"This is the place," she whispered, then indicated a spot just along from the stone, no more than a vague thinning of the dense foliage. "There was a path here, but it will be difficult to follow. We must maintain a course south-east - or we will never find our way." Bjólf signalled to his men and peered into the dark interior, where no sun, no guiding light, seemed to penetrate.
Then he drew his sword and, slicing through the clinging, tangled vines, plunged into the dank, all-enveloping darkness.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
IN DARK TREES
At first the way ahead seemed impossible. Even in the cleft where the old path had once passed through, a thick profusion of thorny twigs and decaying brambles, piled almost shoulder-high, clung and clawed at them as they stumbled forward into the darkness, the sharp points scratching flesh, catching onto belts and scraping against metal. Their blades caught as they swung to hack it down, and when they struck at it, the thicket sprang back at them, raising a rank mildewy dust that stung their nostrils and made their eyes stream. Many donned their helms to protect their heads and eyes from the lash of the vicious, thorny briars that arched unseen and whipped about them as they moved.
Then, quite suddenly, the dense, woody thicket seemed to relent. The clinging knot of vines dwindled. The snarling, grasping thorns thinned. The way ahead cleared. Bjólf stumbled forward, unimpeded but almost blind, hand held out before him, his toes catching on exposed tree roots. With each step, unseen things crunched underfoot.
As they moved deeper in and their vision adjusted to the gloom, they found themselves in a strange netherworld. The impression was of having entered a vast, subterranean network of green-tinged caverns. From the huge trees - of immeasurable age - spread a floor of gnarled, contorted roots beneath their feet, and a twisted, vaulted canopy of living wood above their heads.
Here, it was too dark even to support the thorny guardians that lined the forest's edge - but, around the twisting roots, the collapsed skeletons of their ancesters littered the woodland floor, some still writhing along the ground with the semblance of life, others, far older, mouldered and decayed almost to dust. It was these brittle remains that snapped and crunched beneath their feet - but here and there, Bjólf could now see, there were also intertwined the whitened bones of small creatures - the tiny, jewel-like skeletons of shrews, the skulls and backbones of rats. Lying undisturbed where they had fallen, they attested to the utter deadness of this place.
There would be no fresh game eaten today.
When it had teemed with life, bears and wolves had been masters of this wood. Then, when some troubled instinct had driven them away, foxes and badgers had held sway - and, when they too withdrew, their prey had briefly flourished. Now, not even the smallest of furred or feathered creatures chose to make its nest here.
In their absence, other, tinier creatures had taken hold, the last inheritors of this doomed realm. Among the branches, their principal predator - now master of the forest - had built a vast and elaborate empire; everywhere about, between every bough and twig, were the webs of spiders, sticking to the warriors' faces as they advanced. They had grown huge and fat in their unchallenged domain, and swayed heavily at the centre of their silky, fly-dotted homes as the party pushed past, or scuttled off to the safety of the trees where the warriors' passing left them torn and wrecked.
Above them, where only the slightest chinks of clear light occasionally penetrated, the towering trunks of the trees swayed and twisted with the passing wind, their gnarled, interlocking boughs emitting eerie creaks and strange melancholy groans, as if speaking to one another in some long-forgotten language. What they spoke of were strong winds passing somewhere up above, yet beneath the canopy, the air was as still as a tomb; flat, heavy and lifeless.
Into it, charging the atmosphere with their rank odour, great yellow brackets of fungi projected, and vivid red toadstools dotted with white thrust up their poisonous heads in profusion - the only colours that disturbed the unremitting browns and blacks of this weird kingdom.
Bjólf could not tell for how long they silently picked their way through this oppressive underworld. Time seemed to stand still. Death-walkers, if they did penetrate this far, might wander forever and never see daylight - or else end up pinned amongst the thorny brambles of the forest's edge like one of the insects trapped in the great silvery skein of spiders' webs.
They did not stop to eat or rest in this forsaken place. Some of the party chewed on strips of dried meat as they went, each according to their hunger, none able to tell now whether the time for eating was due or had long since past. Even so, the going that day seemed painfully slow. For as long as they could, the party had kept to where the covering of forest floor appeared thinnest, believing this must be what remained of the old path. But after a time, even that subtle distinction utterly disappeared. Finally, Halldís stopped and looked about in confusion and panic, her sense of direction gone, the silent labyrinth of trees seeming to stretch out equally in every direction, offering no clue to their place on the earth. She suddenly was struck by the fear that they had wandered in circles, and would forever be hopelessly lost. In the gloom, Bjólf saw her agitation, and understood.
"Kjötvi!" he called. Kjötvi the Lucky limped forward, his expression, as ever, one of anxiety. "South-east," said Bjólf.
Kjötvi frowned and looked about, squinted up at the distant glimmers of light up above, then ahead. He gave a sniff, and made a casual gesture. "This way."
Bjólf smiled at the astonished Halldís, and all continued on, with Kjötvi now at their head.
The first sign that Kjötvi's instincts were correct came from an unexpected source. Fjölvar, who was now leading with Kjötvi, stopped suddenly and dropped to his knee. Up ahead, in the semi-darkness, a different shape - the shape of a man. It was big, this one, dressed in a fine red tunic, broadly belted at the waist. Like the woman on the path, it stood swaying, head bowed, apparently without purpose. Was this what the death-walkers did, wondered Bjólf, when they could not scent human flesh?
Gunnar stepped forward, hefting his axe. "Time I had a go," he said, and, without hesitation, without waiting for a reply, started his swift approach. With his axe raised above his shoulder, he accelerated towards his target, bounding forward, his feet picking deftly from root to root in steady rhythm. Bjólf smiled to himself. The big man could be surprisingly nimble when there was a need.
The death-walker had hardly raised its head before Gunnar's axe crashed down upon it, splitting its skull wide open. The figure reeled forward against a tree and slid to earth, leaving the glistening contents of its head splattered upon the trunk. As he approached, Bjólf saw Gunnar turn the figure over, frown at what he saw, then turn it back onto its face.
Gunnar said nothing as he rejoined the others, but, as they continued on their way, he sidled up to Bjólf and spoke to him in hushed tones.
"Something you should know. That one I just killed... I killed him before." Bjólf frowned at him. "A crewman of Grimmsson's. I drove my spear through his heart during the fight at the fjord."
"Are you certain?"
"The spear-point was sheared off in his chest. Still in him. I'd know it anywhere."
"Then we must be close."
"But if we're close, where are the rest of them?" said Gunnar.
Bjólf said nothing. Gunnar had not expected an answer. But he understood. For now, he would keep this to himself.
As they continued to advance, encounters with isolated draugr became more frequent. All were dispatched swiftly and ruthlessly; only one had managed to utter a sound before Úlf's mace smashed its head to oblivion, and if any of its fellows had heard its call, they were left far behind. Unsettling as this development was, most felt it a welcome diversion from the seemingly endless torpor of the dark forest, and they understood that it also meant their destination was near.
Another welcome change came over their surroundings as they trudged resolutely on. The trees became less dense, the
light stronger, the ground softer underfoot, cushioned now by a carpet of damp leaves. Quite suddenly, it seemed, they looked around and found the whole of the forest had changed about them; the thick, ancient boles of oak and ash had given way to tall, straight trunks of pine and golden-leaved beech, through which shimmering sunlight filtered. The air had changed, too; fresh, now, with the sharp, pleasing scent of the pine needles that they crushed underfoot as they passed. All around, the forest floor was speckled with tiny flowering plants. Spirits were raised, and their pace quickened as they strode out, confidence in their mission growing once more.
The warband moved differently now the landscape allowed it, with Finn and Eyvind up ahead scouting the path, and the rest in a close-knit group behind, keeping the scouts in sight. No death-walkers had been seen for some time, and the sun - which showed it to be late afternoon - was slanting low through the trees when a whistle went up from Finn. The men halted and dropped to their knees, but Bjólf saw Finn turn and wave him on. He stood, leading the party towards the spot where the two scouts now stood.
They were at the edge of a wide open space, their attention fixed on something ahead. As he approached, a great clearing opened up before him. Devoid of trees but dotted with old, rotted stumps and ragged patches of gorse, it was carved in two by the course of a small stream - barely more than a ditch - which cut a deep groove across the space from their far left to the distant right corner. What had caught Finn and Eyvind's attention, however, was what was standing in a bare, sandy patch of ground right in the middle of it, a little way back from the stream. Upright, motionless but for a familiar swaying motion, its back to them and its head on one side as if idly contemplating something upon the ground, was another death-walker, its stark shadow making a long, dark mark across the scrubby soil.
But this was unlike any of the creature they had seen so far. It was a surreal, unthinkable figure - from head to foot so utterly dark and featureless that it appeared as if merely some bizarre extension of the shadow it cast. At first, struggling to make sense of what he saw, he thought it might be a Moorish man, like the dark-skinned traders with whom he had dealt in the southern sea - perhaps a member of Grimmsson's crew. But that couldn't account for the impossibly pitch-black hue, the weird uniformity of it, nor the fact that the entire surface of its body seemed to be moving.
As Bjólf looked on, a strange feeling of disgust rising in him, the man's skin seemed to constantly shimmer and shift in the sunlight, as if it were bubbling.
"Gods," said Gunnar beside him. "What now?"
Eyvind took a step forward, his sword drawn, then paused to look back at Bjólf. Bjólf nodded his assent. "Stay sharp," he said. "Take no chances."
Eyvind moved slowly, silently towards the strange vision. As he drew close, the party saw him shudder, and stop. He looked back, an expression of hideous bemusement upon his face, then turned to the figure once again, his blade raised in readiness.
"Hey!' he called. The figure did not move. Eyvind called to them over his shoulder, a note of baffled incredulity in his voice. "You need to see this."
Bjólf motioned for the others to move up behind with him. "Stay together. Watch the trees," he whispered. As he approached close to where his scout stood, the explanation - the truth that Eyvind had found so indescribable - became horrifyingly clear. The entire surface of the man's body was covered in millions upon millions of black ants - crawling, moving, clinging to his body and to each other in such profusion that no hint of the man beneath - if man it were - could now be discerned.
"You ever seen anything like that before?" muttered Eyvind.
Bjólf could only gaze in horrified astonishment. He looked momentarily at Halldís, her hand held across her mouth in revulsion. When he turned back, Eyvind was reaching toward the figure, about to prod it with his sword point.
"No!" exclaimed Bjólf. But he was too late. A horde of the ants had immediately swarmed up the blade and onto Eyvind's hand. "Ouch!" he exclaimed, laughing nervously, swatting at them. "They bite!" But the laugh rapidly died away, became a cry of pain, as fresh blood ran where they had taken hold. Flecks of blood flew from his swatting fingertips, and the black mass that covered the death-walker suddenly surged outward from its feet, flowing across the sandy ground like a glossy liquid and up over Eyvind's legs. He screamed in horror as they swarmed into his clothes, over his face, into his hair, covering him in a manic, teeming, blood-hungry carpet of black.
As all the others stood powerless, paralysed by shock and confusion, one man stepped forward to help; Arngrimm, the volunteer from Björnheim who had so enthusiastically supported Bjólf at the gate. He reached out instinctively to Eyvind.
"Don't touch him!" shouted Bjólf. Though only moments had passed, Eyvind had already collapsed to his knees, his hands clasped helplessly to his head, his flesh being stripped from his bones before their eyes. Arngrimm stopped half way between Bjólf and Eyvind, looking from one to the other, suddenly realising his mistake. But before he could rectify it, the black swarm was on his boots, rising up his legs and working its way into every opening and crevice. He turned and tried to run, his face red, his eyes wide in panic. Bjólf and the others backed away rapidly, looking around for some means of escape from this new enemy.
"The stream!" called Atli. "Cross the stream!"
The boy led the way, his burden bumping against his back as he ran, and without hesitation the rest hurried after, hurling themselves across the narrow strip of flowing water and running for all they were worth. Arngrimm, struggling desperately to follow, stumbled, his legs giving way. As Bjólf looked back over his shoulder, he saw the black insect horde swarm over the old man, covering his eyes and flowing into his open mouth until his strangled cries were finally silenced.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
NIGHT GUESTS
For some time they ran, past the clearing and on into the scattering of tall pines beyond. They had just started to slow when Halldís finally called out for them to stop. She was supporting one of the old men from the village; he was sweating profusely, panting in hoarse, gasping breaths. It had been many years since he had been called upon to run while kitted out for combat.
"Rest!" called Bjólf.
The party halted; the old man slumped gratefully to the floor. Few of the rest seemed keen to do the same. Many of them poked about in the loose carpet of pine needles with their sword points, reluctant to sit upon it, or swiped at their clothes nervously and scratched at themselves. They could hardly be blamed. Every step, it seemed, brought some new terror, some undreamt-of threat. Atli sat on his baggage - which he was finally now able to drop - and looked up as Bjólf wandered over to him.
"Good thinking, little man," the captain said, clapping him on the shoulder.
Atli smiled at the acknowledgement. Then, after a moment of thought, he said: "So, when do I stop being 'little'?"
Bjólf looked back in surprise. Some of those within earshot laughed aloud. Atli held his gaze unflinchingly, and for the first time, perhaps, seemed not a boy, but a man.
A smile creased Bjólf's face. "Maybe today. Good thinking, Atli, son of Ivarr..." Then he pinched Atli's arm. "Though you could always do with a bit more muscle."
Gunnar laughed. "Atli the Strong!"
Some of the men chortled at the irony. It seemed to be the way these nicknames worked, either describing the one distinguishing attribute of the individual - Two-Axe, Long-Beard - or stating something that was the complete opposite of the truth - Kjötvi the Lucky, Atli the Strong. Atli didn't mind. He knew how it was meant. To give a name, even in jest, was their way of showing him respect - of showing he was one of them. He was happy to laugh along with his comrades.
It served another purpose, too. To help him put from his mind an image that he had carried with him from the clearing. As they ran, he had looked back. On the ground, collapsed just short of the stream, was Arngrimm - or, at least, the shape of Arngrimm, still writhing and twitching beneath the shifting, devouring sh
roud of black. Behind him, in a disordered heap, lay what remained of Eyvind. Now mostly abandoned by the insect horde, he had been reduced to a lifeless skeleton, the low sun that, moments before, had shone upon his smiling face now glancing through the gaps between his stripped bones. And then - somehow, the most horrific sight of all - there had been the lone death-walker. Now bereft of its covering of frantically milling legions of ants, the ghastly state of its flesh was now fully revealed. The skin had been entirely removed, and beneath the body had been bored and reamed by a million tiny mouths, leaving some parts barely covered, and others, that had not pleased them, almost untouched. The head was stripped of features - the nose eaten away, the ears gone, only dark, dry pits for eyes. Its teeth and ribs shone white in the sun, and along its limbs, exposed tendons were visible, stretched like wires. And yet - and it was this that made Atli shudder - it still stood, swaying gently, waiting for its now destroyed and useless senses to pick up the scent or sound of prey.
As they gathered themselves and continued through the towering pines, Gunnar again caught up with Bjólf, who was walking with Halldís ahead of the main group. She look pale and distraught at what she had witnessed. Although Gunnar and Bjólf and the others were no less appalled, they at least had developed their own ways, over the years, of dealing with such hideous events. Gunnar looked at Bjólf, uncertain whether to speak. Bjólf encouraged him with a nod.
"Have you ever seen ants attack the living like that?" said Gunnar.
"No," said Bjólf.
"Poor Eyvind..." Gunnar shook his head, then cast a glance at Halldís. "You might have warned us you had such pests in your forest."
Halldís shot him a fearsome look. "Do you really think I would have kept silent about such a thing? There are no such creatures... and we also lost a man, every bit as fine as your 'poor Eyvind'!" With that she stalked off ahead, leaving Gunnar irritated and bemused.
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