Viking Dead

by Toby Venables

  "Never seen anything like this," he said. "What is this material? Not metal." He tossed it to Fjölvar.

  "Not wood either," said Fjölvar turning it over. "Feels like bone." He tossed it to Úlf.

  Úlf scrutinised it closely, sliding the parts back into themselves. "Not bone. Not like any I've seen. But this is fine craftsmanship. Arab, maybe." He tossed it back to Bjólf.

  "Well, let's ask its owner." Bjólf turned to the tree, against which the guard still writhed fruitlessly in his bonds. He stopped as he saw Bjólf approach, a look of terror in his eyes. Bjólf presented the black object to him, holding it a finger-length from the man's quivering nose.

  "Speak," he said.

  The guard looked about him nervously, finally summoning the courage to speak. "We call it Heimdall's Eye," he said, his voice clipped and edgy. "It helps us see long distances."

  Gunnar guffawed. "Really? Well, I suppose more than a few weeks in this place would send anyone crazy."

  "It's true," said the guard pleadingly, his knees shaking. "I have no reason to lie."

  "You have every reason to lie," said Bjólf.

  "I - I cannot explain it..." stammered the guard. "I do not have the art. But I can show you..."

  Bjólf drew his seax, eliciting a whimper from the guard, who closed his eyes in panic. When he opened them again, his bonds were cut, and Bjólf was holding the heavy black rod towards him. The guard let out a shaky breath and, relieved at not having been killed, looked about him for a moment, and then bolted for the trees.

  Gunnar sighed and picked up the black crossbow. The bolt flew, striking the guard in the left shoulder as he was halfway across the clearing, the impact spinning him around. He began to fall forward, staggered, took a few more awkward steps, then picthed sideways and fell headlong into the yawning black mouth of the pit. The sound of snapping jaws suddenly increased in intensity, only momentarily drowned out by the guard's final, terrified screams.

  "Good shot," said Bjólf.

  "Hmm," Gunnar grunted irritably, frowning at the crossbow. "I was aiming for his head."

  "If this is the calibre of man we're up against, we've only to shout 'boo' at them," said Njáll. "I thought that one was going to piss his pants."

  "Well then..." said Bjólf, his eyes seeking out Atli among the men. "Son of Ivarr, you're the brains of this outfit. See what you can make of 'Heimdall's Eye'." And he tossed him the strange black object.

  For some time, Atli sat cross-legged, toying with the strange device, puzzling over its strange materials, its obscure purpose. There were markings on the slimmer end, which rotated, but after endless fiddling it seemed all he could make it do was extend and contract, just as the others had done. Could it perhaps be some sort of measuring device, he wondered? But that hardly seemed to fit with what the guard had said.

  He had just given up on it when his own frustration provided him with the answer. As he threw it down onto the gritty soil, a black disc popped off one end and rolled away from him. He grabbed at the loose piece in mortification, hoping no one had noticed, thinking he had broken the precious treasure, but when he looked more closely, he realised that the cupped disc was merely some sort of cover for the wider end of the rod, which was now revealed as having, set a little way back within it, a circle of thick, impossibly smooth glass, its surface curved like a cow's eye. Like an eye, thought Atli. Heimdall's Eye. To see long distances.

  At last, it was making some sense. He turned the object over hurriedly, tried the thinner end. A second, smaller cap popped off, revealing another glass disc beneath. As he held the object up now, extended its full length, he could see that it was somehow hollow, that light passed through it from one end to the other. He held it up to his eye - and got the greatest shock of his life. As clear as if they were within touching distance, he suddenly saw figures of black guards moving about before him. He jumped back, dropping the thing, and blinked ahead of him. The guards were gone. Or rather, they were there, through the trees, upon the island, but now so distant as to appear like ants upon an ant hill. He picked up the object, tentatively, and peered through it again. Immediately, the distant view was magically brought closer. For a moment he he feared that he might also appear closer to them, that they could see him. But he soon dismissed the notion as foolish. He was still sat here, upon the bank, behind the trees. But then, if they had other devices like this... He scrambled to his feet, and ran off to Bjólf with news of his discovery.

  "Heimdall's Eye..." said Bjólf, peering through the device as they crouched at the edge of the wood. "Well, it seems our captive was telling the truth after all. Now we know to stay well out of sight, and also that they may easily see us coming." He turned to Atli. "Good work, once again. You have earned your passage, son of Ivarr."

  "But what other marvels might they have?" wondered Gunnar, squinting past the trees towards the distant, grim island.

  "Whatever they may be," said Bjólf, "they'll be ours by sunrise."

  He scanned the uneven surface of the fortress - partly in deep shadow now, with the sun sinking low in the west - taking in its strange features, then switched his attention to the curious barrier that surrounded the island, far out in the water. He could now see that the two distinct structures on the barrier were watchtowers, and that they flanked a pair of crudely constructed gates. Clearly they could be opened from the towers to allow the black ships access to and from the fortress harbour. But what was it all for? "That endless row of stakes in the water," he said, passing Heimdall's Eye to Gunnar. "Tell me what you see."

  "Hmm," Gunnar grunted. "Defences of some kind. Wooden pilings, most likely weighed down with rocks. Looks like thick rope nets strung between them, holding the thing together."

  "But not strong enough to stop a ship, travelling at speed," said Bjólf.

  Gunnar looked at him through narrowed eyes. "Not stop... no, I wouldn't say so..."

  "How long do you think we have before those men are missed - enough for them to come looking?"

  Gunnar shrugged. "Hours, probably. But night is drawing in. No one is going to head out until daylight."

  Bjólf stood suddenly and looked at the boat that had brought the black guards, then back in the direction that the Fire-Raven lay. "We attack before dawn, in darkness," he said. "Soak the sail of the ship. As wet as you can make it. Gather dry firewood and pitch. And someone bring me some rope."

  "What's the plan?" said Gunnar.

  Bjólf looked out towards the monstrous grey-brown island in the middle of the fjord and the black castle that sat perched atop it like a dark, ugly crown. He thought for a moment of the unspeakable horrors that they had witnessed here, and of the dark power in the fortress that had perpetrated them.

  "We're going to arrange a funeral," he said.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  THE LAST BATTLE

  Trani stood hunched in the rickety lookout post, shivering in the cold night air. He hated this watch. It was always cold out over the water, but at night it really got into your bones. No amount of moving around, it seemed, could keep the chill out. Not that there was exactly much room for movement, and he wasn't sure the structure would take it even if there were. No matter how many times Skalla impressed upon them that it was one of the most important jobs on the island, it still felt like a punishment.

  He cursed Skalla's name under his breath, then began humming a tune his fellows had made up in honour of their leader. The words mostly focused on the fact that Skalla ate babies for breakfast and had no testicles. Trani sniggered to himself, trying to warm his hands on the flame of the torch. At least he had that. Trouble was, even if you stood up close your face ended up roasted on one side and still frozen on the other. Why could they not simply have put another bracket for the torch on the other side, so it was possible to swap it over every once in a while? As it was, the only way around the problem was to turn and face the island, which defeated the object of him being there. He could not allow himself to do it - though, in tr
uth, he was more afraid of Skalla finding out than of any potential intruder sneaking up behind. There had never been any intruder. Why would there be? No one would want to come here.

  True, there had been talk of a crew of vikingr being seen somewhere. That, supposedly, was the reason for having the watch extended through the night. But the word was they were all dead now. And even if they weren't, they would be soon. No one could survive out there without the masters' protection. He shivered at the thought.

  Never mind. The sun would be up soon and the boat back to relieve him. Then breakfast. He stared into the darkness. A weird mist had rolled in from the north over the past few hours, with the salt tang and the chill of the sea. Now great whisps of it were being whipped towards him on the wind like wraiths. As he looked, he thought for a moment he saw an orange glow somewhere out there in the impenetrable gloom. He wiped his eyes and yawned. He'd been out here too long.

  But no, there it was again. A dim light, directly ahead.

  He thought, at first, it must be a fire out on the promontory, where the fjord turned northwards. But surely it couldn't be. Who could possibly be out there? Something Reim had said when Trani had arrived to relieve him at the watch suddenly came back to him. "There's a boat due back," he'd said. "Keep an eye out for it." Trani had forgotten all about that. To be honest, he had assumed Reim must have been mistaken. But now...

  The glow was growing in intensity, seeming to flicker. A trick of the fog, thought Trani. He looked back to the island, then forward again. It couldn't be from the shore. It was too far out. For a moment he pictured that lost boat, still inexpicably out there, only now returning. He kept his eyes fixed on it, watching it get bigger. Without warning, the fog thickened and the glow disappeared completely. Maybe his mind really had been playing tricks. Ghost stories told by his fellows started to play on his mind - of strange lights that guarded tombs or hovered where treasure lay. In vain, he tried to banish them; he didn't want to think about that sort of thing. It was bad enough being out over this dark water, knowing what lurked below. Anyway, it was gone now. He kept staring at the spot ahead of him, where it had been, just to be sure. But there was nothing.

  With a shiver - not from the cold this time - he looked back to the island. "Come on," he muttered to himself, looking longingly for the relief boat. "I'm going to catch my death out here..." When he turned back, his eyes were met by a vision from Hel.

  Emerging from the swirling, wind-blown fog at terrifying speed, as if from nowhere, was the towering, spiked dragon-prow of a great death-ship - its grinning figurehead bearing down upon him, silhouetted against a blood-red sail, its whole length lit up by leaping, roaring flames. As Trani stared, open-mouthed, unable to comprehend the impossibility of the sight, the ship ploughed straight into the watchtower, sending it crashing into the dark, icy water with a horrible groaning and cracking of splintering wood, before forging on over it. The final shock - the final unthinkable revelation - was the sound that reached his ears in the moments before the heavy, barnacled hull crushed him down into the haunted, freezing black depths. It was the hoarse, otherworldly baying of wolves.

  The burning ship did not stop. The wind from the north pushed it on, its flames reddening the sky. The gates fell; the second tower collapsed, dragging with it a whole section of the barrier. One by one, all along its great length, the stakes began to topple. In the harbour itself, a cry went up, but the scurrying guards were utterly powerless to halt its inexorable advance. They could only watch in terror and disbelief as the great ship, flames now leaping the full height of the mast, smashed past the moored black ships, igniting their ropes and sails, rammed into the jetty, splintering it to kindling, and finally, carving the first decisive battle scar into the stronghold of the masters, drove its bows high up onto the island's wrecked shore. As it shuddered to a halt, those within sight - to their horror - saw leaping from its deck crazed, red-eyed, ravening wolves, their bodies aflame, their limbs convulsing, their hideous jaws snapping and tearing at anything that moved.

  From the rampart, Skalla watched as the beasts - half consumed by fire, their restraining ropes burned through - took his men apart. Flames leapt, lighting up the whole of the harbour. He did not know where the ship had come from, nor who was behind the attack, but it did not matter now. Somehow, he had always known this day would come. If the fire-ship was meant as a diversion from a main attack, then it had more than done its job. The barrier was in a state of collapse, and all knew only too well what that would mean. He must leave those outside to their fate. They would provide his diversion.

  He turned to the panic-stricken lackeys who cowered nearby. "Seal the main gate," he said. "Muster my personal guards. And prepare the berserkers."

  While the western shore had erupted into fiery chaos, upon the eastern side of the island, all was quiet. Guards stood at intervals upon the stockade, nervous for news of the assault upon the other side of the island, their numbers depleted by the emergency, until now, they barely had sight of each other in the early morning gloom. There was a hiss, and a muffled cry, and one fell out of view. Then another. A third black-clad figure jerked suddenly at the sound of a dull impact, choked, then toppled over the rampart. By the time the iron hooks were thrown over the edge of the stockade, there were no guards left alive to witness them. Moments later, a force of warriors - eighteen in number - stood battle-ready upon the rampart, helms, blades and armour glinting in the light of its torches. The time for vengeance had come.

  The bold strategy had unfolded exactly as planned. But it had not been without obstacles. Kjötvi, against all the odds, had showed no further ill effects from the raven attack (although he now sported an eye patch, fashioned for him by Úlf from a black guard's leather armour). But Folki had fallen without warning into a shivering sickness, his skin pale, a cold sweat upon his brow. Investigation revealed a bite upon his calf, from the night at Erling's farm. Whether Folki had known and chosen to keep it quiet, or had simply been unaware of the wound in the heat of battle, Bjólf did not know or care to ask. All were aware what it would mean. Folki had insisted on staying behind in the grove of death, knowing he was now a liability. Eybjörn, the last survivor of Frodi's men, had volunteered to stay with him. He had said he was too old to make the climb over the stockade wall, but Bjólf knew the real, unspoken, reason he was staying was so he could give Folki peace after he passed. What future it left for Eybjörn himself, none could say. Of all the deeds Bjólf had seen these past few days, this was perhaps the bravest.

  The black boat, packed to capacity, heavy with weapons and mail, sat low in the water. Once the Fire-Raven had been set on its course, aimed at the distant torches of the harbour, Úlf and Thorvald - the last men aboard - had dropped into the black boat with the others, and thrown a torch into the great pyre upon the ship's deck. With all enemy eyes on the fire ship, they had rowed in darkness to the far side of the island, cut through the rope netting of the barrier and slid the vessel between the stakes entirely unobserved.

  Now, from the ramparts, Bjólf surveyed the challenge that lay ahead. Inside the wooden stockade lay a wide open space, dotted with untidy huts and dwellings of all kinds. Here and there, an isolated figure hurried past, responding to the distant emergency. Beyond stood the formidable inner wall of the fortress. Blank and grey, constructed from the same blocks as the squat building upon the mainland, the square, featureless edifice loomed around the hidden heart of the castle, obscuring everything but the strange, spiky tower that sprang from within, its uppermost spire just beginning to catch the first rays of the sun as dawn broke over the distant mountains. This wall was a very different matter from the first; too high for their grappling hooks, with no guarantee of what lay on the other side. They would have to fight their way in.

  Slowly, cautiously, they worked their way around the parapet, keeping low, those with bows and crossbows keeping an eye out for any who might raise the alarm. With all attention focused on the disaster in the harbour, none below
even thought to look up. As they neared the western end of the island, the clamour of activity ahead intensified. Soon, the harbour itself was in view. Down beneath them, in the fortresses outer ward, Bjólf could now see black-clad men beetling about, barring the stockade's main gate - some hurrying back towards the western end of the grey edifice. There must be a second gate there; and from the way the men were moving, it must also be open. They had to move quickly.

  Bjólf gestured ahead to a wide stairway leading down to ground level. But before they could move, Fjölvar nudged him and pointed past the rampart to the glow of the harbour. At first, it seemed that Skalla's men had barred the gate while a large number of their own were still outside it - a curious fact, to be sure. Then he saw that most of those outside the gate were not black guards. Surrounding them - swamping them - was a host of ragged, grey figures, their appearance gaunt and cadaverous, their movements hideously familiar. Some of the guards were fighting, some fleeing desperately back towards the gates that now shut them out. Others had already been overwhelmed, their screams carried on the wind. And, as Bjólf watched, the ranks of the death-walkers were growing, a seemingly endless, swaying army of wet, beslimed figures emerging slowly from the water.

  At last, the significance of the barrier became clear.

  But there was no time to waste. The sun was rising. Soon, they would no longer be able to rely on darkness to hide them. Waving his warband on, Bjólf hurried down the gloomy staircase, where they mustered in a tight group between a stable and a forge, its hot smell filling their nostrils. A passing black guard - who carried with him an air of authority - stopped at the sight of them, and opened his mouth as if to issue an order. Then a frown crossed his brow. Before he could raise the alarm, Gunnar put a bolt through his neck.