by Paul Watkins
Cabal and I took up the oars and rowed with the incoming tide into the estuary. Even in daylight, we were lucky to find the channel. The route was so narrow that Olaf had to keep lashing the tiller in place, running to the bow, so he could tell which way to turn, then running back to the tiller. Several times, the steerboard dragged in the mud and threatened to strand us, but each time the force of our momentum carried us through.
The first trees slid by as the roar of the ocean faded behind us. The round leaves of poplars flickered in the breeze and willows trailed their sinewy branches in the water. A few houses stood on the high ground. Their roofs were thatched instead of turfed, like the houses of the Norse. It was still very early in the morning, and so far there was no sign of people.
Soon after that, just as we were growing confident, our luck ran out for good.
Olaf spotted a bearded man on a horse, silhouetted on a rise. The rider sat straight-backed and dignified, watching us drift by.
‘Wave to him,’ whispered Cabal.
Rowing-reddened palms were raised in greeting.
The man held up one hand, then tugged at the horse’s reins and rode down the field towards us. He did not look afraid, but held the reins loose, letting his body sway with the motion of the horse’s steps. It was a big, heavy-shouldered animal, not like the short-legged and long-maned ponies that we knew. I had seen horses like this down in Miklagard, plated with armour and hideous in their battle-masks.
When he reached the bank, the man reined in his horse, cupped his hands to his mouth and called to us.
Cabal hauled in his oar and began a shouted conversation.
While we drifted with the current, the man rode his horse lazily, keeping pace with us. With only one ship and such a small crew, not to mention one that spoke his language, it was clear he saw no danger in our presence.
The conversation finished and the bearded man rode off, his horse’s hooves digging up clumps of the soft grass as it galloped up the hill.
‘If we start now,’ I said, ‘we can be out to sea before they realise we are gone.’
‘No!’ barked Cabal. ‘I told him we had come to trade, and he wanted to know what cargo we were carrying. I said we had amber and whale oil and Frankish cloth, all things they want to get their hands on. That is the reason for his haste. The merchants of the village will turn out to meet us when we arrive.’ He was sweating and his eyes were wild again, as they had been on the night Brand died. ‘We can tie up the boat here and go in on foot. They will be expecting us to come up the river, but I can get us to the church along a back road. By the time they figure out why we are here, we can be back at the boat and on our way again. We will not be able to hide ourselves, but we will not have to if we go in now.’
‘What about the silver?’ asked Olaf. ‘That is a heavy load to carry, and it would be easy to spot us in daylight.’
‘We can steal some horses if we have to,’ said Cabal. ‘It will take them time to collect their weapons and launch an attack. By then we will be out to sea again.’
I glanced at Olaf, uncertain how we should proceed.
‘If Cabal says we can do it,’ he told me, ‘then I think we should keep going.’ Despite what Olaf had said, his face was grey with worry.
‘So it is settled,’ murmured Cabal.
Olaf and I nodded, to show that we agreed.
Around the next bend, we pulled in and tied up to the willows. Mosquitoes whined drunkenly around us. Watery green light filtered through the branches overhead. We picked up our weapons and climbed onto the bank.
‘Olaf,’ I said. ‘You stay with the boat.’
He was staring at a puddle, where a water beetle scudded jerkily across the surface, its legs making minute dimples in the muddy water. He looked as if he might collapse under the weight of his chain mail vest.
‘Olaf,’ I said again.
His head jerked up. ‘I am ready,’ he croaked.
‘Stay with the boat,’ I told him.
He was silent for a moment, as the words sank in, but then he breathed in suddenly. ‘Do you think I cannot pull my weight?’
‘Someone has to stay with the boat,’ said Cabal. ‘You are the one who knows best how to sail it.’
Now Olaf understood that there was no shame in remaining behind. He nodded and, without another word, stepped back onto the Drakkar.
Cabal and I agreed to meet back here in case we were split up. Without the dark to hide us, there could be no stopping until we were on our way out to sea again. We set off through the trees, heading uphill towards a ridge where the ground levelled out.
Cabal raced ahead, muscles jolting in his calves and his chain mail shirt swishing as he moved. He was making for a white, dusty-looking road which ran along the top of the ridge.
My heart was sloshing and my face burned as I ran up the slope. I heard a shout, then saw the horse and rider galloping from the direction of the town. It was the same black-bearded man. He called to us with friendly urgency, no doubt to let us know that we had moored our boat in the wrong place and thinking we must have misunderstood him. He left the road, ducking low against the horse’s neck to avoid the tree branches. Leaves brushed across his back.
He was just raising himself back up in the saddle when he caught sight of our warshields and drawn swords. He cried out and tried to rein in the horse, clanking the bit against the animal’s teeth, but the horse had gathered too much speed. On the soft grass of this downhill slope, it could not stop. Fear had spread across the rider’s face, like a shadow from beneath the skin. He never even saw Cabal’s axe, which looped once and struck him square in the forehead. The man was lifted from his horse and landed hard on his back, already dead by the time he hit the ground.
The horse galloped away along the riverbank.
Without breaking stride, Cabal’s arms swung down, grabbed the handle of his axe and prised it loose.
At the top of the ridge, we spilled from the shadows into the chalky light which glared up from the road. The shallow ditches were speckled with white elderflowers and pink foxgloves. Sculpted clouds marched past above us, frosting the deep-blue sky.
We carried on towards the town, hard going with the shields and chain mail vests, which chafed across our chests and shoulderblades. A short while later, we came to a dip in the road, beyond which lay the village of St David’s, the slate-scaled roof of the spireless church clearly visible above the other houses.
Just then, a donkey and cart driven by an old man appeared over the rise. Pale green cabbages jostled in the back of the cart as it rolled across the uneven road. The old man was so shocked to see us that he dropped the reins. The donkey slowed and came to a stop at the bottom of the slope. The old man bent over, struggling to reach the reins where they dangled down to the ground. At last he had hold of them and sat upright, but by then we were almost on top of him. There was nothing he could do. He closed his eyes, clasped his hands together and held the reins against his chest.
I ran past the cart on one side. Cabal went on the other. The donkey watched us, sad and patient.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Cabal’s body disapppear in a blur. At first, I thought he had been hit by something. But when I turned my head to look, I understood that Cabal had drawn his sword and spun himself about, even as he was running, moving with such force and speed that I only glimpsed a single frozen picture. The blade of Cabal’s sword had passed through the neck of the old man, and his head, suspended in the air above his body, had flipped completely upside down. The old man’s hands still clasped the reins against his chest.
As soon as we were past the cart, I grabbed Cabal’s arm and wheeled him around to face me. ‘What harm would he have done us?’ I shoved Cabal backwards with the boss of my shield. ‘You said no one would be hurt, but now you are killing everyone in your path!’
‘If they had not been there,’ snarled Cabal, ‘they would not have been hurt.’
‘What did they do to you, Cabal? Why do you
hate them so much?’
He gave me no answer, but pushed past me and charged onwards, footsteps kicking up pale dust as he sprinted up the hill.
From now until the fighting ended, I knew there could be no reasoning with Cabal, because he was not Cabal any more. Instead he was that creature summoned from the shadows in himself.
For a moment, I stood there in the road, watching as the donkey set off to wherever it was going, hauling its load of cabbages with a headless man holding the reins.
It was the sound of a woman’s scream which brought me to my senses. Then dogs began to bark. I knew that Cabal had reached the outskirts of the village. I sprinted to catch up with him, and we moved along the narrow, dirt-paved streets. Houses loomed on either side. We passed women with baskets and a cluster of boys gathered around some game drawn in the dust. They scattered as soon as they saw us. Dogs barked from the safety of the side streets. Their dirty hackles stood on end, bodies trembling with rage, but they did not come out to attack us.
We reached a graveyard of cross-topped stones, which was enclosed by a low stone wall. Beyond that lay the church and village square. Through sweat which trickled into my eyes, I saw men and women setting up tables and laying out trade goods for the arrival of our boat. A few had paused and looked in our direction, but so far, none of them seemed to have understood what was happening.
‘There it is,’ said Cabal, nodding at the arched doors of the church, whose heavy wooden planks were strapped with iron.
While I crouched behind the churchyard wall, Cabal ran up the stone steps of the church. They were worn down like the back of an old horse from years of use. Cabal tugged at the latch ring, which rattled heavily but would not budge. The doors were locked. Shielding his eyes from the sun, he peered into the gap between the two doors, then turned and walked back down the steps.
‘Hurry!’ I whispered. ‘Hurry!’
It wouldn’t be long before this whole village went mad.
Cabal faced the door. He raised his arm, swinging his axe high above his head. He bared his teeth and jumped forward, sprinting up the steps, and swung the axe at the gap between the two rings of the door. The axe head disappeared in a spray of sparks and the clank of iron on iron. The shaft of the axe snapped off the head. It seemed to have done no good at all, but then Cabal rammed his shoulder against the doors. This time, they swung wide, dumping him onto his knees in the doorway of the church. The doors banged loudly as they crashed against the stone walls inside. A moment later, the faint odour of sandalwood incense drifted past.
I heard a rumbling noise and turned to see a man rolling an ale barrel down an alleyway towards the market square. The man saw us and stopped. He stared, trying to fathom what was going on. Then, as the truth began to dawn on him, his eyes grew wide. He turned and ran, leaving the barrel to roll on by itself, across the cobble-stone square and past it, down a stretch of grass which sloped towards the river.
The merchants stood, arms filled with pots and bundles of cloth, watching the barrel as it picked up speed, then bounced and split. Ale fanned out in a bubbling hiss over the grass.
The merchants turned to stare at Cabal, who stood at the entrance to the church.
The only sound was the faint rustle of the ale as it sifted away into the ground.
Then Cabal raised his shield and sword, as if he meant to fly. He howled at the merchants in one long bellowing scream until his lungs were empty.
The whole village was suddenly filled with the crash of dropped crockery and pots. People ran in all directions, some of them right past us, as if they had forgotten we were there. Others headed down towards the river. They ran the way people sometimes run from thunder, with no idea where to go, running only to get away.
Cabal shouted for me to follow him.
As I ducked out from behind the wall towards the steps, shield held close against my chest, one man ran straight into me. He knocked his head against the boss of the shield and fell back unconscious.
When I reached the doorway to the church, I glanced out across the square and down towards the river. People were swimming across it. The long dresses of women billowed in the murky water. Bright green weeds were tangled in their hair. One woman already stood on the far bank, wet clothes moulded to her body and limp hair snaking across her shoulders. Against the dark undergrowth, her white form seemed to glow as if she was on fire.
I ducked into the church and my eyes struggled to adjust to the dark. It was damp and cold inside. Rows of benches trailed away into the gloom. The altar table stood on a raised stone platform at the end of the room. The table had been pushed aside, revealing a heavy wooden trap-door in the stone floor. The trap door was open.
‘There!’ shouted Cabal, ‘There it is!’
Just then, I saw a figure clad in a brown robe. It was a priest. The top of his head was shaved, leaving a ring of hair round the edge of his skull. He popped up from the hole, glanced at us, then grabbed the trapdoor handle and pulled it down over him. Wood clanked against stone as it slammed shut.
We ran to the altar platform and clawed our fingers around the edges of the door, but the fit was tight and there were no handles.
‘The tunnel is down there.’ Cabal drew his sword and worked the blade into the crack between the wood and stone. A moment later the sword snapped with a strange musical clank and Cabal fell back cursing.
I heard a noise behind us and turned to see a movement back among the benches. I ran down the aisle and found another priest, cowering behind the seats.
I hauled him up by the scruff of his thick robe and dragged him over to the altar.
Cabal barked a question in his face.
The man shook his head.
Now Cabal grabbed him by the neck and forced him down to his knees, bending his head over the trap door. Again he shouted the question and once more the priest shook his head. Cabal slammed the priest’s face against the trap door, then wrenched him to his feet and shouted in his ear.
The priest moaned and held one hand against his nose, blood pouring between his fingers. With the other hand, he pointed to a gap in the stone where the floor of the platform met the wall.
Cabal went over to the gap and drew out a long metal rod, almost as long as my arm, with a loop at the end. He dropped it in front of the priest, who slowly picked it up and pointed the end of the rod at a tiny hole in the stone at the base of the platform. He was crying now, as he tapped the iron rod weakly around the edge of the hole.
Cabal snatched the rod out of the priest’s hands and slid it into the hole until we heard a clunk. One end of the door popped up just enough that we could get our fingers under it.
I lifted the door and looked down a flight of narrow steps, lit by a torch placed in a metal holder. I went down first, grabbed the torch and waited for Cabal to follow. But there was no sign of him. I called his name, and when he still did not appear, I climbed back up the steps to see what had happened to him.
Cabal was talking to the priest in a low voice, his fist bunched in the priest’s heavy brown robe. I thought he was going to let the man go, but then Cabal picked him up and with a roaring bellow heaved him through one of the stained-glass windows. The panes smashed out around the frail, cloaked figure of the priest, filling the room with glittering greens and browns and reds as the sun flickered through the flying glass. Then came the thump of the priest’s body when it struck the ground. After a pause, I was surprised to hear the sound of his footsteps running away among the gravestones.
We clambered down the staircase into the tunnel and Cabal followed me as I ran into the darkness, carrying the torch. In the sandy ground were imprints of sandalled footsteps and the drag marks of what must have been the chest. The ceiling of the tunnel was low and the walls were narrow. We ran hunched over and the rustling chorus of our breathing returned to us from the walls of rock and earth which passed by as if they were moving and not us. In places, the walls were wet and sparkling with crystals, which looked like the
eyes of thousands of insects. The rest of the passage was dry and dusty, marked by the tools which had carved it out. Flakes of ash, thrown down by the torch, singed my hair.
Suddenly, from down the tunnel came the glow of another torch.
We skidded to a stop.
My heart was beating in my throat.
Cabal leaned over my shoulder and brought his face close to mine. When he spoke, his voice was soft, like the voice of a lover. ‘Kill them all,’ he said.
We ran through the tunnel. Our torch scraped along the tunnel roof, sending down a rain of dirt and sparks.
The walls seemed to be narrowing. Ice-white crystals blistered on the walls. Darkness rushed behind us like a silent wave, and I felt panic closing in on me. The tunnel veered to the left and when I rounded the corner, I saw something that even my worst nightmares could not have invented.
It was a wall of human skulls.
I cried out and Cabal skidded into the back of me.
By the light of the torch, we stared at the dozens of black-gaping eye-sockets, the hundreds of bared teeth and lightning-jagged cracks which snaked across the craniums. The skulls were placed in careful rows, one beside the other, filling an alcove carved into the wall of the tunnel.
There was no time to stop, or even to wonder what kind of people would do this and why. We kept moving. Oily darkness swallowed the grotesquely sorted dead.
A little further on, we reached the source of the light we had seen earlier. A priest was trying to drag a heavy chest along the passageway. Lying on top of the chest was a large cross made of gold, studded with rubies and emeralds. With one hand, the priest gripped the leather side-strap of the chest. With the other, he held up a torch, whose light winked off the jewels which were set into the cross. The old man was exhausted. Sweat darkened his robe and gleamed on his face.
We bore down on him along the gullet of the tunnel in an avalanche of chain-mail armour, shields and knives.
When the priest saw us, he dropped his torch and knelt before us, holding up his empty hands. ‘Brothers!’ he called to us in Norse.
