It began to utter another cry. Before it could complete it, as if unable to tolerate the sound, Gunnar stepped forward and smashed it down with two decisive blows.
For a moment, they stood in shocked silence. Then, slowly, as if by some instinct - as if in need of answers to the questions that now troubled them - they moved one by one into the last of the rooms: the large chamber opposite.
The cluttered interior was dominated by a number of broad, flat tables, some of which were darkly stained, others covered with strangely-shaped objects - tools of metal, containers of ceramic and glass, some broken. Rarely, if ever, had Bjólf seen such a wealth of glass in one place. Other detritus lay scattered about the floor, unidentifiable in the gloom.
Slowly they moved through this alien environment, trying to grasp its purpose - or perhaps, simply, trying to believe it. After all, there could be little doubt as to the cause of the dark stains on the great, slab-like tables. Ahead, the huge iron ball loomed. As they approached, the stench of the place - already unbearable - intensified. From its top, a kind of chimney extended up and through the roof. At its front, they now saw, was a thick iron door into its interior. Inside, traces of ash. And, Bjólf thought, bits of bone.
Atli stepped forward and peered into the large, trough-like container to one side of the great cauldron and started back in revulsion. It was filled with severed limbs in various states of decay.
Bjólf looked at Gunnar, his expression dark. "We should leave this place," he said.
"I agree," said Gunnar.
But as they turned to go, Halldís caught Bjólf's arm. "There's something in here," she whispered. They stood in silence, not daring to move, until they heard a movement, somewhere back near the door, in the shadows. They looked, but could see nothing. Again it came - a strange, scuttling sound. It was heavy. Large. Yet, in the shadows - less murky here than in the previous chamber - no figure could be detected.
Gunnar turned this way and that, trying to follow the sounds. "It must be an animal," he said.
"But there are no animals," said Bjólf.
Atli, hearing another scurrying movement, turned to his right, peering along a row of benches. There, appearing from around the corner of one of the tables, was a low, large shape. He tried to shout out as he looked upon it, but could not. Instead, he simply pointed, staggering backwards, a strangled, incoherent cry escaping his lips.
It was enough. Bjólf, Gunnar and Halldís were around him, blades raised in readiness as the thing crept into the light on its awkward limbs. Where they expected to encounter the face of some wild creature, they saw in its place another once-human visage, another lost soul.
It took all of them a few moments to comprehend what they were looking at. At first it seemed it must simply be an injured death-walker, crawling forward upon its hands. Then the ghastly truth became apparent. The thing had no legs - nothing, in fact, below its waist. But grafted to its torso, in the same crude manner as the two-headed monstrosity in the previous cell, and carrying it along like some grotesque, oversized insect, were two more pairs of human arms. Sensing living flesh, it suddenly gave a hideous cry and darted forward with a horrible scampering motion, its teeth bared. Bjólf and Gunnar set upon it without hesitation, smashing the thing with axe and sword until it was unrecognisable.
They did not linger in that place any longer. All four of them hurried back into the daylight, gasping for fresh air.
Halldís wiped at her brow, deathly pale. "Someone... did that to it..." she said, falteringly. "Some human hand..." But such horrors were beyond words.
Atli, his head spinning, wished only to put as much distance between that building and himself as possible. His legs wanted him to run. Instead, he stumbled away as far as he dared, towards the entrance of the great barn, trying to pull himself together, his stomach heaving.
As he returned to his senses he looked about him, peering the length of the huge building, with its rows of stalls on either side. He walked in, looking at the vacant cells as he passed, the freshening wind a welcome relief. They had seemed like they were intended for animals. That was what they all assumed. But were they? He did not know any more. It seemed the distinction between human and animal, once so clear, was suddenly foggy and obscure. This, then, was the masters' ultimate achievement: the annihilation of humanity.
He turned, realising he should get back to the warband. But as he did so, a dark shape - silhouetted in the open doorway at the far end and framed by the foliage beyond - caught his eye. It was familiar and unfamiliar; something he immediately recognised, but which felt entirely out of place.
A dog.
He turned back and squinted at it, trying to make out its features, wondering how on earth it could have survived all this. It staggered forward as if exhausted, its head low, then stopped. Perhaps there was hope after all. Perhaps there was life here, fighting back. As he watched, another, almost identical shape appeared, its movements similarly stiff and slow. He smiled to himself, debating whether he should go towards them, bring them back to show the others.
Then three more padded slowly into view.
Atli felt a chill run through him. He cursed his idiotic mistake.
Not dogs. Wolves.
He began to back away from them, suddenly struck by the terrible memory of the ravens at Ægir's Rock, not wishing to turn his back. But as he did so, one moved forward. The others did the same, their movements loping and awkward, and then all of them broke into a run. Before he turned, he just had time to see their red eyes, their matted fur, their gaping, ragged wounds, before hurtling headlong back towards the doorway. He could hear them now, pounding behind him, drawing closer, a low mournful moan coming from the throat of each one. Ahead, one of the double doors blew closed, slamming in the wind. Atli put on a last burst of speed, knowing that wolves would be faster, hoping that death had at least slowed them. With their yellow-toothed jaws snapping at his heels, he flew through the open doorway and onto the ground.
As he did so, a shield struck the leading wolf in the face, sending it backwards. The doors closed violently on the neck of the second, which struggled and howled, before a foot booted it back and slammed the doors shut. Atli looked up to see Bjólf towering over him, his shoulder against the doors, the creatures snarling and scratching in a frenzy on the other side.
"Don't wander off," Bjólf said, and shut the bolt. Then he turned to Fjölvar. "Go and close the other door," he said. "There's enough to think about without these prowling around." And away he walked.
Halldís, meanwhile, stood pensively at the edge of the second clearing, considering what now lay beyond. There were no more buildings, no more features of any kind, save the opening of a rough pit in the dry, gritty earth a little way ahead. Past that, the dirt gave way to grass and weeds, a narrow dock with a jetty, and a thin line of trees - the last barrier that stood between them and the fjord. Beyond, across the gently rippling water, sparkling in the sun, she could just make out the dark shape of the island. Gandhólm, island of the sorcerors. Island of Skalla, and of Skalla's masters. As she stood, her future before her, her past behind, she suddenly felt overwhelmed by a deep, all-encompassing sense of despair. Suddenly, she wished only for her tears to flow without end, for her throat to give unrestrained voice to all her for torment, for her legs to give way and the earth to swallow her up so she might sleep forever. She fought to dismiss it, telling herself it was merely horror at all the horrors she had seen. But it would not be so easily dismissed. For the first time, she found herself wondering whether she would ever see her home again, whether, after all this, things could ever go back to the way they had once been.
"We made it," said a voice beside her. It was Frodi.
"This is only the beginning," said Halldís, staring into the distance.
"We will make an end of it," said Bjólf, emerging from the knot of men with Gunnar at his side.
"One thing," muttered Gunnar, a deep frown upon his face. "Where are the death-walkers? Th
e normal ones? I thought this forest would be crawling with them."
"Perhaps even they cannot stand this place," said Bjólf. Deep down, however, the question was also troubling him. Standing next to Halldís, he turned to look upon her delicate face - and saw her frowning.
"What is it?"
"Do you hear something? A kind of rattling?"
Bjólf listened. "Atli found some pets in the barn," he said.
"No," said Halldís. "From over here." She walked across the clearing, Bjólf following close behind. As the wind changed, they heard a strange, ceaseless noise, like hard rain upon the deck. No, more like lots of hollow objects being knocked together. But it was impossible to place precisely. She veered towards the pit, and Bjólf followed. The sound grew louder. They drew up to the edge and peered down, Gunnar and the others closing up behind them.
At the bottom of the pit, deeper than the height of a man, a mass of human heads were piled up, covering its floor, their jaws still snapping, over and over, in a never-ending quest for flesh.
Halldís swayed. Bjólf steadied her, drew her back.
"Is there no end to this?" muttered Gunnar from the pit's edge.
"We will make an end," said Bjólf grimly.
Then, from the far edge of the clearing, Finn hissed a warning. A black boat was coming.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
HEIMDALL'S EYE
It headed directly for them; a long, thin-prowed rowing boat containing perhaps a dozen black-clad men.
"Can they have seen us?" said Njáll.
"If they'd seen us, they'd have sent a ship," said Gunnar.
There were hurried tactical conversations, and then the men rapidly dispersed amongst the trees and beyond the edges of the nearest buildings. Atli found himself crouched in the bracken with Fjölvar and four others at the far side of the clearing, near the jetty. Directly opposite, across the clearing, were Bjólf, Gunnar, Halldís, Frodi and Finn, with two other groups positioned further ahead. They had the advantage of surprise, but they had also seen the black crossbows glinting in the low sun. They would have to hit them hard and fast.
None knew for certain what kind of man they faced. They had seen little of them, save Skalla himself, and that example made them wary. Atli sensed the tension in those around him. He gripped his seax, staring at the earth, trying to keep his breathing slow to counteract his racing heart.
The last few moments of the boat's approach were excruciating. For what seemed like forever, they crouched, waiting, seeing and hearing nothing. Eventually, voices could be heard; the clunk of oars; the scrape of something heavy being heaved off the boat; a whine of complaint; low laughter. Atli could not get a clear view of the dock, without moving, but his ears told him that they had landed. A moment later, they walked into view - two in front, crossbows loaded and held before them. Five more followed, some with spears. Four more of the black-clad warriors carried a large, unwieldy sack between them, and two more crossbowmen brought up the rear. Only four of those deadly weapons in total. That was good.
Atli listened to them talk and joke quietly. All seemed cautious, nervous even, but their chatter showed they were trying not to appear so. They did not expect trouble. Atli counted thirteen in all. It appeared they had left their boat entirely unmanned. A fatal error.
Fjölvar pulled back his bow and drew a bead on one of the crossbowmen. Across the way, Finn would be doing the same. He did not even hear the arrow fly, just the dull thunk as it struck the lead man. Before any of them had a chance to react, the second crossbowman had been felled by Finn. The four with the sack looked around desperately, panic in their eyes, before finally gathering the presence of mind to drop it and draw their swords. One of the two remaining crossbowmen swung around suddenly, looking directly where Atli was hidden, but Fjölvar's second arrow cut him down as he raised his weapon. The other, unexpectedly, turned and ran for the boat, leaving his fellows in a turmoil of indecision behind him. He got three steps before Finn's arrow struck.
That was their signal.
The two groups closest to the dock, to the rear of the black guards, attacked first. Atli could not remember willing his legs to run, but somehow found himself hurtling out into the open with Fjölvar and the others. Opposite them, Bjólf's company charged from cover, striking with terrifying ferocity. The clash of battle surrounded Atli on all sides, the black guards huddling in a state of terror as the different groups closed in around them.
For a moment, Atli had no target. The others - faster, more decisive - had taken them all. He turned, and found himself face to face with a black guard who had managed to break away from the melÈe, sword in hand, eyes wide. Between this man and the boat, there was now only Atli. The boy froze. He knew he had to act, that no one would come to his rescue this time. But he felt his strength drain away, his limbs turn to blubber.
But then he saw something in the other man's face that changed everything. Fear. Paralyzed though he was, he had struck terror into this man. The realisation hit him like a lightning bolt. Atli was suddenly emboldened. In his mind, he knew he had already won. He felt his strength return. The man, in sudden panic, flailed his sword wildly and ineffectually, and Atli deflected it easily with his shield and struck. The seax's sharp point pierced the leather armour and slid between the man's ribs. Blood spilled in the dust. He choked, and fell. Atli stood over the body - stunned, but alive.
In moments, it was over. Not one crossbow bolt had been fired, not one sword blow or spear thrust successfully landed on the members of the warband. Without pity, without ceremony, they began picking over the bodies and hauling them into a heap. None showed any desire to investigate the large sack they had dropped.
"So much for the might of the black guards," said Gunnar contemptuously.
As they busied themselves, Bjólf stood at the limit of the trees, staring out, for the first time, at the fabled fortress and its island. The dark, lumpen shape sat squatly in the water, its outer edges rough and muddy and broken - crumbling cliffs of earth from which protruded great roots and twisted lengths of metal. At its western end, facing the fjord, was a crudely constructed harbour where the black ships and other, smaller craft sat. From there, paths wound through the muddy chaos to the weird structure of the fortress itself, obscured behind an elaborate stockade of thick logs, with ramparts and watchtowers, black-painted, like the ships. At its hidden heart, it was topped by a tower of unfathomable design, from the top of which spikes and spires stretched skyward. Surrounding the whole island, some distance out in the fjord, a row of great wooden stakes stood up from the surface of the water - a continuous barrier, punctuated only by two roughly-constructed turrets ouside the harbour.
There was something horrid about the scene - something utterly out of place. Bjólf recalled Halldís' tale about the island's creation. He knew it was impossible, but looking at it now, he could give the bizarre story more credence.
"One still kicking here!" called out Njáll suddenly. A man - his eyes wide with terror, his hands held defensively before his face, writhed and whimpered at his feet. "Not a mark on him. Must've just gone down when the fighting started, pretending to be dead."
"Bring him over," said Bjólf.
The guard looked up at Njáll, pleading over and over, his hands shaking. Njáll looked at the creature for a moment in utter contempt, and then grabbed him by the back of his belt, dragged him to a tree near the dock and tied him to it with a length of mooring rope from the boat. He shook his head disdainfully as he strode away.
Bjólf and Gunnar spent some time questioning their jittery captive. It had not taken much persuading to get him to talk - much to the disappointment of Finn, who had volunteered to help loosen his tongue. In fact, at times, the man had seemed embarrassingly eager, as if believing that he might somehow befriend them, and thereby secure his release. They happily encouraged him in his delusion.
From him, they had learned the times of the watches, the rough layout of the lower levels, and the importan
t fact that there were no more than fifty armed guards within the castle walls at any one time. But beyond this - more from the man himself than anything he had directly said - they had also formed a valuable impression of the fighting abilities of those men, and been encouraged by it.
There remained, however, the question of their equipment - which, in many respects, seemed greatly superior to their own. Among the objects taken from the crew of the boat were several objects that none among Bjólf's company could identify, chief among which was a solid black container on a shoulder strap, which, when opened, contained another, largely featureless black cylinder of unfathomable purpose and baffling design.
"What do you make of this?" said Gunnar, passing it to Bjólf.
Bjólf turned it around in his hands, felt its weight, pushed and pulled at one end, which was oddly tapered. To his great surprise, when he pulled, the thing extended - a slimmer black shaft slid out from inside the first, then a yet smaller one from inside that, until the object was nearly three times its original length, as long as a sword blade.
"Clever," said Bjólf, nodding. He held it by the slimmer end, swinging it lightly. "A weapon?"
"It's heavy enough," said Gunnar.
Bjólf frowned, shaking it more vigourously from side to side. "Hmm. But is it strong? I wouldn't put my faith in it in a fight." He turned. "Godwin?" He tossed it to the Englishman.
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