Berserker

by William Meikle

  She put out a hand and invited him to stand. When he did so he was surprised to see that she barely reached as high as his chest. She handed him his staff, and together they hobbled to one wall of the cave. She took a firebrand and motioned him towards the wall. Inscribed there, and gleaming in red relief in the flickering light, was the story of her people, laid out on the stone as he’d been told it in the wyrd.

  She walked him along it to the end. There it showed a representation of a tall mountain. High on its flanks an entrance led down to a cave system where deep mines plunged deeper still into the roots of the hill and a vast temple was carved out of a high cavern.

  All around that temple the hairy figures of the Alma danced.

  Tens… nay, hundreds of them.

  11

  The storm howled.

  Several times the crew had to be organised to move the snow that accumulated on the sail above and threatened to collapse it atop them. And several times Tor went to check on the Captain. Per still slept, but it was a nervous, feverish sleep that had taken him, and underneath the furs the man burned from within with a heat like a summer sun.

  On one of his trips Bjorn the sail-master accompanied him. His face was pained when he rose from attending to the Captain.

  “He will be gone by morning,” he said. “Something is seriously broken in him.”

  Tor nodded.

  “That is what he said. But he managed to walk from the settlement to the boat. There may be hope yet.”

  Bjorn said nothing. He didn’t have to. His face told Tor just how little hope there was.

  Bjorn looked down at the sleeping man.

  “He has been my Captain on eight Viking,” he said. “And never have I seen a better man. He will be a sore loss. All the more so when I contemplate who will take his place.”

  “Kai?”

  Bjorn spat.

  “Aye. Kai. He showed me again today that he is a fool. But worse than that, he has no stomach for a real fight. He is no Viking. Not at heart, where it counts.”

  “What can be done?” Tor asked.

  Bjorn sighed.

  “Done? Nothing can be done. Kai is his father’s son, and will be Captain. That is our way.”

  But it doesn’t mean we have to like it.

  Tor went back to the brazier. Kai hadn’t taken his eyes from the sword all night.

  Sometime soon him and I are going to have a serious problem.

  But Tor did not have time to worry about Kai. His mind was too full of thoughts of the Captain and worry for Skald. He hoped against hope for a break in the storm.

  For if I cannot help Per, surely I can find my friend, and bring him back to his kinsmen.

  But the storm showed no signs of abating. Indeed, the wind strengthened a notch, and the ropes holding the sails stretched and complained. The crew huddled ever closer together around the brazier as an endless supply of the hazel tea and mead was warmed and passed around.

  Tar Karlsson was first to move, for he had taken more mead than any other, and had not moved from the brazier since they’d come back aboard.

  “I need to go, for I shall pish my breeks if I do not,” he said, standing.

  “I have pished mine twice already,” Bjorn called. “That is what keeps me warm.”

  Tar headed for the leeward side and started to fumble in his folds of clothing.

  “Do not take it out for too long,” Bjorn shouted after him. “It might freeze and drop off.”

  “How would he tell the difference?” another called out.

  They were still laughing when the white arm came out of the snow, grabbed Tar Karlsson by the legs, and dragged him overboard. His head hit the stern, hard, on the way over, and then he was lost in the night, leaving only a bloody smear to show where he had stood.

  The Viking didn’t move for a second, stunned into silence. Then a scream came from the Windmaister on their port side, one that was quickly cut off.

  Tor stood and unsheathed his sword while the rest of the Viking grabbed for weapons. Along the length of the boat, men were roused from slumber and came groggily awake. They stood in rough circles, watching each other’s backs as they had been taught from childhood. There was no sound but the rush of wind and the flapping of the tarpaulin above them.

  Another scream rent the air from the Windmaister.

  “In Odin’s name, help us,” a lone voice cried in the storm.

  Tor would have gone to their aid, but Bjorn held him back.

  “Stand with us lad,” Bjorn said. “I fear we shall have perils of our own to deal with afore long.”

  Bjorn was right.

  A white hand came over the saxboard and tore loose two of the rings holding the sail in place. The wind immediately grabbed the tarpaulin and took it flapping off into the night. At the same time a beast hauled itself up onto the boat and roared. Tor only had time to notice that this one had no wounds on its body before it leaped across the deck.

  Snow threatened to blind him. Icy flakes bit at Tor’s face like summer insects, but he couldn’t take his eyes from the beast. It was as large as the one he’d fought off earlier, but this one had come prepared for a fight. It stood straight and pounded at its chest with the palms of its hands, raised its face to the sky and roared into the wind, giving them all a clear view of four-inch teeth that looked as sharp as razors.

  It fell forward into a hunch, and threw itself at them. The three men facing it hefted their spears, putting their feet on them and standing firm as the weight hit and rocked them backward. One spear went through the beast’s right shoulder but didn’t slow it. It broke the shaft and thrust the broken end straight back at its wielder, going in through the Viking’s mouth and out the back of his skull with a sudden spray of blood and brain and bone.

  A second beast jumped aboard further down the boat, swinging from the mainmast and barrelling feet first into a knot of men, knocking then flying. Bones cracked, loud even above the howl of the wind, and screams rent the air.

  More screams came from their sister ships, and suddenly the night was full of bloody carnage and the raging howls of beasts.

  In Odin’s name, how many are there?

  Then Tor was too busy himself to pay attention to the fighting elsewhere, as a beast came over the side coming straight at him.

  He raised the sword.

  The beast eyed it warily.

  They have learned quickly.

  This one was smaller than the other, but still towered several inches taller than Tor. It showed Tor its teeth as it smiled, then roared its defiance, but it stayed out of reach of the sword, never taking its eyes off the weapon. Tor feinted towards it, and it moved to one side.

  “Tor,” Bjorn shouted behind him. “We need you round here.”

  From the corner of his eye Tor saw the first beast was on its knees. Three dead Viking lay around it. Three more, Bjorn included, were trying to get inside its reach to deliver a killing blow.

  Tor did not speak. He knew that if he took his eye off the beast, even for a second, it would be on him. It swayed, moving from side to side, still watching the sword.

  More screams came from behind Tor, and the roars of the beasts grew louder.

  “Viking. To me,” came the shout.

  Per?

  Tor made an almost fatal mistake. He looked towards the Captain’s call.

  The beast jumped, coming straight for Tor, its legs clear of the deck. Tor’s instincts kicked in and he fell backwards and sideways into a roll that brought him up at the creature’s side even as its leap was taking it past him. He brought the sword overhead in a high swing, and down on the back of the beast’s neck. Warm blood splashed his face as the head almost parted from the torso. The beast fell with a heavy thud on the deck.

  Tor remembered to breathe.

  “Viking. To me,” came the shout again.

  Bjorn and the others had managed to subdue the first beast, and the huge corpse lay on the deck next to the bodies of the Viking it had
slain.

  The knot of men around the mast had not been so successful. One of the beasts stomped through a pile of bodies, bloody gore splattered all the way up its legs to its hips. As Tor watched it bent and opened a man’s rib cage just by thrusting its hands into his chest. The man screamed and his feet drummed a manic rhythm on the deck as his ribs were splayed like wings. Thankfully, he quickly fell silent.

  The beast smeared blood over its face as it ate his heart.

  Beyond the feeding beast Per stood alone at the far end of the boat. He held two of the beasts at bay with burning firebrands in each hand.

  “Captain!” Tor called, and started to run.

  12

  Baren handed Skald the leather pouch that contained his wyrding bones. She made a movement, indicating casting, then pointed at him.

  She wants a telling.

  Skald felt weak, almost to the point of slipping into a senseless sleep. The wyrd had called him too much, with too little rest.

  I’m not sure I can do this.

  He hefted the pouch in his hand.

  Baren again made the casting motion. Skald sighed, opened the pouch, and cast the bones on the floor. Almost immediately the wyrding came on him.

  It started the same as before, with the 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.

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

  Doom.

  Even deep in the wyrd, Skald knew that this was the end of it, that soon he would reawaken. But this time proved to be a surprise, and not a pleasant one.

  The snow cleared.

  Twenty fur-clad figures moved across an ice field, battling through a gale. All twenty looked as miserable as any men who ever lived. Cold gripped them, turning their faces almost blue and caking their beards with a thick layer of ice.

  Snow fell again, obscuring the scene.

  He was in a huge echoing cavern filled with a dim light that seemed to come from the very walls itself. Two tall columns of black stone dominated the far end. Behind them seemingly carved straight into the rock wall, was a massive plinth, on which lay a giant effigy of a bound figure, mouth wide open, screaming for eternity. Alma, dozens of them, carried screaming Viking through the chamber and slung their bodies onto the plinth. They tore open the still living bodies, coolly methodically, disembowelling tearing. Blood splattered on and around the plinth…but most ran down the runnels towards the statue. And where the blood hit it, the stone began to change, lightening in colour, softening, as it took on the texture of hair and flesh, soaking up the blood, drinking it in.

  Then came a roar.

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

  Doom.

  Skald blinked and woke. His head span and his body felt so light that the slightest breeze might blow him away.

  The old woman rapped him hard on the forehead with her knuckles again, and once again he heard the voice from the wyrding.

  You have come from the north to lead us back to the place of the digging, where we will once more be one with the father.

  Skald was very afraid that he now knew what that father might be.

  13

  Even as Tor started running, the bloodied beast stood away from the pile of bodies and stepped into his path.

  Tor barely noticed it. A backhanded downward cut cleaved its left arm off at the shoulder, and while the beast looked at the wound in puzzlement a second cut drove down on the right side of its head at the neck, opening a wound down through the chest. By the time the body hit the deck Tor was already halfway towards Per.

  A knot of men stood in the centre of the boat holding off three of the beasts, but Tor did not stop to aid them. He slashed, hard, at the back of a beast in passing, bringing a howl of pain and a splash of blood. It gave one of the defenders the opportunity to drive a spear through the beast’s neck. Blood flew in the air to join the snow as Tor leapt along the deck, sword raised above his head.

  The closest beast somehow sensed his approach and turned, just as Tor brought the sword down in a chopping cut that bit deep into its ribs. It wailed and roared, tearing the sword from its side and spraying hot blood over Tor’s face as it leaped for him. Tor feinted, stepped to one side, and took its head off with one smooth cut. He turned back to help Per with the other, but the older man had already thrust both firebrands into the creature’s face. Its mane caught, and the air filled with the stench of burning hair. The beast danced around, flapping its hands at its head and screeching before Tor finally put it out of its misery with a thrust to its heart.

  It fell, smouldering, at the Captain’s feet.

  “Well met lad,” Per said.

  Tor saw with dismay that blood came to the Captain’s lips with every word, and that the man was near as white as the beast he had just slain.

  It is a wonder he can even stand.

  “Have you seen Kai?” Per asked.

  “No,” Tor replied, and smiled. “But I have been a mite busy.”

  Bjorn the sail-master joined them. He held a cut off oar in his hands, wielded like an axe. Blood, matted hair and brains dripped from its edge. The three men looked down the length of the longboat.

  The snow was so thick that the full length of the deck was only just visible, but it was enough to tell Tor that they were in serious trouble. Bodies of slain Viking and beasts lay strewn among a pool of blood and gore… more of the men than of the beasts. A knot of men had gathered around the main mast, ten or more of them armed with spears, tying to hold off six creatures. Kai was behind them inside the ring, sword raised, his face pulled tight with fear. From the windward side came the roars of beasts and the screams of the dying on their sister boats.

  “Do we have a plan Captain?” Bjorn said.

  Per looked grim.

  “Aye. But you’re not going to like it. Fetch up the oil.”

  Bjorn looked the Captain in the eye.

  “All of it?”

  Per nodded.

  “And make it quick. A few more of these beasts and we will all be in Valhalla within the hour… if we are not on the way there already.”

  Bjorn opened the hatch and went below. Tor joined him in the below-deck area.

  “What does he have in mind?” Tor asked.

  “A true Viking burial,” Bjorn said. His eyes were moist with tears. “And we will give him it. A Viking death, and a Viking burial. Here. Get these up top.”

  Between them they manhandled two barrels of thick whale oil onto the deck at the Captain’s side. Per uncorked them and kicked them over. The oil started to flow down the length of the deck.

  Finally Tor saw the plan.

  “Viking. To me,” Per shouted, raising the firebrands high.

  The knot of men around the sail tracked backwards, keeping their spears ever between themselves and the beasts that followed them. Per stepped towards them, feet splashing in the spilled oil.

  “Get behind me,” he called. “And be ready to jump.”

  Tor noticed with a grim smile that Kai was first to obey.

  “Captain,” Tor called out, looking straight at Kai. “If you need a man to stand with you, I will be proud of the honour.”

  Per turned, a grim smile on his red lips.

  “Nay lad,” he replied. “Your father would never forgive me. But come, I have a last gift for you.”

  He shucked off his wolf-skin cloak and passed it to Tor.

  “I have no more need of it. I shall be warm enough.”

  Once more Tor saw Kai’s eyes flare in rage, but the man said nothing as Tor took the cloak and fastened it with a clasp at his neck over the top of his own.

  �
��Now step back lad, and make ready.”

  The last of the Viking backed towards Per. Five beasts followed, and Tor saw they were already trampling in the spilled oil.

  “We cannot leave you,” Tor said. Other Viking had already made their escape over the side, Kai among them.

  “You must,” Per replied. “Someone will have to keep the men together. Kai doesn’t have it in him. Keep them together, and bring them safe home to Ormsdale. For me?”

  Tor nodded, but couldn’t speak lest tears came.

  Now there was only Tor and the sail-master left with the Captain, and the creatures, emboldened, came forward faster.

  “Now,” Per shouted, and thrust a firebrand down into the oil at his feet. Flame burst along the deck and the creatures erupted in flame.

  Tor and Bjorn leaped, and hit the water at the same instant. Tor turned, just in time to see Per, little more than a ball of flame, walk among the beasts, touching them with his fire.

  The wind blew snow in his eyes, and when he looked again, the whole length of the boat was aflame. The beasts howled like the raging wind as they died.

  The skin on Tor’s face tightened in the heat but he stood there, thigh deep in the cold water, long after all movement stopped on the longboat deck and the fire took hold along the whole length of the vessel.

  14

  Skald was once more drawn to the frieze on the long wall. This time he looked back along its length, starting at the carving of the Great Temple and working his way backwards. He had to drag his gaze away from the drawing of the bound giant. There was something about it that disturbed him, but he couldn’t yet bring to mind what it was.

  Besides, there was much to exercise his imagination elsewhere on the frieze.

  He looked closely at the Alma. They had been meticulously rendered in miniature, and even the drawings made Skald shiver.

  Doom.

  Further down the vast picture he found a forested path that led up to the mountains. Here was represented a battle from a time long past, when the Alma had risen up against their makers and cast them out of the Temple. Tracing the path backwards brought him across a glacial plane riven with huge cracks. The picture showed small fur clad people dragging their belongings across the ice, all the while being pursued by the Alma.