"They had feasted upon the flesh of a death-walker," said Bjólf, "and so had become of its kind. That is why they so hungered for human flesh."
Gunnar took a moment to absorb the implications.
"It is spreading to the beasts, Gunnar. We must be more vigilant than ever - and thank our luck that no larger creatures remain here."
Gunnar fell into silent, gloomy reflection as they trudged on their way.
As they went, Bjólf began to notice decaying stumps where trees had once been felled, and even occasional indications of well-worn paths. There were signs of habitation here, though how recent, he could not tell.
They did not have to wait long. Quite suddenly, the way before them opened into a broad, grassy glade, its earthy colours glowing in the low, early evening sun. Worn trackways led through it, and at its heart, casting a long, deep shadow, stood a small, solid farmhouse built of pine logs and, opposite, a great old barn. An abandoned cart stood to one side. It was an uncanny feeling, happening upon signs of such ordinary life in the middle of so forbidding a forest; a haven of normality in the midst of a nightmare. Bjólf hoped it was yet another sign that they were near their goal.
Clearly there was no life here now. No smoke rose from the house. There was neither sight nor sound of any animal. Tall weeds grew through the wheels of the cart, and the hay in the exposed loft of the barn was honeycombed with long-deserted rat-runs. Nevertheless, Bjólf felt comforted by the familiarity of the scene.
When he looked at Halldís, however, her expression was downcast.
"What is it?"
She frowned, digging deep into her memories. "I know this place - from my childhood. It is Erling's farm."
"A fiercely independent old man," added Frodi. "He built all this himself. How, I cannot imagine."
Bjólf smiled and looked around. "Erling. That was my father's name."
Halldís sighed. "We are further south than intended."
"Can we not correct our course?"
"Easily. But it means our progress has also been slower than I thought."
Bjólf shaded his eye with his hand and peered towards the sun, already dipping below the tops of the trees. "How far is it? Will we make it before dark?"
Halldís shook her head, gloomily. Bjólf thought to himself, and looked about, then turned back to them, his mood remaining resolutely buoyant. "Then fate has favoured our party, blessing us with a roof under which to spend the night."
"I thought you did not believe in fate," said Halldís.
Bjólf gave her a broad grin. "When it turns my way, I don't fight it."
Before the light had faded, Bjólf and his men had set about clearing and securing house and barn for the night. Both had seen better days, but to the weary travellers, they were luxurious.
The only argument had been over who took the house, and who took the barn. Those in the house would have the additional comfort of a fire - something they could not have risked in the open air - but the dwelling could accommodate no more than a dozen at most. Bjólf had insisted that Halldís and her people lodge there, and that they at least be joined by Atli, Kjötvi, Gunnar and Godwin - the former two because they had served them well that day (and, Bjölf knew, were less robust than the rest); the latter because they would provide good protection for the others. Bjólf himself would join the men in the barn.
And here the argument began. Led by Njáll and stoked by Fjölvar, the men, fighting back mischievous smiles, started to suggest that Bjólf's place was in the house, that he had things to look after there, that the house offered the warmth he needed. Bjólf, refusing to get drawn in, mortified at such comments in front of their noble host, attempted to steer the conversation back to the matter in hand. But the men, seeing him on the run, would have none of it - surely he would be needed to stoke the fire during the night, they asked?
Halldís was not slow to pick up on the innuendo. She feigned haughty offence before him, but, seeing Bjólf's embarrassment, was soon sniggering along at his expense. When he finally realised that she was colluding in the joke, he caved in and accepted his lot, to a cheer from the crew. Afterwards, much to her further amusement, several said a polite "good night" to Halldís - one or two even apologising with rather touching sincerity for their crude behaviour. She thanked them, keeping as straight a face as possible.
Huddled around the glowing hearth, leaning against the thick pillars, they talked and ate their simple rations and laughed into the night - their trials, for the moment, forgotten. One by one, as the food and the warmth of the fire worked upon them, they succumbed to sleep, until finally Bjólf realised he was the last awake. Gently drawing a thick sheepskin more snugly around the slumbering Halldís, he gazed upon her features for a moment before settling himself down for the night. As he drifted off, the last thing of which he was aware was the voice of Úlf, raised in gentle song, wafting from the barn.
Bjólf awoke to a sudden crash.
Leaping up, bleary-eyed, he whirled around, his sword already in his hand. The interior of the house was still in darkness, but for the fire's dim glow, but he could just make out Gunnar's shape at the window. The shutter was flung wide open, and, slumped through it, Gunnar's axe still in its head, was the figure of a man, his long, neat braids of hair hanging like thin ropes. Even in this gloom, Bjólf could recognise the grey, lifeless flesh of a death-walker.
"It's all right," whispered Gunnar as the others stirred. "I think it's just a stray one." He went to heave his axe from its bony cleft, but as he pulled, instead of the blade springing free, the whole head came away from its body. Gunnar stood for a moment, a blackly comical figure, staring quizzically at the head still stuck upon his axe. "I just need to deal with this," he said, and made for the door.
He had just swung the door open, and was standing with his foot upon his late victim's face, working the axe free, when a look towards the barn made him stop dead.
"Gods..."
"What is it?" whispered Bjólf, stepping up beside him. But now he could see for himself.
Filling the open space between the house and the barn was a numberless multitude of pale, ungainly figures - some mindlessly jostling each other as they crowded into the courtyard, others, in one and twos, still staggering out from the trees to join the tottering throng. Most had been men, well-dressed and powerfully built: Grimmsson's crew. Some were dragging broken or twisted limbs, listing awkwardly to one side or showing other strange contortions that spoke of terrible wounds to their bodies. Others, with no apparent mark upon them, shuffled forward like sleepwalkers. But all were relentlessly focused on the same goal - the place to which all their faces were turned, all their bodies pushed, and all their paths led: the open door of the barn.
A knot of them crushed clumsily in at the doorway, others pressing in behind. Many had evidently already made it inside. From within there were sounds of struggle. A crash. Urgent shouting. Then a scream. The sounds elicited a chorus of moans from the lifeless multitude. Some reached out. Others that had been wandering with little sense of direction now picked up their pace, and started to stagger directly for the source of the pain, the source of food. As they watched, a death-walker flew suddenly backwards out of the barn, an arrow in its neck, bowling several others over. More surged forward to take their place, their sluggish frenzy growing, their bodies funnelling doggedly, unrelentingly into the barn's dark interior, until it seemed the place would burst at the seams.
"Well, now we know what became of Grimmsson's crew." muttered Gunnar.
"We must do something," said Bjólf, the desperate plight of the two dozen trapped men ringing in the night air.
"But what?" said Gunnar in despair. "We cannot fell them all!"
Bjólf turned back into the house and began flinging things about wildly, Halldís, Atli and the others shrinking back from him in alarm. Finally he turned to Gunnar, having found what he sought: three torches, their tops soaked in pitch. "You remember how Ingjald the Ill-Ruler treated the Swedish king
s who feasted in his hall?"
Gunnar nodded.
"Find your way around the back and get our men out any way you can," said Bjólf, placing his helm on his head. "Take Godwin, Atli and Kjötvi with you. I'll take care of the rest."
Gunnar and the others hastily threw their gear about them and broke from the door, heading off into the darkness far to the right. Bjólf, taking one of the torches, thrust it into the fire until the flames took hold, then stood poised at the door, sword in one hand, torch in the other.
"What of us?" said Halldís.
He turned to her, the torchlight illuminating his face, glinting off the metal. "Stay here with Frodi and his men, and make no sound. You will see soon enough whether I have succeeded."
And with his flame roaring in the wind, he was gone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
INGJALD'S STRATAGEM
As he ran, his bag weighing heavily upon his back, Atli's mind flashed back to the terrible night before the stockade. But this time was different. This time, fear was no longer his enemy. Moving in a wide arc, they passed swiftly and silently behind the last of the death-walkers, that flocked mindlessly towards the sound and scent of death. Now and again a straggler appeared before them, emerging from the trees, slowed in its progress by some grievous, ugly wound. The axes of Godwin and Gunnar dealt with them.
Soon, they stood at the rear of the towering barn. Within, an arm's length away on the other side of the wooden wall, they could hear the cries of their fellows, the scrape and scratch as they fought for their lives.
Gunnar did not hesitate. "Watch our backs," he said to Atli and Kjötvi, and he and Godwin immediately set about the barn's thick planks with their axes.
Splinters flew. Inside, men heard the blows, and shouts went up. A section of plank flew free. Gunnar stopped his axe short just in time to avoid slicing through the arm that sprang though the gap.
"Stand back!" he bellowed, his cry echoed by the muffled, desperate voices inside.
They set about the planks once more as the limb was hastily withdrawn, chopping through the wall, chunks of wood flying, pulling off another length, then the piece above it, until there was a rough opening half as big as a man.
Njáll appeared through the gap, red-faced and sweating. "Took your bloody time!" he said, and dived out onto the ground.
More followed. One by one they were hauled out of that death-trap, then, as the hole was broken wider, they came bowling and wriggling out two at a time, the cries and groans of the death-walkers growing all the while, the walls creaking and shaking from the pressure of the undead host within.
All could see a moment of crisis was approaching. "Fetch the cart!" called Gunnar. Atli, Kjötvi and several of their rescued shipmates ran to the old wagon and heaved it around the corner. "When I give the word, push it against the opening."
"There's people still alive in there!" said Njáll, smashing a ghoul with his mace as it appeared suddenly in the gap, moments after Halfdan had flung himself through. Death-walkers were pressing at the ragged hole now, plugging it with their own unwieldy bodies, their arms flailing and grasping, Godwin barely holding them at bay with a broken plank. "Whenever you're ready..." he called out. The surrounding walls bulged and groaned under the pressure, threatening to give way.
"We cannot wait," said Gunnar, then muttered under his breath, "May their spirits forgive me..." At his command they rolled the cart hard against the barn, and the last means of escape was blocked for good.
Bjólf, meanwhile, had been attending to the more daring part of the plan.
As he had stood in the doorway of the farmhouse, it had been clear that stealth alone could not help him. Fire was his greatest weapon, but it also ensured that his approach could not be hidden. His attack would require speed. As he watched, death-walkers were still cramming themselves into the barn, as if desperate to fulfil their part of his plan. But at least twenty more stood between him and the barn door, scattered across his path. There would be nothing for it but to run the gauntlet of the creatures, forcing his way past them before they had time to respond.
He squinted into the darkness, trying to read the features of the barn door itself, then scanned the open hay loft high above. He had to time it exactly right. The attempt could not be allowed to fail; there would be only one chance.
Suddenly, the moment of decision was taken from his hands. When he lowered his eyes, they met the face of a straggling death-walker turning directly towards him, its attention caught by his flame. It let out a weird, urgent moan, and others turned at its cry, joining it. It was now or never. He spoke his parting words to Halldís, then charged, his torch flaming behind him.
There was no time for finesse. Head low, shoulder forward, he slammed into the first walker, his helm smashing into its teeth, sending it flying. More turned at the sound of the impact. He swung his sword around, catching the second across the side of its neck, sending its head off at an impossible angle - a killing blow. It dropped like a stone, but directly towards him, its full weight catching his legs as it fell, sending him sprawling. The torch spun out of his grip, landing at the feet of another figure; a great bearded lump of a man in a studded leather jerkin. The creature stared at it blankly, then resumed its course towards the meat, oblivious to the flames now licking up its leg. Others, closing in around him, trampled the torch, stamping it out, and Bjólf's hopes were extinguished with it.
He scrambled for his sword, grabbed it by the grip, but something gripped his ankle - the first one he had struck, but failed to finish. He kicked out at it, as the bearded, burning figure lumbered towards him from the other direction, its flesh crackling as the flames now engulfed its body. If he could only regain the torch, relight it from the death-walker's flames... as he pulled, struggling to rise, a death-walker still on his leg and the hulking inferno almost upon him, another grim-faced ghoul - its leg horribly twisted below the knee - suddenly loomed over him, one putrid hand grasping his shoulder strap, the other clawing at his face.
Then, when it seemed all was lost, the thing jerked inexplicably, its head toppling from its body. The collapsing death-walker revealed a figure behind it - torch in one hand, gore-stained blade in the other, mail shimmering in the flame's light. Halldís. Before Bjólf could respond, there was another crunching impact. The grip on his ankle was relinquished - then a rough hand reached down and hauled him to his feet, and Bjólf found himself face to face with Frodi. The old man turned suddenly, delivering a shattering blow to the burning ghoul, sending him tottering away and crashing into two more. He grinned at Bjólf, the light of his own torch flickering upon his face. "An intelligent man may moderate what fate brings, if he is prepared to seek the help of friends..." And with that he turned again and cracked another of the creeping death-walkers across the temple.
Bjólf looked about him. Alongside Halldís and Frodi stood their three volunteer companions, a youthful zeal rekindled in their eyes, all with swords drawn and ready. Halldís stepped over the twitching bodies towards Bjólf. "We know of Ingjald, even in Björnheim," she said, and thrust her torch into his hand.
Together they turned, the fighters from Björnheim forming a flank on either side of the torch-bearer, forcing their way forward through the staggering draugr. The fighting was fierce; Frodi was in his element, joyful at tasting battle again. Halldís, her expression set and grim, struck out with no less vigour, never hesitating, her sword blade biting with ruthless precision. With the way ahead clear, two of the men ran forward, slamming the great barn door shut, putting their shoulders against it as they jammed the bolt into place. Bjólf stepped forward, took aim, and hurled the torch high into the hay loft.
All stepped back, keeping in a tight defensive circle - waiting, hoping, for the fire to take hold. Bjólf took the second torch from Frodi, in case it should be needed. For an agonising moment it seemed the flame had died, but as they watched, the glow in the loft began to grow and spread.
"I pray to the gods that Gunnar has
done his job," said Frodi, one eye on the barn, the other on the dim figures that still lurked about them in the gloom.
"Trust Gunnar," said Bjólf.
The flames caught rapidly, leaping out of the loft and up to the gables, swiftly spreading the length of the barn.
Bjólf turned from the fire. "More death-walkers will come. We must make for the forest. Find the others there."
Frodi nodded, and he and his men started for the far side of the clearing. Bjólf flung the torch at the last of the approaching ghouls, sending one tottering backwards, and turned to face Halldís.
"I thought I told you to stay put," he said.
"I make a point of questioning everything I'm told to do," she replied.
Bjólf grinned, his eyes glinting in the growing light of the fire, and, grasping her hand, ran with her towards the trees.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
ÆGIR'S ROCK
The moment they had seen the flames take hold, Gunnar and the main party of men had plunged into the dark forest, the great roar of the blaze and the last unearthly, hollow moans of its victims echoing after them. Finding the farm had been a strange twist of fortune - one that had allowed them to destroy a whole host of the creatures at a stroke. Yet Gunnar knew that among those horrible sounds carried on the night air were the final cries of men they had failed to save. Having to leave before daylight had been a wrench, but all knew they were safer in the trees; the blaze, now visible from all around, would only draw more of the flesh-hungry fiends, and in the forest they could at least hear them coming.
What proved far harder was holding the party together in the chaotic gloom that reigned there. Gunnar's party had entered first, through a parting in the forest's edge - perhaps once an old path. Soon after came Frodi and his men, followed, some way along, by Bjólf and Halldís. But their hopes of mustering once in the forest were soon dashed. Just a short way into the trees, the woodland once again began to thicken, the boles and roots become more massive, the tangle of foliage more impenetrable. Some blundered into death-walkers and became separated from the rest. Unable to rely on fire, they soon found themselves staggering in an inky blackness with only their ears to guide them, uncertain what might lay behind the footfalls close by, unwilling to call out for fear of attracting the attentions of the wandering dead.
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