if the threat comes only from the river, why does this stockade surround them on every side?"
All four men looked at each other in silence.
"I trust Halldís," said Bjólf. "But there is something they're not telling us. Stay on your guard."
With that he stood and crossed the earthen floor to where Halldís sat. She saw his approach and smiled.
"With your permission, I wish to send some food out to my men on watch," he said.
"Upon the rampart?"
"Aboard my ship. It has been a long, cold night for them, and..."
"You left men aboard your ship?" interrupted Halldís. Her voice and her expression were suddenly changed, her face registering shock at his words.
"Of course."
"It is not safe."
He frowned. "That is precisely why we guard it."
"Your ship is not in danger so long as your men are not on it."
He puzzled over the words. "It is not only our ship that needs guarding. They keep watch over our dead."
Halldís stood in alarm, the colour drained from her face. "You have dead aboard your ship?" Several about her, Frodi included, fell silent, turning to face Bjólf, their expressions grave.
"Three of us fell in conflict with some common sea-pirates."
"Why did you not tell us of this?"
Bjólf stared at her, utterly bemused. "What need was there? They lie, wrapped in linen, bothering no one. And then we will bury them."
"How long has it been?"
"What?"
"How long have they lain dead?"
"Half a day. Three-quarters at most." Bjólf was losing patience now. "But what concern is that of yours?"
"They must be removed and burned," said Halldís. She turned away. "Ragnhild - fetch men and see to it immediately."
Ragnhild made to stand, but before she could move Bjólf stepped forward, grabbed Halldís by her shoulder and spun her back round to face him. "No! You will not touch them."
Halldís glared at him, outraged. Frodi stood, his cool, grey eyes blazing. Godwin and Njáll were instantly on their feet, followed slowly by Gunnar, who towered over them all.
"Three days we let them lie," rumbled Gunnar in the tense silence. "To show respect. That is our way, whether it be yours or not."
"Believe me, it is not from lack of respect that I say these things," replied Halldís.
"We have seen how you show respect to your dead," said Bjólf, "from the bones left rotting in the estuary mud."
"You do not understand," she protested, tears welling in her eyes.
"No, I do not! And you have done little to remedy that lack of understanding. We ask about Skalla and your lips snap shut like an oyster. I make mention of the pestilence that we know afflicts this land and you run from an explanation. If I am ignorant, if I am ill-informed, it is only through want of answers - answers that only you in this hall can give, but will not."
For a moment they stared at each other, the great, shadowy spaces of the hall filled only with the hiss and crackle of the fire, and the thrash of rain.
Halldís let her head fall, then began to speak in a quiet monotone.
"When they first came in their black ships, their cruelty knew no bounds. But they were just men, and were as strong or as weak as men ever are. At first, we resisted. They were few in number, and though unused to war, we were a proud people. We forced them to an uneasy truce."
"Then... Skalla..." she forced herself to utter the name, "unleashed a new abomination. One day, after many weeks respite, the black ships appeared again. Our men rode to face them. Skalla's crew dragged seven great, long boxes from their ships, and upon prising off the lids, revealed inside bodies of men - or what once were men; huge, bear-like warriors, their flesh grey, the stench of decay about them. Some had once been our own warriors. What this meant, our warband could not guess. Skalla threw a liquid in their faces and his men hastily retreated to their ships. The bodies stirred, staggered to their feet - moving, but the light in their eyes quite gone out. They were aptrgangr - death walkers; like the draugr in stories of old. But no story could have prepared us. Like ravening beasts they attacked - tore with hands, with blades, with blood-drenched jaws. Our weapons would not touch them. A terrible havoc was wrought that day. Then, when their masters were at last satisfied with the quantity of corpses their hideous progeny had heaped up - the limbs wrenched from sockets, the bones bitten, the flesh devoured in great gobbets, the mud made red with gore - they once more crept forth from their ships. Skalla threw a powder in their faces. Lifeless, they fell to earth. Nailing them back into boxes, they dragged those monstrous berserkers back aboard their ships. Thirty men lay slain. One survived the butchery, his arm left somewhere in that charnel heap. From that day, we did not resist.
"One might think this suffering enough. But the gods, in their wisdom, did not deem it so. We have since become a cursed people, whose dead the earth will no longer hold. Our own land rejects us, as a dog vomits up bad meat. First, the curse was merely passed from one to the other. That, we could control, though the methods were harsh. We were forced to retreat within the walls of this stockade, to abandon the outlying villages and farmsteads to their fate, even the burial grounds of our ancestors. They walk the forests now. But then it began to afflict all who died here. We have returned to the old ways, burning our dead, but in unseemly haste, else they are spat from their graves to wander as restless, mindless monsters, no longer knowing loved ones, driven only by the need to feast on the flesh of the living. This fate awaits us all. And so all of Björnheim cowers in its shadow - doomed, defeated, already dead in life."
Bjólf's men could only stare at her, incredulous. Yet not one could shake the creeping sense of inevitability that hung about her words, the way they seemed to give horrid meaning to the grim details of past days. Even Bjólf himself, still searching for earthly explanations, could see in her eyes that she spoke the truth, or, at least, what she believed to be the truth.
Halldís relieved the silence. "Tell, me, if you had known this, would you have come, or simply thought us mad?"
Bjólf, briefly wondering whether it could indeed be a kind of madness that afflicted this place - and perhaps infected him and his own men too - resolved there and then to reveal his own secret; that they had not come in response to a call for aid - that, in all likelihood, no message had got through, and no aid would ever come. And t
hat her husband Hunding - for whom she still held some hope - had succumbed to some ghastly fate, his body tossed and battered by the eternal churning ocean out beyond the fjord. But, as he drew breath to start his speech, a great crash turned every face to the door. It had been flung back on its hinges; leaves and rain now swirled on the wind, and in the doorway, soaked to the skin, his sword drawn, stood Atli, eyes wide, his face pale as a ghost.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
DEATH WALKERS
It was a flash of lightning that had first revealed it, standing stark and pallid against the endless black of the forest's edge. For an instant, the white, forked shape had burned and flickered - and then was gone. At first, Atli had simply blinked back at the featureless night into which he was immediately plunged, uncertain of what he had glimpsed, the intense but indistinct image still seared into his brain, blinding him not only to what he could now see, but also to what he had seen. Then, just as the deep, rolling rumble of thunder had followed the lightning, so the realisation of what he had witnessed gradually grew clear in his mind.
A figure, deathly pale, its ragged clothes offering scant protection against this cold, rainy night - or any night - standing, motionless, half way between the stockade wall and the brooding immensity of the trees. Atli's eyes now strained to see anything in the pale moonlight, which came and went through the heaving cracks in the violently rent sky. But in his mind, the fleeting image slowly asserted itself in all its details, like the blood that comes gradually to a fresh wound. Chief among them was a face. Or that was the best word Atli had for it, at least. For while it had the familiar arrangement of physical features, it was yet lacking something in every one of those details. Its eyes were dark pits, its nose withered and collapsed, its mouth lolling open, devoid of expression. Like a blind, idiot child it stood, its limbs like a doll's, its grey, lifeless visage now seeming to him a kind of horrible mask, behind which was nothing.
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