Viking Dead

by Toby Venables

  "But... the forest?" said Eyvind, a note of doubt in his voice. They had learned to fear the place in the last few days.

  "The going would be hard," acknowledged Halldís. "The forest is dense, and the death-walkers wander its shadows."

  "But they are lumbering beasts," said Gunnar. He hefted his axe. "We can handle them."

  "Those 'lumbering beasts' wiped out Grimmsson's entire crew!" said Kjötvi.

  "And Grimmsson's crew, we must assume, have joined their ranks," added Godwin. A few muttered their concern.

  "But they were not prepared," said Bjólf. "Nor were we, that first night. But we know our enemy now."

  Thorvald, who had survived the long vigil upon the ship when so many had perished, stepped forward, nodding. All fell silent. "We fared badly in our first encounter. But we learned quickly. They are slow, their behaviour simple. They do not hide the sound of their approach. On open ground, they can be easily seen. In the forest, easily heard. We have this one chance. My vote is to go."

  Thorvald's words carried the weight to convince the doubters. "So, we have a plan!" announced Gunnar with delight, and gave his captain an almighty slap on the back.

  "Gather provisions," called Bjólf. "And sharpen your blades. Tonight we sleep, and dream of wanton women. At first light we march to Skalla's ruin!"

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  THE STRANGER AT THE GATES

  The next morning, the men assembled outside the great hall, fully armoured once more, strenghtened shields and bags of provisions upon their backs, helms hanging from their belts, and every weapon they could carry strapped to them. The preference was for heavy blades and clubs; few trusted to stabbing weapons on this trip. There were thirty of them in all, including the boy Atli, whose burden on this occasion was even greater than the rest. Bjólf trusted any one of them with his life, but it was a sobering thought, too often on his mind, that when they had first come to these shores, they had been forty strong.

  A handful of men from Halldís's retinue had volunteered to join the raiding party, as Bjólf had expected they would. He admired the courage and determination of these men, all in the twilight of their years, and, despite being doubtful about their suitability for so arduous a mission, accepted them graciously. They had suffered under Skalla for years; this, he felt, was their right. Their addition brought their numbers up to thirty five. Frodi was to stay, under strict instructions from Halldís, though it was clear that it rankled with the tough old warrior. A shame, thought Bjólf; he suspected this one would have proved a fearsome addition to the warband.

  With a face like thunder, infuriated at having been denied a place - but kitted out for battle to honour those who were going to the fight - Frodi arrived with two stewards to escort Bjólf and his men to the gate on the far, landward side of the stockade. From here, they were to head into the forest along an old herding path, then strike out south-east for the shore of the fjord - and, they hoped, Grimmsson's waiting ship. Bjólf looked around, expecting to see Halldís nearby. He could not imagine that she would not be here to see them off. Yet it became clear that, for reasons known only to her, she had not come. Though he did not show it, his heart sank at the realisation.

  Little was said. With curt nods of acnowledgement on either side, they set off, passing through an as yet unfamiliar part of Halldís's domain. Here, the houses and farmsteads were more scattered, the land increasingly dominated by agriculture. Penned animals and enclosed pasture jostled with a patchwork of cultivated fields in which were grown every kind of crop. Not a scrap of land was wasted. Yet, despite the impression of plenitude this gave, the skinny peasants who watched wide-eyed as the glittering band of warriors tramped past showed that this land, reduced as it was by the limits of the stockade and the demands of Skalla, struggled to sustain them.

  Before long, they had reached the far boundary of the stockade wall, beyond which the dark edge of the forest loomed once more, appearing now more vast and threatening than ever. The old south gate, though clearly once the twin of the western entrance that opened to the harbour, now presented a very different demeanour. It stood like a monument to their self-imposed imprisonment, every aspect of it speaking not so much of neglect - though neglected it had certainly been - but of fear. It was impossible to tell when anyone had last dared to pass this way - it could not have been longer than the few years that the stockade had been in existence - but already the forest had begun to reclaim the great boles that had been so insolently torn from it. Invading ivy had forced its way between the trunks, its clinging fronds winding their way around the whole length of the wall, and around the gate itself had crept up the outside of the watchtowers, choking the lookout posts and tumbling over the top of the barrier in a great green wave, bringing with it a tangled profusion of briar, holly, elder and hazel. This whole section of the wall was dark with shadow, and it was only gradually, as his eyes adjusted to the gloom of this forgotten corner, that Bjólf became aware of a figure pacing slowly back and forth at the foot of the left tower, arms folded, head bowed and obscured by shadow.

  At first, Bjólf assumed him to be a guard. But what was the point of that? No one came this way, and there seemed no possibility of ascending the watchtower. Besides, although his stature was modest, his dress and equipment were far beyond anything Klaufi or the blacksmith had to offer. Over a green tunic and brown leggings was a shimmering coat of mail, at his waist a richly decorated sword and a fine helm with gilded fittings, on his back a red shield bearing a sacred valknut motif inscribed in black, the knot of the slain: a symbol of Odin, and of battle. This man, whoever he was, was no peasant. He could only be another volunteer, reasoned Bjólf, yet none that he had seen were so youthful.

  As they approached, the figure turned, unfolded its arms and stepped forward. The face - and the figure - were suddenly startlingly familiar. Halldís. The eyes of all the men widened at the sight. None of them had ever seen a woman dressed in such a fashion. The entire concept was outrageous. But, Bjólf had to admit, she wore it well. Halldís walked up briskly, giving Frodi a look somehow caught between defiance and apology, as if steeling herself for an argument whilst simultaneously hoping she might brazen it out.

  "What is this?" Frodi demanded, suddenly stepping into the role of patriarch. Halldís, in response, immediately became the headstrong daughter.

  "I'm going with them," she said, her head high, her tone resolute. "That is why I requested you stay, Frodi - to oversee things in my stead."

  "But... you cannot..." blustered Frodi, his face red with indignation. "It's... inappropriate. And I made a promise to your father..."

  Halldís stood her ground. "My father is dead. Were he here, he would do exactly as I am doing. I rule his hall now. This is my duty."

  Frodi, for the moment, was lost for words - Bjólf could not be sure whether because he lacked a suitable argument, or was merely shamed by the fact that a slip of a woman was going to battle while he stayed at home. The vikingr captain smiled to himself and stepped forward, folding his arms and rubbing his chin and regarding Halldís with an air of careful consideration.

  "Your duty it may be," he said. "But this is my raid, and all here are under my command."

  She held his gaze, knowing she was indeed at his mercy, quietly fuming at the thought as she stepped from foot to foot. "You need me," she said. "I promised to show you the way."

  "I assumed you meant a map."

  "I am the map."

  Bjólf gestured to the small party of local men who had joined them. "I'm sure any of these gentlemen could do as good a job in their own land." One of the volunteers began to nod enthusiastically at this, then thought better of it as his mistress shot him a withering look.

  She stood for a moment, frowning like a truculent child, unable to counter his argument. But behind the angry defiance, he could see, was a look of desperation - one that fervently implored him to let her do this.

  "Give me one good reason why you should come," he said.
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br />   "Because my people are worthy of it. Because I have a score to settle with Skalla. Because I am at least equal to an old man or a boy!"

  Bjólf shrugged. "All good reasons," he said. "You are free to join us if you so choose." She looked triumphant, relieved. Her instinct was to throw her arms around Bjólf. This time, she restrained herself.

  "What?" protested Frodi. "I cannot allow it!"

  "You cannot prevent it!" she replied.

  "Then it is my duty to accompany you - to protect you. Nothing can induce me to stay."

  "Someone must stay, Frodi," she said, a note of pleading in her voice. "The people -"

  "Will carry on as they have always done, whether we are here or not," he interrupted. "Cooking, chopping wood, tending crops and cattle, they don't need us for that. They never have!" She looked momentarily outraged at the suggestion. He tempered his tone. "If we succeed, then their future will be saved. If we fail, and never return... why, all are doomed, and what difference then?"

  Halldís said nothing, casting her eyes down to the ground. It was clear to all that the debate would be resolved only one way. Having argued her own case with such passion, Halldís could hardly deny Frodi his place.

  Bjólf smiled at Gunnar. "The more, the merrier," he said.

  The big man did not look wholly impressed.

  "Thirty-seven," said Bjólf in his ear, reassuringly. "Almost back to full strength."

  Gunnar frowned and muttered to himself. "Some old men, a woman, and a boy..."

  And so the huge, moss-covered bolt was heaved from the gate, the thick tangle of vines and creepers hacked away. Slowly, falteringly the great gates were hauled apart; the siezed, swollen hinges resisting, the last of the creepers clinging to the damp, heavy wood.

  Their first sight was a dispiriting one.

  Against the right hand gate, as if its owner had expired where he stood whilst clawing to get in, was a human skeleton. The bones were wrapped and intertwined by twisting, grasping tendrils of ivy, which formed about them a weird, surrogate flesh. Who this once had been, and where they had come from, none could tell. Gunnar prodded at it with his axe. From a cavity in its skull a shiny brown centipede scuttled. "Well," he said with a sigh. "At least this one isn't still moving."

  Ahead of them, beyond the opening, stretched the long forgotten path, its edges blurred by a profusion of growth that had crept from the forest on either side: bracken, black hellebore, patches of spindly hemlock, and here and there the clustered red berries of cuckoo pints and the collapsed remains of gigantic foxgloves. Above, what had once been completely open to the air had now grown over, the branches meeting and forming a bridge across which the riotous vines had already begun to find their way, threatening to turn the trackway into a gloomy tunnel of branch, stem and leaf.

  Underfoot, along the mossy, rutted trackway itself, bindweed had cast a choking web, slowly strangling the few flowering plants that dared to poke their heads through it. Nonetheless, the way ahead was clear, and the obstacles few. The going on this part of the journey would be good. What it would be like when they finally had to plunge into the dark trees that loomed up on either side, they could not guess.

  As the warriors passed beyond the gates, Frodi turned back to his two anxious stewards. "Bar the gate firmly behind us," he said. Then, before turning away, added: "Hope for our return, but do not wait for it."

  With these gloomy words, the huge, bone-wreathed gates closed behind them with a dull thud, and the party began its long march to a distant and unknown fate.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  THE FORGOTTEN ROAD

  In spite of the forbidding presence that pressed in upon either side - or perhaps in defiance of it - the mood of the travellers was bouyant. The steady rhythm and sense of purpose, grim though it was, had lifted their spirits, and for much of the morning - walking two or three abreast, with Bjólf and Gunnar at their head - they set a brisk pace, encountering no other living creature, not a sound of movement other than the creaking and cracking of the great old trees. The only reminders of any kind of human presence were the small, grey way-stones that punctuated the route at regular intervals, half-hidden by the invading bracken. Halldís, who followed close behind with Frodi and Atli, paused to scrutinise each one as it appeared, noting the markings upon them - signs that meant nothing to Bjólf - often crouching to scrape off a coat of moss or lichen. One of these, she said, would indicate their point of departure from the path.

  All had agreed that the wisest course of action was to move as silently as possible through the trees. For much of the way, the only noises to be heard were their footfalls and the clink of mail and weapons - sounds that they knew would not carry far in the dead, baffled air of the forest. After a time - with the death-walkers, for the moment, all but forgotten - they began to relax into the journey, enjoying what simple pleasures were offered: the sharp, fresh smell of foliage as it was crushed underfoot and the dappled sunlight that filtered between the gently swaying branches. Now and then, someone would gently hum a tune in time with their step. They even began to allow themselves hushed conversations.

  "So," muttered Gunnar, leaning in towards Bjólf. "About this farm..."

  Bjólf looked at him quizzically.

  "The farm," repeated Gunnar insistently. "To retire to."

  "Ah," said Bjólf with a nod. "The farm."

  "I can see it in my mind's eye," said Gunnar, going off into a reverie. "Cattle and pigs. Good dark soil. Fresh green pasture. A clear stream running through it, coming down from a mountain. A big solid barn and a big solid woman at the farmhouse door."

  "It has a distinct appeal."

  "But where is it? That's the part that's frustrating me."

  Bjólf shrugged. "Denmark?"

  Gunnar wrinkled his nose and shook his head. "Full of Germans."

  "Norway then? Vestfold?"

  "I have a price on my head, remember?"

  Bjólf sighed at the memory. A costly night's drinking that turned out to be. He returned to the problem at hand. "Obviously not Sweden."

  "Obviously."

  "Iceland?"

  "Too far."

  "You're not making this easy for yourself."

  Gunnar gazed off into the distance. "I always fancied England. Good soil. Nice climate."

  "You and ten thousand other Norsemen. The English are more likely to welcome you with an open grave than open arms..."

  Gunnar sighed. Before he could speak again, Bjólf halted him with a hand upon his chest. Behind them, the rest of the party stopped short. Up ahead, some distance away, was a figure. Gunnar blinked hard; uncertain, at first, whether he was seeing right. But there was no doubting it. Standing in the middle of the path, staring at the ground where the ferns emerged from the left edge of the forest and turned slightly away from them, was what appeared to be a young woman; naked, pale, motionless but for a gentle swaying, as if she were just another of the trees being rocked by the wind.

  "Is she one of them?" whispered Gunnar.

  "If she is not," replied Bjólf, "she is a long way from home." He could not imagine what terrible circumstances - what madness - could have driven anyone here in such a state.

  Bjólf turned, and, signalling to Fjölvar, motioned him forward. "Have an arrow ready," he whispered. Fjölvar nodded, and took his bow from his back. Bjólf advanced towards her in slow, creeping steps, making his footfalls as light as possible, all the while trying to maintain a clear line between the girl and Fjölvar's bow.

  But for the slow swaying, she did not move as he approached. Her flesh, though pallid, appeared entirely unmarked; her long red hair hung loose down her back and over her face and breast, occasionally shifting as it was caught by the breeze. By Bjólf's reckoning she was little more than twenty summers old. He had by now convinced himself that she must indeed be the victim of some other tragedy, some other derangement of mind, and, being close, was about to speak out to her when, thanks to his own wandering attention, something s
napped beneath his foot. Her head whirled around.

  Now there was no doubt.

  Her red-rimmed eyes, once beautiful, were as cold and colourless as a fish, her blue-lipped mouth lolling open. Around her neck, he now saw, was the blue-black mark left by a rope. She lurched towards him, her lips curling back as if about to utter some inhuman cry, when Bjólf felt Fjölvar's arrow hiss past his cheek and her head jolted suddenly back. She stood motionless for a moment, the arrow in her eye pointed skyward, then crumpled awkwardly to the ground.

  It was a grim lesson to them all. The members of the party moved forward and, one by one, crept quietly past her body. Fjölvar averted his eyes as he passed, somehow more affected by this than any of the previous clashes. Halldís, too, shuddered as she looked upon her and felt the image burning into her memory. Though trying to resist the thought, she could not help but see herself in this wretched figure. Her in another life, with another fate. She did not want to believe that it was a fate that perhaps awaited her still.

  "Do you suppose she did that to herself?" mused Gunnar as they walked, gesturing to his neck. Bjólf said nothing, and focused his attention on the path ahead.

  After that weird encounter, all were greatly subdued - reminded of what lay ahead and wary of what still lurked nearby. It seemed the uncanny emptiness of the forest closer to the stockade - normally a source of unease, but today a cause for cheer - could no longer be relied upon. Twice afterwards they heard, from somewhere amongst the trees, the melancholy groan of some dead, wandering thing. They maintained their silence, and kept on moving.

  It was not long after that Bjólf noticed Halldís, crouching at one of the way-stones with their indecipherable runes, sigh deeply and give the forest beyond a lingering, apprehensive look. It was the look he had been waiting for. She stood and turned to him, but he already knew what was coming.