Halldís stepped forward then. "We cannot avoid what fate places before us," she said. "Yet I believe that an intelligent man may moderate what fate brings, if he is clear in his mind and is prepared to seek the help of friends."
Bjólf nodded in acknowledgment.
"You said that Skalla had power over his death-walkers," he said. "We mean to take that from him. It is the one hope for the salvation of us all - my crew and your people."
Frodi raised his eyebrows, impressed at what he heard. "It will be a hard fight," he said.
"That is the only kind of fight we understand," responded Bjólf with a half-smile. "But we need to learn all we can about our enemy. Numbers, weapons, the kinds of men they are..."
"We can tell you all we know," said Frodi. "But you may be able to see some of that for yourself, and sooner than you think."
Bjólf looked from Frodi to Halldís, a frown upon his face.
"Skalla comes to collect his tribute once a month, after the first day of the full moon," explained Halldís. "And it is full moon tonight."
Bjólf and Gunnar exchanged glances. They would need to plan quickly.
"When does he come?" asked Bjólf.
"Midday. When the shadows of the stags upon the gable point their horns at the well."
"What strength?"
Frodi spoke this time. "Always one ship with at least twenty men. Several armed with crossbows. Fearsome weapons."
"Yet those behind them are poor warriors, for the most part," added Halldís. "No match for your men. But..."
"But" - Frodi took up the point - "they have their draugr berserkers..." He hung his head and sighed. "Against them, I am afraid, there is little defence."
"Everything has its weakness," said Bjólf. "Theirs is a white powder that Skalla carries about him." He allowed his eyes to linger upon Halldís for a moment, then turned to his crew. "We shall lie in wait, watch from the forest's edge. See what we can see. Take them if we can." He turned back to the mistress of the hall. "Perhaps we can force this to a swift conclusion."
At this, Frodi stepped forward. "If we are to fight, you can add my sword to those of your men."
More came forward then, each pledging to stand with Bjólf. He nodded and smiled in grateful acknowledgement. True, the men were old, but their will was strong, and they knew their enemy.
Gunnar grunted. "And what if more of those death-walkers come sniffing around while we're crouched among the trees?"
Bjólf looked at him with fire in his eyes. "We point them at Skalla," he said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
SKALLA
Atli peered out nervously from the thick tangle of undergrowth, his sword drawn, the smell of sweat, rotting wood and rank estuary mud in his nostrils. At first he had laughed when he saw the men smearing the stinking mud upon their helms; then Gunnar told him it was to prevent their position being given away by the glint of metal, and he had swiftly followed suit. That was his first lesson of the day.
Ahead of them, beyond the trees, the harbour was a picture of peace. It had been that way much of the morning. The grisly remains of the slaughter of the death-walkers had been cleared, and now the sun shone down, the grey-green water sparkled, and the wind sighed in the trees. Only the total absence of birdsong attested to the abnormal nature of the place.
He shifted to relieve the cramp in his foot, and cursed as he caught his thumb on a bramble thorn. To the left of him, Godwin gave a nudge and raised a single finger to his lips. Atli reddened, and stuck his thumb in his mouth.
The harbour, as yet, was empty of life, devoid of threat. But there was still the forest. What lay in there, and what might emerge, none could say for certain. Had they destroyed all the draugr that night? Most of them? Or were they merely the first - the advance guard of a vast, stumbling army of blood-hungry flesh-eaters?
Atli tried to imagine how many had died here since the world began, to picture them all returning - hundreds, thousands of them. How far back could this curse reach, he wondered? Years? Generations? Did it have the power to animate even the dried up bones of ancient ancestors, whose ways in life would now seem strange?
He looked behind him, past the great huddle of crouched and armoured men, into the depths of the forest where no sunlight penetrated. He had lost count of the number of times he had done that today. Gunnar, immediately on his right, caught his eye, and pointed forwards. Atli blushed again, and turned back towards the harbour. Of course, nothing could approach them through that great thicket without announcing itself, and the death-walkers were hardly models of stealth. But Atli's nerves were already getting the better of him. The waiting was becoming unbearable; he wanted to piss, but did not dare, he felt dizzy and sick, his heart pounding in his chest, his stomach clenched into a ball, every muscle in his body as tight as a harp-string and ready to snap. He had come through the long night of the death-walkers. But this was different. This, if it came to it, would be his first real battle.
He tried to banish all such thoughts from his crowded head, and focus solely on the task, on the empty scene before him. Part of him wished for the black prow of Skalla's ship to come soon and end this torment. Another wished it to be put off as long as possible.
Preparations had begun immediately their meeting in the great hall had concluded. The older volunteers among Halldís's people had exhumed their long-idle weapons, and set about honing them back to life. Some trained and sparred, trying to coax dim memories of battle back into their limbs. At Frodi's suggestion, Bjólf had set Úlf to thickening their shields with a double layer of boards - protection against the crossbows whose power Frodi knew only too well.
The greatest task had been that of concealment of the ship. Some had argued for simply mooring it downriver, away from the fjord, from which all assumed Skalla was to come. But Bjólf was against it. What if this one time, for reasons they could not anticipate, Skalla were to come from the other direction? Some suggested hauling it ashore, into the stockade - but all knew that even over level ground, that was a back-breaking task. Fjölvar and Finn were in favour of hiding it in the thick vegetation of one of the half-choked inlets they had passed. But if they were going to do that, suggested Bjólf, why travel so far? Why not do the same thing right here? He pointed out the huge trees that draped their branches into the water on the north side of the harbour, opposite their proposed vantage point. Might not their ship disappear behind those?
A hasty survey showed it to be possible. Without delay, the men removed tents, sea-chests and weapons from the ship to the stockade. Only the great box of booty remained, stowed below deck. Bjólf did not trust their hosts that much just yet, and it was more than an afterthought that had him set Finn, the stealthiest among them, the task of keeping watch on Óflár. With the inner branches cut away, the mast was lifted from its housing in the mast-fish and lowered, and the ship carefully floated behind the huge, overhanging screen into the great cavern of tree and leaf. After a few hours work - and some judicious dressing of the branches - it was as if the Hrafn had never existed.
That night, Bjólf and his men had pitched their wooden-framed tents in the clearing before the hall - a great circle of them around a central fire of spitting pine logs. Haldís had food brought, to which they added some of the spoils from the previous day's hunt. Still, it was a modest feast compared to that night downriver.
"They are keeping it from us," complained Finn as they sat chewing bread around the crackling blaze, the bright painted colours of the tents glowing in the flickering light. "The good food," he explained, seeing the question upon Bjólf's face. "I have seen it, when I followed Óflár. He went to a large store-house, to check something. So I made it my business to check it too." He swallowed a tough gobbet of bread, gesticulating with the remaining piece as he spoke. "Food. Everywhere. Grain. Dried meat. Whole carcasses of mutton and beef hanging. They have deceived us!"
"It's no deception," said Bjólf. Finn frowned.
"Tribute for Skalla," explaine
d Gunnar. He spat a piece of gristle into the fire and dug at his teeth with a finger. "It's what is to be collected tomorrow. Not destined for our table, nor that of Halldís."
Finn bit at his bread again, disconsolately.
"What else did he do?" asked Bjólf.
Finn shrugged. "He is a very boring man. After the store house he went to another hut and fed a bird in a cage. He put it on his arm, then watched it fly about. Then he went home and drank alone."
"Clearly a man whose company is in great demand," quipped Gunnar.
"Keep watching him," said Bjólf. Then they had turned in, to gather strength for the next day's encounter.
It was Fjölvar - far out on the right flank and closest to the point of approach - who heard them first. The whispered message was passed down the line, as very shortly Atli heard them too. It was the same sound he had heard the day the vikingr came out of the fog. The steady dip and heave of oars, the clunk and creak of wood against wood. He strained to see past the closely-packed helms ranged to his right, through the foliage to the river. But he could make nothing out. To their left, up at the stockade, a shout went up. Someone in the watchtower had seen them first. Atli had a moment of panic at not being able to see their enemy and leaned forward, and Gunnar hauled him back.
Then the black ship slid into view.
It was long and lean, its timbers so dark they appeared pitched inside and out, the stark figurehead not a thing carved of wood, but the great, horned, empty-eyed skull of an aurochs. And, behind it, standing high upon the prow - there could be no doubting it - Skalla. He was clothed head to toe in black, the tunic of thick leather and covered with blackened, interlocking plates of metal; a foreign, unfamiliar style of armour. Above the angry scar that slashed through his dead left eye, his helm gleamed with the sheen of black flint. But the fine sword at his waist was sheathed in gold.
Up at the stockade, the gates had opened, and from them now issued a rabble of spindly figures: a ragtag band of people from the village, carrying Skalla's spoils, headed by Halldís and two elderly armed guards, whose presence, thought Bjólf, could be little more than symbolic.
"The exchange will be swift," whispered Frodi. "Skalla does not waste time on pleasantries."
As they watched, the oars were shipped, the vessel run up almost to the water's edge and a long gangplank extended to the shore. Skalla strode down it then, followed by four black-clad men. They positioned themselves at the edge of the grass, unnervingly close to where Bjólf and his men lay hidden. Frodi had been right - Skalla's followers were not the most fearsome specimens of manhood. But what they may have lacked in physical presence, they made up for with their formidable weapons. The crossbows that were slung about them were like nothing any of them had ever seen; awesome in appearance and flowing in design, the material black and gleaming like carved obsidian.
Halldís stopped a short distance away, the nervous villagers placing their cargo on the ground before her. She did not bow her head in welcome as was her usual custom. Her expression today was cold as stone. Skalla gave an abrupt signal, and several crewmen scurried down the gangplank and set about loading the goods. No word was spoken.
Bjólf leaned in close to Gunnar's ear. "I count twenty-five men at most. If we hit them fast enough..."
Gunnar gripped his arm. Immediately, Bjólf saw the source of his alarm. A second ship had drifted into view - identical to the second, but for the ram's skull upon its prow. Bjólf read the agitation upon Halldís's face, sent desperate thoughts in her direction, whispering to himself through clenched teeth. Don't look around... don't look around...
Halldís stared straight ahead. The second ship sat back in the harbour, its dark crew scrutinizing the transaction upon the shore.
"It's still us against twenty-five if we're fast," whispered Gunnar; trying, for the moment, to put the crossbows out of his mind. "By the time the others got to shore..."
It was Skalla who silenced him this time.
"Your face gives much away," he said, regarding Halldís. His voice was hollow, empty of expression. In the trees, hands tensed around weapons. A passionless smile creased Skalla's face. "You wonder why we come in such numbers."
"You do as you wish," replied Halldís, struggling to sound indifferent.
"Yes," said Skalla. "I do." He removed his gauntlets and turned around slowly as the last of the cargo was loaded, presenting his back to her. "I have heard that a ship came here. A ship with many warriors."
Bjólf cursed under his breath.
"Someone has betrayed us..." hissed Gunnar. He glared at Frodi. Frodi looked back at him in shocked bemusement.
Halldís maintained her composure. She stood in silence for a moment, as if weighing alternatives in her mind. Finally she spoke.
"It's true," she said. Skalla turned to look her in the face, surprised by her words. "We killed them," she continued. "Poisoned their food, cut their throats as they slept and burned their bodies. Perhaps you saw the smoke?"
Skalla stared at her in amazement, then a hoarse, rasping laugh escaped him. "You really are full of surprises. You certainly have far more about you than your father ever had." Skalla fingered the pommel of the gilded sword as he spoke. Halldís bit her lip, refusing to be drawn. "Since we are forced, in these harsh times, to dispose of our dead before our dead dispose of us, there is no evidence to verify your story." He sighed. "Convenient." His eyes bored into her, searching for weakness, and then he turned away, suddenly. "Well, it seems you missed one..."
He waved his black gauntlets, and two of his men heaved a third, heavily muscled figure from the ship onto the gangplank, dragging him ashore by the ropes that bound his wrists. Every one of Bjólf's men gaped in astonishment at Helgi Grimmsson. They shoved him forward, and he staggered and fell to his knees, a stone's throw from where Bjólf was concealed, his face beaten and bruised.
"This is the only one we have encountered alive," said Skalla. "We found him wandering in the forest. So far he has proved most unco-operative."
He prodded Grimmsson with his boot, and Grimmsson spat upon it, the spittle mingled with blood. Skalla laughed again and turned back to Halldís. As he did so, Grimmsson looked up, and for a moment seemed to catch Bjólf's eye, deep in the undergrowth. Bjólf, staring back in disbelief, felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. Yes, it was true. Grimmsson had seen them. He gripped his sword and shield, prepared in the next moment to hear their presence proclaimed, for desperate fighting to erupt, the advantage of surprise utterly lost.
But something quite different happened.
As he held Grimmsson's gaze, he saw the big man, his eyes blazing, give a brief but urgent shake of his head, then tear his attention away. It was distinct, but subtle, such as Skalla and his men would not notice from behind.
"What was that?" whispered an astonished Gunnar.
Bjólf could hardly believe it himself. "He was warning us. Warning us not to attack."
"But why? They know we are here."
"No," said Bjólf. "They're not certain."
As they watched, Grimmsson staggered to his feet, and, turning, lurched towards Halldís. "You killed them, you bitch!" Halldís reeled in shock at the outburst. Skalla hauled on the rope, pulling Grimmsson back from her as one would an unruly dog.
"He seems to know you. I believe this one may be their captain. An unfortunate loss; he could have served my masters well. But I need to make an example."
He signalled once again. Two men hurried ashore and drove a stake deep into the ground near where Halldís stood, securing Grimmsson's rope to it with what seemed excessive care. Others, meanwhile, heaved three great, black oblong boxes down the gangplank, dragging them to within a short distance of where Grimmsson was now bound.
Grimmsson spat again in contempt, taunting them, a crazed look in his eye. "You'd better kill me well, Skalla, or by the gods I'll come back and bite your pox-ridden bollocks off!"
That defiance was soon to be shaken. With nervous hands, th
e men had prised off the lids - some visibly recoiling from what was revealed inside - and now retreated hastily to the refuge of their ship.
From his vantage point, Bjólf could not see what lay within. But Grimmsson could, and across his face flashed an expression Bjólf never imagined he would see upon his old rival; a look of uncomprehending horror.
Skalla drew a small flask from inside his tunic, and called out to the villagers. "Stand back, or you will all die."
They did not need telling twice. Halldís withdrew hurriedly. Others simply turned and fled towards the stockade. Skalla threw a clear liquid from the flask into the boxes, one after the other, then backed slowly away towards the ship, watching intently.
In each box, something stirred. There were groans. A thud. A weird, deep growl - half-human, half-beast. The sound of nails clawing against wood. The first of the boxes shuddered violently, then jumped as if from some powerful impact. And from it, bit by bit, moving awkwardly, rose a huge, hulking figure of a man. At least equal to Grimmsson in size, its body was thick and muscular, but as grey and dead as the grimmest of the death-walkers. On its chest it wore a battered leather hauberk, scored and stained by battle, and here and there, the bloodless, green-tinged flesh showed signs of wounds that had been crudely repaired with stitches of rough, yellowed thread. The sutures strained and pulled the flesh as the creature stood and flexed its massive arms, a low rumble in its throat. A close-fitting helm obscured most of its features - but red eyes glowed from within the shadows, and a gaping mouth hung open in the tangled, gore-spattered mat of its beard. It wore no sword, this warrior, and carried no shield. But around its waist was a heavy chain, and from its right hand hung a battle axe of immense proportions, held in place by two iron nails.
So awe-struck was Grimmsson by this ghastly figure, that its two companions were on their feet before he realised - each as big as the first and in the same close-fitting helms; one in a ragged, rusting half-coat of mail, the other hung about with what had once been the whole skin of a wolf. The first had the wooden shaft of a great hammer nailed to its palm. The second had no weapon familiar to a warrior, but to the bones of both hands were bolted vicious iron claws.
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