Berserker

by William Meikle

  The beast was on her knees on the ground, and someone had wrapped themselves across her back, legs locked under the beast’s huge arms. She tried to claw him off, but she was weakening fast, and the man was too far out of reach behind her broad shoulders. A red knife came up, went down, again, and again, and blood flew in the snow. The beast fell forward onto its hands. She raised her head and looked straight at Tor as the life went out of her eyes. The bloody pale face of the brown figure raised his head in a scream as the beast slumped all the way to the ground and finally lay still.

  It was only then that Tor recognised Skald.

  But this Skald was one that Tor had never seen before. The wyrd was on him, that much was obvious, but instead of turning him quiet and withdrawn, this had taken a different turn.

  Skald was lost in a blood fury. Gore coated him, from head to thigh, his face streaked red with blood. Although the beast beneath him was long dead, still he brought the knife up and down, pounding it again and again into the red soaked fur.

  “Skald!” Tor shouted. “Stop.”

  The knife paused at the top of the arc.

  “Orjan,” Tor said softly. “Please?”

  The knife fell from Skald’s hand. His eyes, shockingly white in the bloodied face, looked straight at Tor without seeing him.

  “What has become of you?” Tor said softly.

  The other Viking present knew exactly what they were looking at, and the word came on several of their lips.

  Berserker.

  4

  Skald came up out of another dream of blood and doom.

  This time the blood stayed with him as the dream faded. It covered his hands, and when he felt his face he found it had coated his cheeks. He tasted it on his lips, and felt it slide and smear under his fingers.

  A shadow fell over him and he looked up. Tor stood there, holding out Skald’s staff. He took it and used it to pull himself to his feet. He realised he was thick with cooling blood, from head to mid-thigh.

  “Am I hurt? Did I have another accident?”

  Tor shook his head.

  “You saved my life,” he said. “Come. Let us get you cleaned up.”

  Skald turned and looked at the bloody thing on the ground.

  “Who died?”

  “Never mind,” Tor said. “I will tell you later.”

  The Viking parted to let them through and Skald let Tor lead him away. None of them would look him in the eye, but Skald barely noticed. He felt as he always did when he came out of the wyrd -- weak and disoriented, barely knowing what went on around him.

  But I have never brought the blood back with me afore now. What new tricks have the Norn in store for me this time?

  Tor led him to one of the huts and sat him on a pile of furs. Skald sat quietly while his friend did his best to clean up the blood and gore that covered him.

  “What do you remember?” Tor asked quietly.

  “I have been thinking long and hard on that. I remember getting off the boat, and walking in the water. I was so slow that the rest of you were all into the town before I even reached the beach. I heard the dogs barking and headed for the sound and…”

  “And?”

  Skald shook his head.

  Just the same as always.

  White and red, drums and doom.

  He looked up at Tor.

  “You said something about someone saving your life?”

  Tor’s face broke into its first smile for a while.

  “Yes. You did.”

  Skald dropped his head and looked at his hands. They were still tinged pink, despite all Tor’s efforts to clean them.

  “Did the wyrd hurt someone? Did I hurt someone?”

  Tor shook his head.

  “Come and see. I cannot get you any cleaner anyway.”

  Skald had to lean on the stick before he could move. His leg felt like it was made from frozen stone, and he had to drag it behind him. It ached with every step, pounding in time with his heart.

  The drum of doom.

  The snow fell heavier now, large heavy flakes blowing on a stiff breeze, lying just enough on the muddy ground that their footprints left an impression as they left the hut.

  The Viking huddled around something that lay on the ground in a pool of blood. The men were all quiet, subdued, and became even more so when they saw Skald.

  Per turned as Tor and Skald approached and motioned them forward.

  “Come lads. See what you have done.”

  Skald stopped and shook his head.

  It was not I. Whatever was done, I had no part in it.

  Tor pushed at his back.

  “Come Skald,” he said. “It is dead.”

  “Aye,” Per laughed. “You made very sure of that fact.”

  When Skald first looked down at the body all he could see was blood and gore. But slowly he began to make out features -- the long broken nails, the white fur and the yellow teeth. He wondered if perhaps he was still in some strange corner of wyrd where things were almost normal.

  “I killed that thing?”

  “That you did,” Tor said. “And you saved my life in doing so. I owe you a debt I may never be able to repay.”

  Skald could not drag his eyes from the beast.

  “What is it?” he whispered.

  It was Kai who answered.

  “It was a fucking troll,” he said, and spat on the body. “A fucking troll bitch.”

  Skald noticed that the man’s new breastplate wasn’t quite so shiny. It had a row of deep gouges from left nipple to right hip and a large dent all across the chest. There was blood at Kai’s mouth, though whether from the earlier split lip, or from anything broken inside him it was hard to tell.

  We can always hope it is the latter.

  Skald looked down at the body again as three men turned it over. It squelched as blood and mud sucked at the fur. Pale milky eyes stared accusingly at Skald.

  “It does not look like a troll,” he said.

  Kai spat blood again.

  “And how many trolls have you seen?”

  Skald looked along the length of the body.

  “Well, I have never seen one that moves after it has been killed, that is for sure.”

  The distended belly swelled, moving from within.

  Kai drew his sword.

  “Never trust a Skald to do the work of a man,” he said. He thrust his blade into the beast’s belly and started to cut. The squirming became frantic.

  Kai’s next cut opened the stomach wide, cutting through the muscle. The belly gaped and split. There, in the depths of the gore, three foetuses squirmed, sharp nails trying to rip through flesh, pale teeth chewing at their mother’s body as they struggled for birth.

  “What fresh shite is this?” Kai said. He bent and lifted a bloody mass from inside the shell of the belly. It was the size of a large cat, and twice as noisy. It squirmed in his hand and squealed.

  From somewhere high above them, an answering roar echoed in the cliffs.

  Kai looked up. The bloody thing is his hand took its chance and sunk tiny teeth into his wrist. Disgusted, Kai swung around and pounded it against the nearest wall.

  It slid, quiet now, to the ground. Beneath Kai the other two newborn pushed themselves free from the gore.

  “Bastard things,” Kai said, and stood on them. They squirmed underfoot, and one managed to sink sharp teeth into the toe of his boot before he shook it off and stomped them into pulp, over and over, long after they too were still.

  “Who is Berserker now?” Tor said quietly.

  If Kai replied it was lost in the echoing roar of fury that came down from the heights above them.

  5

  Tor looked up to the high lands above the town. The echoing roar faded and was lost in the wind. It wasn’t repeated.

  “Bear?”

  “It must be,” Kai said and kicked at the beast’s corpse. “Surely there cannot be two such things in Midgard. Not at the same time.”

  Per shoo
k his head.

  “That was no bear,” he said. He pointed at the remains of the dead Viking. “Get these back to the boats. We will see to them later. And let us see if there is anything of worth in this place. I wish to leave as soon as we can. I fear we have overstayed our welcome.”

  Per looked over to where Kai and his followers stood over the body of the beast. Kai used the point of his sword to prise three-inch teeth from the red maw, collecting trophies.

  “You would think he was the one that killed it,” Tor said. “The spoils should go to Skald.”

  “Do you think your friend would want them?” Per said quietly.

  Tor shook his head.

  “Just wait,” Per replied. “When we get back to Ormsdale Kai will have a story ready for the Great Hall about his heroic battle against the troll. And he will have the buckled breastplate and the trophies to prove it. But we, we who fought the beast, we will always know the truth of it.”

  Kai threw a look at Per, but said nothing. Per smiled back at him, then turned to Tor once more.

  “Have a look round this place lad,” he said. “And take Skald with you. It would be best if he was out of sight for a while.”

  “What about Kai? He may want to finish what was started earlier.”

  Per laughed.

  “I can handle Kai. Just try to find if there is anyone here.”

  Per looked at the sky again. It had gone almost white, and snow fell steadily enough to be accumulating thickly on the ground at their feet.

  “And do not take long about it,” he continued. “I want to be back on the boats within the hour.”

  Tor had to drag Skald away from the corpse of the beast.

  “Truly, I did that?” Skald said, and Tor managed a small laugh.

  “Truly,” Tor said. “The days when Kai and his dogs play jokes on you are over. They will not dare try anything again. Not after today.”

  Skald still looked unsure.

  “Come away,” Tor said. “Per has a task for you.”

  “For me?”

  Tor clapped his friend on the shoulder.

  “For us. Come. Let us see what other pleasures this hamlet holds for two men on their first Viking.”

  Tor and Skald wound through more of the small roundhouses, looking into each.

  All were the same – empty, but only recently. Several had fires still smoking, and a few had more fish stew brewing on cauldrons. Each house smelled worse than the last, and each had a midden to the side that smelled worse again; piles of broken shells, fish pieces and frozen shite that looked suspiciously human.

  “It seems we have discovered civilisation,” Tor said, trying to raise Skald’s spirits. His friend’s limp was more pronounced than ever, but Tor kept quiet on that subject. He’d learned long ago never to draw attention to the Skald’s weaknesses.

  Skald had barely spoken since they’d left the other Viking. His face was drained of blood, his lips cold and grey. If he hadn’t been upright and walking Tor might have taken him for dead.

  Tor wasn’t sure he minded the quiet. He could not get the image out of his head, of the wide-eyed fury of the Berserker as he pounded the bloody knife into the beast’s corpse. He could not equate that thing with the friend by his side.

  And I do not ever want to.

  So they proceeded through the settlement in silence.

  They met no one. It was only when they reached the western edge that they found signs of where the people had gone. A muddy trail led away, up towards a rocky outcrop above the bay.

  Tor started forward, only for Skald to pull him back.

  “No,” Skald said. Just that word.

  “Why not?”

  Skald did not speak, but he looked more frightened than at any time Tor had seen him.

  “Doom,” Skald whispered.

  Tor stopped.

  “You have seen it? Here? For me?”

  Again Skald went quiet. He was looking up, scanning the high cliffs above.

  “No,” he said finally. “I have heard it. These past thirty days the roaring has been in the wyrd. But now it has come back from there with me, like the blood. I have brought it upon us.”

  “You have done nothing,” Tor said. “Nothing but kill yon beast and save me from an early visit to Valhalla.”

  Skald shook his head.

  “Something has been coming these past thirty days. Coming through me.”

  Once more Tor knew when to talk, and when to remain silent.

  There has never been any reasoning with him when he is like this.

  Skald started to shiver. Tor put out a hand to comfort his friend, but once more he was brushed away.

  “My heart would ask you not to go any further. But you will go anyway,” Skald said. “Because you are Viking.”

  Tor stood, torn between friend and duty. He looked at Skald, then looked up the hill, following the path of the trail to a large overhanging rock that looked like a skull smiling its death-grin out from the mountain.

  I am Viking first, and friend second. I must follow my Captain’s order.

  “Stay here,” he said to Skald. “I will go and check. Just to the large rock. Then I will return. I promise.”

  “Yes,” Skald said, and there was a touch of bitterness in his voice that Tor had never heard before. “Go be Viking. Go running to doom.”

  Tor headed up the muddy path. He looked back once to see Skald still scanning the high ground, snow falling unnoticed into his face and hair.

  The ground got steep quickly, and Tor soon found he had to lean on his axe to push himself upwards. Mud turned to rock underfoot, slippery with freezing slush. Halfway up he stopped to catch his breath and looked down at the settlement.

  From here the pattern of the houses could be clearly seen through the blowing snow. They had been built with twelve of them in a rough outer oval, egg shaped with the more pointed end just beneath where Tor stood. Inside that were six more houses placed in a pattern he almost recognised. It was only when he looked to Skald, still standing silent, then looked back at the settlement, that he realised what it was.

  One for each eye, one for the nose, and three for the gaping maw of a mouth. It is the face of the beast.

  The whole settlement was indeed laid out in a crude representation of a huge face, one that could only be seen from a height.

  Why would they do such a thing?

  But speculation would have to wait. The snow was still falling hard, and he did not fancy a return journey downhill if the weather was to worsen. He leaned on the axe and pushed on upwards.

  The skull-shaped rock now loomed large above him.

  “I am almost there,” he called out, and turned a corner. Only to come face to face with a twin rank of pointed stakes that completely blocked the path. The dark mouth of a large cave lay behind the stakes. Three dark-skinned faces peered suspiciously out at him.

  “Greetings?” he said.

  They stared back at him. They were small people, black haired, with eyes slanted under heavy folds. When he looked closer he saw that their skin wasn’t dark at all – it was just that every available area of their faces was covered with tiny tattoos.

  “We come in friendship, looking for trade,” he said. He showed them the axe. “Trade?”

  “Yes,” Skald said behind him. “That will work. Can you not see that they are terrified?”

  “I did not think you would get up the hill,” Tor said.

  Skald smiled grimly.

  “Getting up hills was always easy. It was the way down that was the problem.”

  He pushed past Tor, moving the tall axe aside.

  “Put that down,” Skald said. “We come in friendship, remember?”

  Tor stood back and watched with admiration as Skald talked to the people in the cave. It was all done with hand actions and mummery, but by the time he screwed up his face, threw out his hands and roared, Tor knew that behind the stakes, they knew his meaning exactly.

  “Alma,” one o
f them replied, and mimicked the roar.

  Skald nodded, and Tor understood.

  Alma. The beast was an Alma.

  The conversation, if it could be called that, continued. Tor soon grew bored, and went to look back down into the settlement. He was dismayed to see that the snow was now so heavy that his view was obscured completely. He could see ten yards of the downward slope, but even that was in danger of being covered in drifting snow.

  “Skald,” he shouted. “It is time we got on our way.”

  6

  Skald heard Tor’s shout, but chose to ignore it. He had the attention of the people in the cave, and didn’t want to lose it now.

  He’d already learned that the beast was an Alma, and the small people hid in the cave to protect themselves from it. He was now trying to persuade them that it was safe, that the Alma was dead. They looked incredulous, and refused to believe him, even after he showed them the blood on his cloak and tunic.

  He had no idea how many of them were back there, but from the smell, it seemed they were packed in tight. And they had children with them. Two small faces had already peered out at him, and ducked quickly away when he smiled.

  They will be back.

  Skald was trying to convey the concept of their longboats, but it seemed to be something that was completely beyond the grasp of the people. They could not understand anything that large, nor that they had arrived from beyond the mouth of the fjord.

  Jotun? one asked.

  That was a word he knew, and one that almost brought a laugh. Jotun were legendary ice-giants said to dwell in the furthest northern lands.

  If I tell them in Ormsdale I was mistaken for a Jotun they will laugh for a week.

  He was just about to try to explain that when Tor arrived at his shoulder.

  “Skald. We have to go. The snow…”

  He brushed Tor off.

  “You go ahead. I need more time here. I will be down soon. I promise.”

  “No,” Tor said. “The snow is too heavy. It is either go now or wait here till the storm has passed. And Per said…”