Berserker

by William Meikle

  2

  Skald watched Tor leap off the longboat with a mixture of pride and envy.

  I should be beside him.

  He pushed the thought away. Pity was for the weak. And Skald was far from weak, no matter what the others may think of him. Yes, his body had been broken and his left leg was of use only as something to stand on. Yet he had overcome that enough to be allowed on this voyage, enough to think of himself as Viking, in mind if not in body.

  He kneaded the thin muscle at his thigh, trying to get heat into it, but it was like a cold stone against the bone, with about as much flexibility.

  I will never sit in Valhalla. The spoils of battle will not be mine.

  He had known that ever since the day he woke to a world where everything was pain. Since then there had been a great many days when he felt like taking himself to a cliff-top and giving his body to the sea. Strangely, it was the wyrding that gave him the will to carry on, even as it drained all strength from him.

  He had only been out of bed two days when the wyrd hit him for the first time. They thought it was a fit, a sign that his mind was too ill to heal. But Orjan knew otherwise, for he had seen dark things while away with the Norn, things that had not yet come to pass.

  Tor’s father Tyr stood on the deck of a longboat as they fought a storm that had lashed up giant waves; waves that loomed like hills above even the height of the mast. Sea spume flew like white spittle all around his head, but he kept his gaze straight ahead, for one momentary loss of concentration would mean death for them all in this storm.

  The wooden deck creaked and complained as they tried to get the dragon’s head of the prow to point into the wind, to at least get her onto an even keel. But it was not to be. The seventh wave hit them side on and the longboat rolled, banking so far sideways that the starboard edge of the keel was almost completely in the sea. They had only just started to roll back when the largest wave so far crashed down on them from above and filled the boat with water.

  The mast snapped. A long spar fell like a great spear thrown by Thor himself and cleft through Tyr from neck to groin. He did not even have time to die before the next wave washed him overboard and the sea took him straight to Valhalla.

  Skald had woken from that one clutching at his chest and screaming, but it was Tor who came to him first, and he could not speak of what he had seen, not to his friend. So he had held his counsel, even as Tyr took the longboat on Viking two weeks later.

  And two weeks after that, the news came, as he knew it would.

  He never told Tor what he had seen, but the guilt ate away at him, destroying part of what their friendship had once been, a part that he would never get back, a part that had been as important to him as the use of his left leg.

  I survived. The Norn spared me. They spared me for a reason.

  That much had become plain on the night the wyrd called him for the second time. On this occasion he did not have the luxury of being able to keep silent, for it called him right at the end of his recitation. He was standing at the head of the Thane’s table in the Great Hall, reciting the tale of Ragnar Hairy-Breeks. He managed to get through the section on the Viking King’s raid on the Frankish capital, and indeed was almost finished, reciting the famous death speech.

  The Æsir will welcome me.

  Death comes without lamenting…

  Eager am I to depart.

  The Dísir summon me home.

  Gladly shall I drink ale in the high-seat with the Æsir.

  The days of my life are ended.

  I laugh as I die.

  At which the wyrd took him and Skald fell to the ground. The Viking in the Great Hall laughed and cheered, thinking it a great jest and an apt end to the tale. But Skald never heard, for he was far away, flying in the wyrd.

  Even as the cheering died and the hall fell quiet he had stood, eyes rolled up in their sockets, and pointed at the throne where the Thane sat.

  He was told later what he had said.

  Death-doomed you will soon drink with Ygg

  Not long the life left thee.

  The Norn wish thee ill.

  When he woke, he was face to face with Gefjun Fjölkunnga, the healer. She stared deep into his eyes, then handed him the pouch of bones he carried even now.

  “Runecaster,” she called him.

  But from that day on, he only had one name in Ormsdale.

  Skald.

  The Thane died two weeks later from an infection of the blood. And since then, the wyrd had been the defining thing of each day, of each hour of his life, no matter how much he might wish otherwise.

  The memory of that morning’s wyrding came back to him.

  It had been stronger than ever before. And it started, as always, with drums.

  They beat, slowly at first, then in an ever-increasing frenzy until his skull threatened to split apart. Behind the drums, wind howled, a raging shriek that grew higher and higher.

  Everything was white, a dancing sheet of snow that swirled around him as if alive.

  And in the snow, blood. Drops of it at first, like beads of red ice.

  Then came a roar, the like of which Skald had never heard.

  White turned red as the drums beat a word into his skull.

  Doom.

  It was with a heavy heart that Skald dropped over the side of the boat. Leaning heavily on his staff he began to make his slow way to the shore.

  3

  The water reached almost to the top of Tor’s thighs and gripped at his balls like a frozen hand, spurring him on faster as he waded towards the shore. Behind him he heard the cries of the crews as they leapt into the sea.

  This is what it feels to be a Viking.

  All around him men screamed and shouted, and he heard frantic splashing as the others tried to gain on him, tried to be first ashore.

  But this was his right, and no one would deny him. He put all his effort into forcing his way through the water. He almost fell on coming to a sudden deeper dip, but the thought of Per’s ridicule, and the long handle of the axe, kept him upright, and once more he forged ahead.

  He was first out of the water, and gave out a shout of triumph that echoed in the mountains above. The only sounds as he walked out of the sea were the splashing of his fellow Viking behind him and the sucking rattle of pebbles around his feet.

  He raised his axe, but there was still no sign of any defenders. Huginn and Muninn bounded ashore next to him, soaking him further as they sloughed the water from their hair and tails before running on into the settlement. He whistled to call them back, but he was not Per and they ignored him.

  They stopped, sniffed at the nearest building, then cocked their legs and left a stream of hot piss on the stone before moving on. They were soon lost in the jumble of buildings.

  Tor stayed in the lead of the Viking as they walked off the beach to the edge of the settlement. As they entered the small town the soft drizzle and sleet turned to snow and wind gusted and whistled around the ridges of his helm.

  The houses were all small and squat, little more than circles of rough-hewn stone with crude wooden and straw roofs on top. Fish and kelp lay in long rows on wooden drying platforms all along the shore, and the smell caught at the back of Tor’s throat, threatening to make him gag.

  “Yes,” he heard Kai say behind him. “This certainly looks like the place for rich trade.”

  “Quiet boy,” Per growled. “Or would you like your other lip thickened?”

  Tor tried to ignore them. He had been listening for several seconds now, but had heard nothing from the settlement.

  He walked over to the closest house. He had to bend to enter through the doorway. The house, no more than a single room with an alcove of straw for a bed, was empty except for what looked like old leather draped on the walls and lain on the floor. There was no sign that the people that lived here had the use of metal. Clay pots and beakers were stacked on stone shelves. One of the pots held sharpened bones of various thickness, from as
wide as his thumb down to a fishbone as thin as a hair. A large clay pot steamed over smoking coals, but he couldn’t smell what might be in it, as the whole room stank of stale body odour, fish guts and something sour that might be milk long since gone off.

  Tor moved to the fire, bent over the pot and sniffed.

  Per spoke from behind him.

  “Anything lad?”

  “Fish stew,” Tor said. “A lot of fish stew. But no sign of who made it.”

  Per nodded.

  “They must have seen us coming. They will be hidden somewhere that they think is safe. I have seen this before.”

  As Tor turned he could see through the door that the snow was coming harder now.

  Per joined him in looking out at.

  “Yes. We have taken too long on our journey,” the Captain said. “We may have to harbour here for the winter. We had best find those that live here. We may have need of whatever food they can share.”

  Suddenly the room went dark as a figure blocked the doorway.

  Kai walked into the hovel.

  “Share? Viking do not share. Viking take.”

  Per turned and stared.

  “Viking do what their Captain tells them,” Per said, putting his hand on his sword. “Or would you like to dispute that?”

  Kai smiled. His lip split and blood started to flow down his chin before he wiped it away.

  “Yes. I would.”

  His three companions stepped through the doorway and stood beside him. Kai put his hand on his sword.

  “What say you father? Would you care to have another test of my resolve?”

  Per pointed at the split lip.

  “Resolve? Is that what you call it?” he said, laughing. “I drew blood last time and you resolved to swallow it like a woman.”

  Kai’s hand griped tighter on the hilt of his sword.

  “Do not be a fool. Now is not the time to challenge me boy,” Per said. “We do not yet know if we are safe here.”

  Kai didn’t speak, merely drew his sword. The other three did the same.

  Tor hefted his axe and stepped up beside Per. Kai saw him and laughed.

  “Stand down pup. This is work for men.”

  Tor looked Kai in the eye.

  “Then it is time I showed you who is the man here,” he said. “Come, if you have the balls for it.”

  Kai stood there, sword raised, staring at Tor.

  Tor saw indecision in the man’s eyes.

  And to think I spent my childhood in fear of him.

  The three lapdogs waited to see what Kai’s decision might be.

  Tor smiled, and Kai saw it. He stepped forward.

  Huginn and Muninn chose that moment to start loud, frantic, barking.

  Ignoring Kai’s sword completely, Per pushed him aside and headed towards the sound.

  “Come on lad,” he shouted to Tor. “They have run something to ground. Let us see what their hunt has turned up.”

  The noise was coming from the eastern side of the settlement, where it came up against the wooded foothills of the mountains beyond. By the time Tor and Per got there, a crowd of Viking had formed around the baying dogs. Whatever the dogs had found, they had it cornered in a cramped area between two houses that looked and smelled like it served as a midden. Tor followed behind Per as the Captain pushed his way through to see what they had.

  At first Tor thought it was one of the snow-white bears that sometimes found their way south in harsh winters. But no bear ever looked like this.

  The eyes were the first things that Tor noticed. Milky white they were, like icy stones set far back in a skull covered in matted fur that might once have been white but was covered in muck from where the beast had obviously had its head stuck in the midden. The body was covered in more fur, and there the beast was as white as any northern bear.

  But it stood upright on two stout legs, and was taller than the tallest Viking, and nearly three feet wide across its broad shoulders. The dogs danced around it, keeping their distance. The beast seemed confused by the barking, and clapped hands as huge as hams across its ears. Its head was oval shaped, the skull slightly tapered at the rear. The hair was thicker there, almost mane-like where it ran down the broad back.

  It opened a mouth full of long yellow teeth and screamed.

  “Listen to the bitch squeal,” one of the Viking shouted.

  It was only then that Tor noticed it was female. Huge pendulous breasts hung over a distended belly that hung almost to the beast’s knees. Pink nipples the size of Tor’s thumb peeked from the fur covered chest.

  “Look at the paps on her,” someone else shouted. “Do you think she will let us have a feel?”

  “You should know,” another called out. “She is your mother.”

  When they laughed at that the beast squealed again, and this time there was a piteous note in it that reminded Tor of the night they brought mother the news about father. Suddenly he felt almost sorry for her.

  She started to paw, as if trying to catch the sounds the dogs were making. Each massive hand had five fingers tipped with thick broken nails several inches long that raked at the air. The dogs became more and more frantic, barking furiously and darting around just outside the beast’s arm’s length.

  “Huginn, Muninn. Heel.” Per shouted. “Come to heel.”

  The dogs slunk on their haunches and retreated back towards Tor and Per, but they never took their eyes off the beast. As soon as the hounds stopped barking she calmed. She stood quietly; staring at the semicircle of Vikings that had her hemmed in.

  “Now she is dangerous,” Per said softly.

  “What do we do? Let it go?” a man said.

  “Yes,” Per replied. “Let her go. We have no fight with her kind. She is just a dumb beast looking for food.”

  “No,” Kai shouted. “I did not come all this way to see us let a troll go free.”

  Before Per could stop him Kai stepped forward, swinging his sword. The beast threw up an arm in front of herself, and the sword bit deep into flesh, bringing a gout of hot blood that sprayed the faces of those standing closest.

  The beast lowered the arm, and stared at the wound. Tor saw puzzlement in her eyes.

  She has never seen an edged weapon before.

  Kai stepped forward again, but she had only needed one blow to learn her lesson. Her right arm came round, stiff and straight like a log, catching Kai in the chest and sending him flying into the three men behind him, knocking all four into a heap.

  She raised her face to the sky and roared. It was no piteous wailing this time, but a hot blast of fury that made Tor’s legs go weak and threatened to send him running.

  The Captain looked round at him and winked.

  “Stand with me lad,” Per said. “We shall have need of that axe.”

  He turned back and stared at the beast.

  She fell still again, staring back at Per, and at the sword in his hand. The big man showed her the weapon, swishing it through the air between them. She looked at her arm, to where blood flowed, matting the fur a deep crimson, then looked back at the sword.

  She let out another roar, and moved to one side out of range of the blade. She leaped at the Viking, trying to breach the line.

  Two men moved to intercept her, swords raised. She took one look at the weapons, and turned in the other direction.

  Three Viking waited there with long spears held in front of them. She broke the spears like so much kindling. The Viking broke in disarray.

  She caught one by the arm and set about gutting him with something that Tor thought looked like glee. Her huge hand gouged a massive hole in the man’s belly and pulled upwards. He splayed open and his guts fell out in a slithering heap to steam on the snow. A spray of hot blood filled the air, and good men screamed like frightened children. She threw the body aside and jumped, covering ten feet in one leap, landing on Tyg Pytersson’s back. The man wailed pitifully as he saw his own arm pulled completely from its socket, and could only look
in horror as it was used to pound down into his skull, spraying brain and bone on the fresh snow.

  Styg Stygsson didn’t even live that long. The beast got hold of his left leg and his right arm, and pulled. What looked like no effort at all left only a pile of bone and flesh on the ground that the beast proceeded to trample into mush, jumping up and down on the spot until all that was left was a red steaming pile of slush.

  “Enough,” Per shouted, the bellow echoing around them.

  He stepped forward and, ducking under a huge swinging arm that would have flattened him if it had hit, he swung his sword, cutting deep into the fur at the beast’s shoulder. She turned towards the source of the new pain, and that gave Tor an opening. He stepped up and swung his axe, biting a deep wound at the back of her left leg and bringing her partially to her knees. As she turned and showed him her teeth Per sliced across her back with the broadsword. The blow sent her face-first to the ground.

  Tor screamed in triumph, and stepped in again, swinging in a blow that would cleave her skull.

  But he had underestimated her. She turned and in one movement grabbed at the axe as it came down. It sheared off two fingers of her left hand, the blood spurting in gouts all over Tor’s upper body. But he was too busy to notice, for the beast had wrested the axe from his grasp. He heard the weapon clang on stone as she flung it away, but by that time she was roaring her fury in his face as she threw him to the ground and bent over him.

  He felt hot damp breath on his cheeks, and smelled rotting fish. His sight was full of a wet red mouth and thick yellow teeth that looked like old finger bones. He tried to roll to one side, but her weight sat on his chest, and was slowly pushing all life out of him.

  Things started to go grey.

  Valhalla, I am coming.

  But not yet. The weight lifted suddenly and the beast rolled off him. Something brown flashed past him and threw itself at the beast’s neck.

  Huginn, he thought as he got to his knees, but when he rose he could see that the hounds were by Per’s side.

  So what has saved me?

  The Viking had reformed their semicircle, but they were not attacking. Tor saw why when he turned.