The first looked about, sniffed at the air, turned a full circle with an unsteady gait as if not yet awake, and stopped, facing Grimmsson. Bjólf's rival could stand no more. "Come on then!" he bellowed at them, making as if to attack, heaving so hard on his rope that the stake threatened to pull free, his voice charged with renewed contempt.
It was the last coherent sound he ever made.
The first of the berserkers made a loud snort like a bull, and with a sudden burst of ferocious speed, like wild dogs let off the leash, all three flew at Grimmsson.
Flailing fists pummelled and tore, teeth snapped and snarled, and blood and gore was flung about with such savagery that in moments the living man was reduced to splintered bone and shapeless shreds of glistening, pulsing tissue.
Skalla stepped forward, dipping his hand into a small, black lacquered box, which hung on a cord about his shoulder. All three of the ogres turned at the sound of his approach, parts of Grimmsson still hanging from their champing mouths. Showing no emotion, Skalla stood his ground as they turned upon him, and in one swift movement flung a spray of the white powder across their faces. Instantly, as if felled by elf-stroke, the three colossal figures stiffened and crashed to the ground, dead as a ship's carved figurehead.
Bjólf, Gunnar and the rest looked on in shock and awe, the smell of fresh, hot blood and torn flesh carrying on the air. The attack was over so fast, the destruction so complete, that none yet knew how to react. A sword blow, the impact of an axe, the stab of a knife - these things they understood. But for such utter, instantaneous devastation to be wrought upon a living body... It was beyond their comprehension.
Skalla snapped his fingers. His men - no less terrified, with appalled expressions on their faces, one retching - crept back reluctantly and, faces averted, began to load the lifeless, blood-soaked hulks back into their boxes.
Some distance away, Halldís finally dared to put her hand to her face. A spot of Grimmsson's blood came away on her pale finger. She swayed, her face drained of colour.
Skalla looked around, almost as if he had expected some intervention, then faced her again. "Well, perhaps you told the truth after all," he said, nodding slowly, his cold eyes upon her. "I will not underestimate you again." With that he turned, preparing to leave, then again changed direction, as if having one last thing that he wished to say. "Oh, I nearly forgot - if they are all dead, then they won't be needing their ship, will they?" He signalled to the captain of the second vessel, out on the river, and from it a hail of flaming arrows was unleashed upon the great overhang of trees, within which was hidden the Hrafn.
Gunnar leapt up in fury, his axe ready to split Skalla's skull, but Bjólf grabbed his belt and hauled him back down before he could give their position away. He shook his head despondently. "Even if we could take them and their berserkers, the other ship would make it away and warn the rest."
Gunnar slumped back, defeated. As they watched, the great trees burst into flame. Beyond their branches, Skalla's arrows had already ignited the sail, and the hungry blaze now leapt and licked along the planking of the deck.
"It's just a ship, Gunnar," whispered Bjólf, still restraining him. But both knew he did not believe it.
Without another word, without looking back, Skalla strode up the gangplank and the black ships departed, leaving undreamt of ruin in their wake.
Bjólf and his men finally crawled from their cramped hiding places, spirits crushed, horrified beyond measure at the sights before them. A few instinctively rushed to the ship, splashing into the water with the thought of effecting some kind of rescue. But it was all too late. All were turned back by the intense heat of the blaze, whose eager shoots now reached to the very tops of the trees. The branches upon which the fiery tendrils climbed crackled and spat and fell burning into the water, a huge column of thick smoke billowing above. Reflected in the steaming water, the blackening shape of the Hrafn's elegant prow stood like a silhouette in the great roaring torrent of flame - its timbers, marked with the deeds of ages, steadily consumed, its memories forever lost.
Bjólf hauled off his helm and let it drop to the ground, barely able to comprehend what had happened. His mind kept spinning back to the tantalising moment when the powder had been there, right before them, almost within their grasp; the moment before everything was suddenly snatched away.
"I should have been on board," he muttered, the flames from the fire reflecting in his eyes. "I always thought it would be my funeral ship."
Lacking the words to ease his friend's torment, Gunnar poked at the edge of the circle of mangled flesh with his axe. "Grimmsson saved us. All those years of sniping and fighting, and he saved us. Why?"
Bjólf shrugged, tearing his eyes from his dying ship. "Honour amongst thieves." He looked back upriver, in the black ships' wake. The wind gusted, changing direction, carrying the smoke across the sun and throwing his face into shadow. "Perhaps because he had encountered something truly evil, such that our similarities suddenly seemed more important than our differences."
Halldís approached, her face drawn. She looked up at Bjólf, her hand upon his arm, mouth open but empty of words, shaking silent tears from her eyes. The sight of this man crushed by defeat was almost more than she could bear. He took her hand, drawing comfort from the contact, and gave a forced smile of gloomy resignation.
"We must leave," she begged. "The noise will have attracted death-walkers."
In silence, the men trooped back to the safety of the stockade. Last of them was Bjólf, who hung back just long enough to see the exposed ribs of the great old ship devoured by the flames.
CHAPTER THIRTY
KING ÓFLÁR
As they had trudged up the hill and on through the village, thoughts of the day's events had begun to consolidate in Bjólf's mind. He had not remained defeated for long. Despair had turned to melancholy, melancholy to bitterness, and, by the time they reached the great hall, to a murderous rage.
"We were betrayed," he snapped as he strode back and forth before the mead benches, his sword still in his hand. Its blade swept through the air as he spoke. Even his friends were keeping a respectful distance from him now.
"But who?" said Halldís, exchanging a look of deep unease with Frodi. He turned and stared into the hearth, his face dark and brooding.
"I know on whom I would place my wager," he muttered.
"But, more to the point, how did they pass the message?" added Gunnar. "No one here would go by land, and we know none went by boat."
"Their information was scant," said Godwin, "or many of us would doubtless be dead by now, torn apart by their berserkers."
"They had the chance," nodded Frodi.
"But they did not take it," frowned Bjólf. "They did not know everything. Grimmsson was able to mislead them. They were warned - about us, about the ship - but did not know what else might have passed." He rubbed his chin, and looked up to the rafters as if somehow seeking inspiration there. Come on, Thor... Odin... anyone... he thought. I've neglected you all these years, I know, but I'll take any help I can get, whether you exist or not.
A vivid childhood memory came to him, then, quite unbidden: of his uncle's hall - a far more modest affair than this - and of the sparrows that used to nest among the beams. During feasts, they would swoop down and steal scraps from the tables. In time, they became so tame they would even take food from Olaf's huge hand. He smiled at that ridiculous image. The old man loved those birds. Such a thing could not happen here, in this lifeless realm. He had not seen a single bird since they had arrived.
Then he turned, fixing Finn with a look of frightening intensity and pointing at him with the tip of his blade.
"This bird that you saw Óflár feed," he said, his voice like thunder. "He let it fly free?"
"Yes," said Finn, shrugging.
"What kind of bird? A hawk? A hunting bird?" He did not think Óflár the kind to have a pet.
"No... Eating bird. What do you call it?" He flapped his arms and i
mitated its sound. "Coo-coo-coo!"
"A pigeon!" exclaimed Gunnar. The men looked at each other in sudden comprehension.
Bjólf turned, brow furrowed in fury, fingers clenched so tight around his sword grip his knuckles were white, and stormed out of the hall, leaving the great door swinging behind him. Moments later, he was back again. He strode up to Halldís and grabbed her by the hand. "Show me where Óflár lives!" he demanded, and charged out once again, dragging Halldís behind him.
"This should be interesting..." said Gunnar. All hurried after them.
Óflár took his time answering the irate pounding at his door. When he did so, he opened it the merest crack and peered out, suspiciously. "What is the...?"
That was all he had the opportunity to say before Bjólf kicked the door in, smashing Óflár's face and sending him flying back against a wooden pillar. As the pale man lay whimpering pathetically, snorting like a pig through his crushed, bleeding nose, Bjólf strode into the house, grabbed Óflár by his greasy hair, and dragged him out into the courtyard. He did not stop, but passed by his waiting crew and continued on towards the stockade gate, the snivelling screams of his writhing baggage drawing more and more people from their homes.
"Nothing to worry about," Gunnar reassured them. "Just sorting out a little rat infestation."
Bjólf, his anger growing, tugged harder, causing Óflár - bumping along the ground on his skinny rump, his hair almost wrenched from his head - to shriek all the more.
At the gate, the one-armed blacksmith, who was boiling nettles in a pot over a small fire, saw him coming, Halldís hurrying behind him, and the best part of Bjólf's crew behind her. Bjólf did not look like he was going to stop. Jumping to his feet, uncertain what to do, the blacksmith looked from Bjólf to Halldís and back again.
"Open the gates!" she called. The blacksmith and his fellow gatekeeper - a stout older man with no front teeth - fumbled with the heavy bar. Bjólf dumped Óflár on the ground and strode over to the blacksmith's bubbling pot.
"What is this?" he barked.
"Er... s-stingers," stuttered the blacksmith as they heaved the beam from the gates. "An infusion for my... Wha - ?"
But before he could say any more, Bjólf snatched up the pot, strode back to the wriggling form of Óflár and emptied the boiling contents into his lap. Óflár howled, pungent steam rising from his groin. Bjólf looped his arm through the pot's handle, took hold of Óflár's thin locks once more, and, with an expression of fury and disgust, marched out of the gates, dragging his screaming captive down the path to the harbour, where flames still licked at the jagged, sunken carcass of his ship.
Halldís stopped at the gates. None stepped past where she stood. Gunnar looked at her, questioningly. "Do you want us to..." The sentence ended in a kind of half nod towards the receding figures.
Halldís shook her head. "Let him deal with this in his own way."
"I don't understand," whispered Atli, embarrassed by his own ignorance. "What did Óflár do?"
Gunnar gave a grim laugh. "Pigeons are not only for eating," he said.
Atli, still confused, looked from one face to another.
"Messages, boy," said Godwin. "They also carry messages."
Almost at the water's edge, Bjólf hauled Óflár into the very centre of the circle of gore and released his grip. Óflár fell face first into human blood and offal, then recoiled and cried out in shock and revulsion, slipping in the slime, covering himself in it.
'This is your anointing," said Bjólf, a manic look in his eye, and strode about him. "Now prepare to ascend your throne!"
Grabbing him by the scruff of the neck, he dragged the wailing, writhing Óflár towards the stake, sat him roughly against it, and trussed him up with the ragged, blood-caked rope that had once bound Grimmsson.
"This is your mantle!" he bawled in Óflár's ear, pulling the bonds tight.
Óflár screamed in torment, his returning senses finally beginning to grasp the full horror of his situation. He struggled feebly and looked about in panic. At the edge of the forest, upon the northern side, close to the water, could now be seen three death-walkers, their gait jerky and uneven, drawn from the forest by the sounds of death, the smell of blood.
Bjólf held the pot aloft and hammered hard upon it with the hilt of his sword. It rang out loudly like a crude, muffled bell.
"Come one, come all!" he cried. "Attend the court of King Óflár the Great!"
On the south side, now, another death-walker was visible. Bjólf turned and bowed to the whimpering, pleading creature at his feet. "Your majesty," he said, and jammed the nettle-pot roughly upon Óflár's head. A strange, humourless smile crossed his face. "You wished for a kingdom of your own. Well, now you have it. This is your kingdom." He gestured wildly with his sword blade. "And these your subjects!"
Óflár stared wild-eyed at the flames, the blood, the empty-eyed creatures that now stumbled towards him, sobbing and kicking ineffectually, like an infant. Bjólf straightened, staring down at Óflár with contempt. "I leave you to their wise counsel." With that he turned, and walked away, back to the stockade, where the distant screams were finally lost in the wind.
So ended the brief reign of Óflár, son of Hallthor.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
OUT OF THE ASHES
For hours afterwards, Bjólf sat brooding in the watchtower, staring out towards the vast, blackened hole at the forest's edge, beneath which the embers of the ship still glowed. None dared approach him. Even brave Klaufi, whose watch this should have been, would not go near. An anxious Halldís had asked Gunnar to keep an eye on his friend. He hardly needed telling to do that, but he reassured her he would. Bjólf's men, meanwhile, lurked outside their tents in a state of dejection. Cheated of the opportunity to strike at Skalla, their only other means of attack now taken from them, they sat around the fire, dazed and directionless, and waited - for what, they knew not.
Then, when the smoke had finally ceased to rise, Gunnar looked towards the tower and saw Bjólf gone. Atli was sent clambering up the ladder, and found nothing but a knotted rope secured to the support and lowered to the outside. Off in the distance, he could see Bjólf trudging past Óflár's stripped bones, heading for the vessel's charred remains.
Some time passed before Bjólf was seen again. He called out at the gate, and when admitted marched in without a word, soaked through, a sack over his shoulder. Gunnar could not tell for certain what it contained, but it was something large and rounded in shape.
"We thought you had gone for the treasure," he said, striding alongside his captain and eyeing the sack with a curious frown.
"That can stay at the bottom of the river," said Bjólf. "No good to us here."
"Hmm," Gunnar nodded. "Probably all melted into one great lump, anyhow." Bjólf did not reply. "So, er... what's in the bag?" Gunnar tried his best to sound casual, but acting was not his strong point.
"You'll see."
When they reached their encampment by the great hall, Bjólf dumped the sack on the ground. His men gathered without any word needing to be spoken. Halldís and Frodi, deep in conversation with Godwin and Fjölvar, cut short their discussion and hurried over, Halldís forcing her way to the front.
Bjólf looked around at them all and smiled briefly at the company, then tucked his thumbs into his belt and began.
"We know now what this Skalla is about. He has formidable weapons, that much is clear. But our will is the stronger." There was a mutter of approval. "You are aggrieved at having been robbed of the chance to stand against him. I know that. You want nothing more than to heft your weapons at him and his kind. I know that too. He thinks us destroyed. That is in our favour. Now the time has come to make our attack upon him."
With that, he upended the sack, and a big, heavy lump of wood thudded onto the ground. Charred, sodden with river water, but still sound and clear in shape - the dragon's head from the Hrafn. Bjólf picked it up and held it before him. "She has passed through fire.
But she will sail again."
A murmur passed through the men. "But how?" exclaimed Gunnar, wondering, for a moment, whether his old friend had finally gone mad.
"We need more than a figurehead to carry us," said Njáll.
"Our ship is ash and embers," added Godwin. "Our only means of attack gone!"
"No!" said Bjólf, his eyes gleaming. "There is another..."
The men stared at each other in bewilderment, dumbstruck.
"Grimmsson's ship..." said Atli. He had spoken aloud without thinking, without realising he was doing it. The men looked at him in amazement.
"Grimmsson's ship," said Bjólf with a slow nod of his head, grinning broadly at the boy. A buzz of excitement suddenly gripped the crew; they chattered feverishly, some even laughing, enlivened by new possibilities.
"It was tethered," said Fjölvar. "It should still be there..."
Godwin nodded. "The death-walkers have no interest in ships. We know that much."
"But what if Skalla's men have discovered it?" said Kjötvi.
Úlf shook his head. "They knew of only one ship when they came today."
"We must act quickly," added Bjólf, "and get to it before it is found."
"How?" said Odo.
"We walk." Bjólf pointed past them all, towards the far end of the village, and the dark trees that lay beyond the stockade. "It lies southeast of here." He looked at Halldís. "A small bay, marked on one edge by a great boulder, half in the water."
"Ægir's Rock," She nodded. "I know it."
"How far?" asked Gunnar.
She shrugged. "A day. I can direct you. To the island in the fjord, too."
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