Viking Dead

by Toby Venables

  The time had come. At Bjólf's signal, they surged forward silently, weapons raised, shields together.

  The guards they encountered had little idea what hit them. Almost immediately, the first three unfortunate enough to be in their path were struck down, before the warband turned the corner, heading for the inner gate, and smashed into the main group of guards, splitting them apart and sending them flying, faces and bodies bloodied. From the heart of the raiding party, those with bows and crossbows scanned the parapet, picking off their counterparts before any of them could ready their own weapons. Now and again a bolt would slam into a thickened shield - one glanced off Thorvald's helm - but once the archers' positions were revealed, Bjólf's bowmen were soon on them.

  As the guards panicked and dispersed, the warband split apart to take them down one by one. Resistance from the ill-prepared enemy was weak. Revenge was exacted upon them with ruthless and bloody efficiency.

  From the grey battlement Skalla looked down upon the slaughter coolly. Finally, his enemies had announced themselves. "Get more crossbowmen on them," he said. "And lower the inner gate."

  The guard hesitated. "But our men will be trapped out there, with the invaders. Shouldn't we...?"

  "Do it," snapped Skalla.

  He knew the outer gate would not hold the advancing host of death-walkers forever. Eventually, the wooden gates would give out and they would flood the outer ward. Well, let them have it. The inner gate was stronger. Once it was closed, neither the death-walkers nor the invaders would breach it. They would be trapped together. What would happen afterwards, with the undead pressing in on every side, he neither knew nor cared. Let the masters puzzle that one out. He wondered, vaguely, if they were watching from their sanctuary within, hatching plans of their own.

  "Regroup!" cried Bjólf.

  The warband drew back into a tight formation, the last of the uninjured guards fleeing, another limping desperately after them. All around, black figures lay crumpled, some still moving or crying out, others rent apart by terrible blows. Ahead of them now, with no obstacle in their way but the dead, was the open mouth of the inner gate. Beyond that, a walled courtyard, and within, just visible, a group of perhaps a dozen men facing them, weapons drawn and faces set. They did not move or flinch. Behind them, other figures were moving heavy objects into place. These men were of a different order from those they had thus far encountered, but there was to be no going back.

  As Bjólf watched, a heavy portcullis of iron began to descend over the mouth of the inner gate. He immediately began the charge forward. The moment he did so, a rain of crossbow bolts hit them from the battlements of the grey wall. Ingolf and Aki fell immediately. The rest were pinned down, crouched beneath shields.

  "Knock them out! Knock them out!" cried Bjólf, trying to spot the crossbowmen.

  But he knew what had to be done: they must press forward, whatever the cost. Without hesitation, he ordered the charge. Halfdan caught a bolt in the arm and fell as the rest surged forward. In moments, his body was shot through with bolts.

  But the tactic paid off. In a few steps they were almost up against the descending gate, too close for the crossbowmen to fire upon them. The black guards within began to move forward, while above them, they could hear the crossbowmen hastily repositioning themselves, their commander barking orders urgently. But it was the turn of Bjólf's crossbowmen and archers now. They fired into the courtyard, felling four men and scattering the rest out of their line of sight.

  The way was momentarily clear, but the portcullis was already barely at head height. Without stopping to think, Gunnar threw down his shield and shoved his shoulder beneath the great gate. Had he applied more consideration to the matter, he might have questioned whether he could hold such a huge weight of iron, but it was too late for that.

  "Some help here?" he called gruffly.

  Úlf and Odo added their great shoulders to his. Their bodies strained, their faces reddened - the gate slowed, but did not halt. Gunnar, the tallest, could feel his shoulder being crushed, his legs about to give way. "Can't hold it for long..." he said.

  "Cover me!" said Bjólf, and dived under the gate, shield held high. Fjölvar and Finn followed, their bows ready. The moment he was through, bolts thudded into his shield from above, but Bjólf was too fast. To the left of him, close by, stood two astonished men struggling at a great wheel, the thick shaft at its centre wound around with the great chain that raised and lowered the gate. He was on them so fast that one of the black guards' own crossbow bolts hit the nearest gatekeeper in the leg. Finn's and Fjölvar's arrows flew, and from the inner parapet of the courtyard, two crossbowmen fell. Others scurried out of the line of fire.

  Gunnar and the others were crushed to their knees now. Bjólf battered the remaining gatekeeper with his shield and hauled on the wheel with his whole weight. The gate stopped dead - but from the archways around the courtyard, members of the elite bodyguard now emerged from their defensive positions. Filippus and Arnulf, both armed with crossbows, squeezed under the gate and fired off two shots, taking one down and injuring another. Finn leaped forward and added his weight to the wheel. It turned. The gate rose. Gunnar, Úlf and Odo were freed, and the rest of the warband flooded in. Bjólf locked the winch, took up his shield, and drew his sword. All armed themselves, throwing down anything that was now a hindrance to combat: ropes, hooks, cloaks, food.

  There followed a savage eruption of hand-to-hand fighting as the two sides tore into each other. It was impossible, now, for the remaining crossbowmen to fire without risk of hitting their own men, and they abandoned their posts on the parapet to join the fray. Freed from threat, several of Bjólf's men discarded their shields in favour of their preferred method of fighting: an axe in each hand for Thorvald, a combination of axe and sword for Gunnar, and for Godwin, the familiar, single, long battle-axe.

  Fearless as they were, the inner guard of the black castle lacked the experience of the vikingr crew, their slave heritage soon becoming apparent. They fought hard, but wildly - angrily; Bjólf's men, seasoned by many a battle, kept cool heads and conserved their energy whenever they could, watching, waiting for the moment to strike. When they did, rarely did a blade fail to strike its mark. Four fell within moments of the first violent clash, each taken down by single blows. Godwin's axe swept in a wide arc, destroying anything that crossed its path. Gunnar and Thorvald looked unstoppable, striking fear into even the bravest of the black guards. Odo's heavy two-handed sword did not allow his opponents to even get close, cleaving through mail and leather as it struck. By contrast, the sword of Filippus - long, curved, and lighter than its Norse counterpart - flashed at ferocious speed, inflicting terrible wounds upon the unprepared enemy. Atli and Kjötvi followed close behind, finishing them off where they could.

  In the very centre, forcing their way forward, keeping steady pressure on the foe, Bjólf, Halldís and Frodi fought side by side, battering with their shields and hacking at those that challenged them. Blood and sweat flew. Teeth and bones cracked. The enemy's shields splintered; their black helms were cleaved in two. Within moments, it seemed, this hammerblow - which had left Bjólf's warband without a single serious injury - had reduced the defending army to a bloodied, disordered handful of men.

  Just as victory seemed assured, there came the blast of a horn, and the last few defenders suddenly retreated towards the far wall of the courtyard, leaving Bjólf and his fellow fighters standing. As the black guards fled, they revealed a single figure in the open space before the warband. He stood alone before them, without fear. Skalla, the horn still at his lips. At his waist, hanging from a cord across his shoulder, the lacquered container of white powder, and at his feet, seven huge, black boxes.

  For a moment, Bjólf and Skalla regarded each other in uneasy silence. Then, Skalla spoke.

  "Who are you?"

  "I am your death," said Bjólf.

  Skalla stared, then chuckled quietly to himself. "You and your men are admirable fighters,
to be sure. But am I permitted to know the reason for my death?"

  "You are not," said Bjólf. "Let your death be as meaningless as your life."

  Skalla glowered at him. "Why you?"

  Bjólf shrugged. "Because I can."

  "You think so? I do not."

  "Then I will!" cried out Halldís, pulling off her helm, her hair flying free. An expression of genuine shock crossed his face.

  "Now it becomes clearer." he said. "But still I have my doubts. You see, your will is weak. You could have killed me ten times over as we stood here, but you did not."

  "Your crossbowmen could have taken us down as we stood," countered Bjólf. "But they did not. Why? Because they do not act except under orders. They have no thought, no loyalty, no will. And you were distracted by your need to find reasons. By the vain belief that your life has meaning, even though whatever meaning it once had you have long since squandered. You are the weaker."

  Skalla did not smile this time. "I think you underestimate the seriousness of your situation," he said. His good eye flicked above the heads of the warband, past the portcullis to the distant outer gate. In the silence, Bjólf became suddenly aware of the distant groans of death-walkers - hundreds of them, risen from the depths of the fjord. The outer gate creaked as their decayed bodies pressed mindlessly against it. "Surely you know this was a suicide mission? The draugr are at the gates. Its timbers will not hold them."

  "What do I care?" said Bjólf. He pointed his sword at Skalla's heart. "We do not go back. We keep moving forward until we are stopped."

  Skalla shrugged, turned to the side, and drew a small flask from inside his hauberk.

  "Which brings me to the other reason for my skepticism..." And before they knew what was happening he had flung the clear liquid into two of the great, coffin-like boxes. "If this is to be Ragnarók, in which both sides are destroyed," he said, annointing another three in rapid succession, "then so be it." He tossed the fluid across the last two faces, then retreated hurriedly to a heavy wooden door at the far end of the courtyard.

  The first of the boxes twitched. Then the second. A thump came from the third. Involuntarily, Bjólf and his warband found themselves taking steps back.

  Skalla watched long enough to see the first grey, gruesomely sutured hand rise from its coffin, then disappeared through the door, slamming and locking it behind him. The remaining five guards - two with terrible injuries to their arms and face - realised suddenly that they, too, had been left to the mercy of the undead berserkers, and began to hammer desperately upon the now locked exit. Within moments, the first of the berserkers - Hammer-Fist, one of the ones they had seen destroy Grimmsson at Björnheim - was on its feet. It swivelled slowly, unsteadily, sniffing the air, attracted by the sounds of the guards, the smell of their blood. A second rose. Iron-Claw. As a third revived, clawing at the side of its box, a spiked ball and chain where its left forearm should be, the first two flew into a frenzied attack upon the guards. As Bjólf and the others watched, the two injured men were torn limb from limb as the rest scattered, the courtyard echoing to the horrible sounds. Blood splashed everywhere. From behind them, it seemed the hollow cries at the outer gate suddenly increased in volume. The gates bulged and groaned.

  "This will be a hard fight," said Bjólf. Five of the ghoulish creatures were on their feet now. "But they are not invincible. Bring them down. Go for the head."

  As he finished, one of the berserkers - Axe-Holder - fixed its red eyes upon Bjólf, and thundered towards him.

  Bjólf knew that panic would be their undoing. He stood firm, braced and ready. "Get ready to jump..." he muttered to his comrades.

  With the huge figure almost upon him, he dropped suddenly to the floor, behind his shield. The creature stumbled, began to topple, came crashing down like a great tree as the other warriors leapt back. Godwin surged forward again with a bloodthirsty cry, bringing his axe down full force upon the thing's neck. It jarred horribly, flying out of his hands, bouncing off hard metal. The full helm had saved the creature. They were suddenly - disastrously - reminded that these were no ordinary death-walkers. Behind these, buried somewhere deep within this ghastly place, were twisted minds.

  The creature tried to struggle to its feet, its mouth gnashing and wailing, its arms and axe flailing madly. Bjólf hacked at its leg with all his strength and it collapsed again. Atli, hardly thinking about the danger, leapt upon its back. It reared up, reaching blindly for him, and he grasped the edges of its battered helm, heaving at it, and was thrown to the floor. But the helm was still in his hands. Godwin, hefting his retrieved axe, his eyes burning with anger, swung again. This time, it did not fail him; Axe-Holder's head flew from its body. He shuddered and lay still, twice dead.

  Now, they had a strategy. Two more came at them, one with a length of chain swinging from its arm, the other with a trident in place of its right hand.

  "I'll take the one on the right," said Gunnar.

  Almost before he had uttered it, Fork-Hand was upon him. He dodged and swung around, catching it on the back of the legs with both axe and sword. It fell, but its weapon slashed Filippus in the throat as it went down. Filippus collapsed, gore pouring from him. The creature grasped at the bleeding body ravenously. Thorvald hacked off its arm with one of his axes, and the creature slumped to the ground, face down in Filippus's blood. A horrific slurping sound issued from the fallen creature. Úlf stepped onto its back, hooked the spike of his cavalry axe under the edge of its helm, and heaved it up as Gunnar brought his axe crashing down upon its neck.

  Meanwhile, Chain-Wrist had come lumbering towards the remaining warriors. With a cry of "Mine!" Arnulf jumped forward and dropped to the ground at its feet, emulating Bjólf's tactic. But the huge figure, defying expectation, came to a sudden stop, and before Arnulf could move, brought its fists crashing down upon him. There was a terrible cracking sound, and with a roar Arnulf's body - for he was dead immediately - was hoisted above its head, its hands literally tearing him in half as blood and gore cascaded over its open mouth. Halldís leapt forward, and with all the power she could muster thrust her sword point in the small of the creature's back. The blade went deep and the berserker crumpled from the waist down. With its arms and chains whipping ever more wildly and the shock of Arnulf's death still fresh in their minds, the others rained down blows upon its armoured head until its helm was beaten shapeless and all movement had ceased.

  There was a moment's respite. Across the courtyard, the remaining guards had managed to bring down Iron-Claw, but Hammer-Fist had smashed one of their number to a pulp and had the forearm of another between its teeth. The man half struggled, half dangled from its jaw, screaming in torment as his fellow guard scrabbled desperately at the door.

  The remaining two berserkers - Mace-Arm and Sword-Wielder - had turned their attention to the warband, and now came smashing into them. In the desperate struggle for survival that followed, with the warriors still reeling from previous assaults, strategies were momentarily forgotten. Sword-Wielder ploughed into a knot of men, sending bodies flying as it struck. By some miracle, all avoided its notched, rusty sword blade, but before any could act, it had grabbed Thorvald and sunk its teeth into his shoulder. He gave a great cry, but did not fall. Others leapt upon the creature, hacking and stabbing at it, but to no avail. Thorvald staggered backwards, taking the creature with him, its teeth clamped around his collarbone, crashing against the wall. Njáll and Finn chopped the creature's legs from under it, bringing it crashing to the ground with Thorvald on top, its sword blade sweeping past the dodging feet of his desperate defenders, its free hand clawing at the flesh of Thorvald's flank, ripping out a great chunk. Somehow, even in his agony, Thorvald managed to draw his seax from his belt. He forced it between his chest and the neck of the berserker, gripped the end of the blade with his other hand, and with all his strength drove the edge of the blade forward against the creature's throat, sawing from side to side. Putrid, oily ichor flowed from the wound, and the creatur
e slumped, inert. The grip was relinquished. Thorvald rolled onto his back, blood pouring from his shoulder and side.

  Mace-Arm's assault, meanwhile, had been no less devastating. With the spiked ball-and-chain swinging, it had charged at Odo, who had tried to defend himself with his sword. The chain had wrapped around the blade, the barbed head just clearing his face, but Mace-Arm had then pulled back its arm violently, yanking Odo's sword from his grip and sending it spinning off into the far wall with a ringing of metal. It swung wildly again as swords and axes struck at it, its second pass smashing Odo across the jaw, sending blood splashing across the three men flanking him. He fell, the side of his face a mass of wrecked flesh and bone. Surrounded on all sides now, it swung around in circles, undecided where to strike, keeping all at bay as the deadly spiked weapon hummed through the air in front of their faces.

  Their only hope was to disarm it.

  Bjólf stepped forward, then, thrusting his shield into its path. The ball struck, the impact almost knocking him off his feet, but the strengthened wood of the shield held, the spikes embedded firmly in its boards. He hauled on the chain, trying to drag the creature off balance. Instead, it lunged for him. He side-stepped, hauling on the chain again, spinning it around, and the shield came loose, its boards split, but Bjólf wound the chain around his forearm, gripping it with both hands, still dragging the creature in a circle as it tried to launch itself awkwardly towards him. He spun it around again and again, pulling with all his strength on the chain, hoping to fling the creature off its feet.

  Then, something unexpected happened. Bjólf saw, at the creature's shoulder where there was a crude row of stitching, that the flesh was starting to pull apart. The stitches stretched, snapped, unravelled; the wound widened, and with a great ripping and popping of joints, the creature's body and arm separated, sending it staggering awkwardly towards the gate. It stumbled over a crumpled body and crashed to the ground. The other warriors were upon it immediately, exacting revenge for Odo, for all the losses they had suffered. Its helm was ripped off, its head destroyed.