by Roger Elwood
“Now!” Gorm yelled as he jumped out ahead of the others. What followed was a mad rush by the thirty men, shouting and screeching at the tops of their voices. Asleik charged with them. A charge to what?
All he could see ahead was the faint outline of a typical skaalen. One small glimmer of light came through the open main door as from a hearth.
Screaming like wild beasts, Gorm and his band of Vikings reached the building and burst through the open doorway.
At the far end of the hall stood five people—an old man, an old woman, a young girl, and two house carls hardly more than boys. They were staring dumbfounded at the invaders, clearly stunned by what was happening.
Then the two house boys leaped to the wall and pulled down a pair of ancient swords. The old man pushed at the woman and girl to go out the rear door. The old woman stumbled and fell, but the girl slipped out of sight.
Gorm raised his own sword and plunged toward the group. In spite of the odds against them, the three males stood and tried to defend themselves.
With a kind of crazed madness, Gorm’s men hacked and slashed at the old man and the two boys. Within seconds the three were cut down in a bloody heap. Even after they were dead, their bodies were chewed up savagely by the swords of Gorm’s men, like the scraps of flesh and bones of a deer run down by a pack of wolves.
A pack of wolves! That’s what these men were, Asleik realized. He had heard that berserks could not stop once they started a fight. But this was no fight between warriors.
“After the women!” Gorm cried.
At the rear entrance they found the cowering old woman. One of the men ran his blade into her back. The others jumped over her, taking whacks at her body as they rushed outside.
Sick at the bloody sight, Asleik started to follow them slowly. Only Gorm remained. He motioned for the lad to stay.
“While those fools are out chasing the girl, let us look for the silver chest. I know it’s here somewhere. Take up that iron spit from the hearth and pry up anything that looks as if it could hide a chest.”
In a half daze, Asleik went around the edge of the hall, poking into store bins and under benches.
“Go on outside,” Gorm ordered. “I’ll keep on looking in here. Somewhere there is a chest of silver collected from the thanes in the north to help King Haakon fight the Danes.”
Asleik froze in his tracks, staring back at Gorm, not able to understand what the other had said.
“It’s nothing to worry about, Asleik Audmundsson. We can use the money ourselves and fight the Danes in our own way. Go on outside. I’ll keep looking here.”
Asleik stumbled out of the hall. What right had he to object to what had happened? Hadn’t he taken the step to becoming a berserk? His father had warned him. There -was no room for conscience or fine feelings now. This was the Viking way, Odin’s way. He would have to learn how to accept it.
Outside, he saw a sventbur, a sleeping shed apart from the main hall. The other men seemed to be avoiding it. He peered in.
What stopped him in his tracks was sight of Torvald Torvaldsson standing over the huddled figure of the girl that had fled the hall earlier. The girl was naked, her tom garments in a heap next to her.
Asleik had often seen women’s naked bodies—but always in a steamy, crowded, noisy bathhouse where nothing was personal. This was different.
The girl lay on her back with her knees drawn together and her hands crossed over her breasts. Her long, corn-yellow hair lay fanlike around her head. Even with her terror-stricken eyes looking up at Torval, she had an eerie beauty that made Asleik yearn to save her.
Slowly, grinning all the while, Torvald pulled down his breeches and lowered himself atop the girl. First he took her knees between his powerful hands and jerked them apart roughly.
Asleik could see below her belly the patch of blond hair covering the entrance to her body that Torvald was pushing himself to gain. She screamed as he drove down between her thrashing legs. Twisting and turning she tried to fight him off, clawing at his face.
With an oath, Torvald slapped her hard on the side of the head.
At this moment he noticed Asleik in the doorway. He grinned. There was a look of stupid brutality in the smile.
“That is how to handle a woman,” he laughed. “They like it. This one will like it before I am through with her and give her to the others.”
As Asleik turned away he could see she was still struggling. This was rape, he knew. But rape, too, was the berserker’s way. If he were to be a berserk, it would have to become his way.
After searching vainly for several minutes on the outside of the skaalen, Asleik almost against his will found himself headed back to the sventbur where he had left Torvald and the girl.
The big Viking was standing over her, his face livid with rage. The girl lay bleeding at his feet, curled up in a tight ball to protect herself against the blows she knew were to come.
When Torvald turned at his entrance, Asleik saw what was the trouble. The Viking’s manhood hung limp and dangling.
“By Odin, the bitch fought hard,” he swore. He glanced down at himself and shook his head in disgust.
“This one will pay for it,” Torvald shouted angrily as he reached for his sword.
At that instant something snapped in Asleik. Was it the sight of the white skin of the helpless girl, so beautiful, so stained with blood? Was it the mindless brutality of the man lifting his sword to thrust it into her? Or was it that now finally he felt his own berserk rage?
As Torvald raised his blade to plunge it down into the prostrate figure below him, Asleik blindly lunged at him with his own sword. Before the big man knew what had happened, the blade had slid between two of his ribs in a death thrust.
As the giant Viking fell sideways, he stared with shocked disbelief at Asleik. Then in a mighty effort, using the last remaining vestiges of his strength, he swung his sword at his killer.
It caught Asleik on the side, sending him to his knees, his head spinning.
He heard the Viking fall, and then he felt the girl’s hand on his forehead.
III
“Hurry,” the girl urged, trying to get Asleik to his feet. His head was still ringing from the blow Torvald had given him …everything before his eyes was red.
Then he realized what the redness was—the great hall was afire.
Before following the girl, he pulled his sword clear of Torvald’s body. He looked down at the twisted figure. So strong one moment, so lifeless the next. His first killing.
He wondered if the gods in Valhalla even now were shouting a welcome to Torvald. He was a warrior. A Viking. A berserk. Odin himself must be greeting him with open arms.
Asleik shook his head to clear it. He picked up his shield.
He looked at the girl. How beautiful she was in the first full ripening of her maidenhood, her skin picking up a rosy color from the blazing fire. Her long blond hair hung down halfway to her slender waist. He could see a white conical breast between a rent in the bloodstained garment she was clutching close to her. Her features were those of a young woman who had never had to work in the fields—fresh and guileless.
Now she was begging him with motions of her hands to hurry out of the sleeping house.
Once outside he could see the raging fire that was rapidly consuming the great skaalen. Also he could see the black outlines of the raiders as they ran back and forth just out of reach of the roaring flames. It was as though they had gone mad at the sight of the fire.
The girl pulled at his arm to lead him off into the darkness. He followed, still in half a daze.
From the deep shadows the two watched for a moment to be sure they had not been seen.
“You saved my life,” the girl murmured in his ear. Then she added, “Are you one of them?”
“I was,” he replied. He turned to her. “Are you a Dane?”
“Me—a Dane? I am Birgit Eyvindsdatter. My people have lived here on this fjord for many generations. I am
as Norse as King Haakon himself.”
Asleik choked back a groan. “Gorm told me we were attacking a Danish raiding party that had killed a kinsman of his.”
“There are no Danes here,” she replied angrily. “I can guess what he was really after. A chest of silver has been collected in the north country to help King Haakon in his fight against the Danes. The king’s men were to pick it up tonight. My brother, Dag, is leading them here.”
“Where are your brother and the king’s men now?”
“They come from up the fjord. If they have seen the fire, they would be hurrying to get here quickly.”
For a quarter hour or so the two cowered behind the clump of furze.
Once one of the raiders left his shouting companions and rushed over to the bushes shielding the two. Asleik held his sword at the ready. But it was unnecessary. The man merely wanted to relieve himself and hurry back.
“They are like animals,” Asleik said. “I thought I was to be one of them. This is my first raid. I am Asleik Audmundsson. I live east of here, just west of the Oslo Fjord.”
“I have heard of Audmund the sword maker. Is he your father?”
“He warned me that it would be like this to be a Viking and a berserk.”
Almost against his will, he felt the warmth of the girl pressing against his side. He wondered how he must seem to hen he who had been part of the band that had brought such death and destruction to her people. ‘
Then, suddenly, he heard a new sound—the sound of silence. He looked through the bushes.
“They’ve come,” the girl said as she squeezed his arm.
Asleik could see that the raiders had ceased their crazy antics. They stood motionless while a score of tall, well-armed men strode out of the shadows. They had the air of professional, battle-hardened fighters.
“Twenty against thirty,” Asleik muttered to himself. “No—Gorm has only twenty-eight now. Torvald is dead. And I am on the other side.”
The girl grabbed at his arm as he started to get up from his crouching position. “What are you doing?”
“I’m joining your brother and the king’s men.”
Before she could object, he slipped out into the full glare of the still-blazing fire.
With a mighty roar, the raiders threw themselves at the king’s men. This now was warrior work, fighting man to man, and each as good as the next.
As he drew near the melee, Asleik saw what it meant to fight the berserks. They were screaming in a kind of mad frenzy. Those with battle axes were swinging them in great sweeping motions. Those with swords were hacking away at their equally strong opponents.
The king’s men were answering them blow for blow. Theirs, however, was a more steady, even pace. Their sword slashes were less wild. They seemed to be conserving their strength better.
Although there were a few more berserks than king’s men, the fight seemed still to be by paired opponents. Once in awhile a berserk would drop back and let a companion take up the fight.
In minutes half of the fighters bore cut wounds. Blood flowed freely. Several on each side had already fallen.
Joining the battle, Asleik picked out a berserk who had just finished off one of the king’s men. Still yelping his victory like a wolf at the kill, the raider belatedly saw Asleik’s approach with naked blade extended.
“Ah, Asleik,” he shouted. “Gorm has been looking for you.”
“I am here,” the youth replied grimly. “Let him find me. I shall deal with him as I did with Torvald.”
“So it was you who killed him?”
With this he lifted his sword and slashed at Asleik, who easily dodged the blow. Before he could make another cut with the blade, the lad leaped forward. Not with a long, slow, mighty chopping motion that was the wild custom of the berserks, but with a short, sharp thrust Asleik buried his weapon in the other’s middle.
He turned. He could see that, at the moment at least, the berserks were having the better of the battle. Their very ferocity and violence had pushed back the dozen or so king’s men who were still on their feet.
He saw one young man fighting a desperate battle with one of the giant Vikings. Intuitively he guessed it was the girl’s brother. The young man was clearly faltering.
Asleik ran to his side and took up the fight. At once he realized he had a big advantage. As big and powerful as the berserker was, he was tiring. Asleik was fresh.
While his opponent slashed away with long, mighty strokes that would have crushed his skull had they landed, Asleik kept feinting and thrusting and leaping this way and that Then, when he saw that the other was gathering his strength for one final, overwhelming attack, he pretended to back off. When the berserk saw this, he bounded forward with a Viking cry of victory. Asleik nimbly stepped aside and thrust his blade in the other’s left side. The man fell with the blood gushing from the mortal wound.
Asleik peered around. Now, the tide of battle seemed to have turned. At least it seemed that more Viking bodies were lying on the ground than those of the king’s men.
He looked for the girl’s brother. He was getting the best of one of the berserks, already sagging from arm weariness and loss of blood.
Then, out of the comer of his eye, he saw Gorm at the far side of the burning skaalen. On his shoulder he was carrying a small chest. He and three of his men were running toward the path that led to the fjord and the ship.
At that instant he saw the berserker fall before the swinging blade of Dan Eyvindsson, Birgit’s brother. Asleik called to him.
“They have the chest of silver. Follow me!”
Dag and one of the soldiers disengaged themselves from the fight that now was clearly a defeat for the raiders. They followed Asleik as he plunged headlong down the path to the fjord.
IV
The three stumbled their way down the path to the ledge where the Viking ship had been pulled up. Just as they reached it, the full moon popped out from behind a cloud and the whole scene burst upon him.
Gorm and his three companions were tugging at the ship’s stern to get it launched from the ledge. Two of the men were limping badly.
Gorm. however, seemed to be unharmed. He looked up as Asleik and his two allies dashed onto the upper side of the ledge. He bellowed his rage as he handed the chest of silver to one of the men who had crawled over into the ship. The man responded by handing Gorm the warrior sword he had tossed in.
Asleik had no time to brace himself for Gorm’s charge. Here was a berserker truly gone mad! All he could do was drop down to his knees and roll aside at the first swing of the terrible weapon.
His position, he realized, was not good. The sand on the rocky ledge was wet and slimy. An outcropping of stone behind him made it difficult, if not impossible, to leap and dodge. Nor could the other two with him get around to help.
Again Gorm charged, the death-bringing warrior sword singing through the air like the tearing sound of a thousand arrows. Just barely Asleik jumped back in time. This, he knew, could not go on for very long. Just one of those slashing swings reaching him would split him in half.
There was no chance to look around to see if Birgit’s brother and the soldier could be brought into the action. If ever he faced death, it was now.
What was it that gave the berserk such superhuman powers? Was it that Odin came down from Asgard, the god’s home, to lend his strength to Gorm’s arm? Or was it something more ghostly, more evil? Was it the goddess Hel who came down to give the jarl’s son such demonic fury? Or was it Loki, seeking revenge on the other gods? Or, worse, did the power come from supernatural forces, too horrible to name, too terrible even for the gods…forces that still lurked in the forests and on the mountains from a long time before Odin came to rule in Asgard?
All Asleik could do was dodge and duck as Gorm swung the great sword in swishes that kept coming closer and closer to him. Out of the comer of his eye he did see that Gorm’s men had finally floated their langskip. They were calling to their leader to hurry.
For just a fraction of a second Gorm hesitated in his wild attack to glance back toward his men. This was all Asleik needed.
With one quick flip of his left hand he threw his iron-rimmed shield at Gorm’s legs as hard as he could. He could hear the shinbone crunch under the sharp impact.
But Gorm was not through. Shouting his threats of vengeance on Asleik and his whole family, the Viking threw his sword wildly at his tormentor in one last gesture of defiance. It clattered back up against the stone outcropping.
Obviously hurt by the shield wound on his leg, he hobbled over to the water’s edge. Already the langskip was drifting away.
With a great roar, Gorm tried to leap the distance. His legs, however, folded under him and he fell headlong into the cold water of the fjord.
Here was Asleik’s chance. With his huge bearskin coat and heavy clothing, Gorm would be laden down. On his own part, Asleik all his life had been a good swimmer—none better in all the north country.
Quickly he stripped off his leather jerkin, his deerskin boots, his leggings. Almost naked he leaped into the water,- his only weapon his slender sax, a knife he could hold between his teeth.
Gorm was plunging and bellowing in his wild efforts to reach the drifting langskip.
Asleik came up beside the frenzied Viking. Gorm turned and glared at the youth. For the first time he grew quiet. Perhaps the icy waters of the fjord had cooled his berserker rage. He held up his hands to show that he had no weapons. Even in the moonlight, it seemed that the fight had gone out of him.
“You lied to me, Gorm,” Asleik said in reproof.
“Help me, or I drown,” the Viking leader cried. “Remember, I am your jarl’s son. Save me and I can do much for you.”
Still keeping the sax firmly clenched between his teeth, Asleik slipped down around the bigger man. He came up behind him and put his hand under one arm to hold him up.
With a sudden desperate twist of his body, Gorm reached around and pulled the knife from Asleik’s mouth.