Berserker

by William Meikle

  And finally he came to the settlement itself. The picture showed the small people building it while, in the hills above, Alma watched.

  Baren came and took his hand. She pointed at the Alma, then at a firebrand, and then back at a small drawing of one of the beasts rearing away from a flame.

  Skald nodded.

  Fire. They fear fire.

  There was a commotion at the mouth of the cave, and another of the small people came forward and dragged Skald outside. The cold and the snow immediately bit at his face, but he could just make out what had the people so excited.

  Down below, an orange glow showed, even through the snowstorm, and distant wails of pain could be heard in the wind.

  Tor.

  Skald grabbed a firebrand in one hand, his staff in another, and headed for the path. The small people, similarly armed with brands, followed behind in a line snaking down the hill like a fire-wyrm.

  The orange glow got steadily brighter as they descended, but the only noise that Skald could now hear was the whistling of the wind. Snow coated his cheeks and the going underfoot was treacherous, but the thought of what might have happened below was too much to bear and Skald threw himself in a headlong rush down the hill, skidding and sliding all the way.

  By the time he arrived at the edge of the settlement the whole of the far side of the town seemed to be lit in red and orange flickering. Dark shadows ran between the buildings, but there was no sign of any Alma. Not even a footprint.

  Skald was aware that the small people had gathered behind him in a tight bunch. Baren came forward and stood at his side as they walked through the settlement.

  The first thing that Skald saw when they reached the shore was the burning wreckage that had once been three longboats. Flames reached high into the air, despite the snow and wind, and the noise of wood snapping in the heat sent out loud cracks.

  A group of Viking stood on the shore watching the flames.

  Where are the others? There are but thirty men here.

  Skald walked all the way up to the group without being seen. Everyone was too intent on watching the flames. He searched the line, but could see no sign of Tor. The Captain was clearly visible in his long wolf’s cloak. Skald touched him on the shoulder… and nearly fell on his arse when Tor turned and looked down at him.

  Tor clasped him in a bear hug.

  “Well met old friend, I thought we had lost you too.” Tor said, then stood back when he saw the group of followers behind the Skald.

  “I see you have found some friends,” Tor said.

  Skald smiled.

  “And I see you have found a new cloak. And a sword. We have tales to tell each other.”

  Tor nodded.

  “But not now. We need to get to shelter.”

  For the first time Skald noticed how drawn and tired his friend looked. That, and something else. He looked older and bigger somehow.

  He has become Viking.

  “Come,” Skald said. “We can fit some in the cave, but not those from the other boats.”

  Tor had a lost, forlorn look.

  “There are no others Skald. We are all that have come out of the water.”

  Skald didn’t get time to reply, nor even to digest the information, as Kai turned and saw him, then looked past him.

  He laughed bitterly.

  “First trolls and now fucking dwarfs. Are we yet in Midgard or have we truly come to Swartheim?”

  One of his henchmen stepped forward, sword raised, stepping in front of Baren.

  “Let us kill them Captain. Kill them and be done with this place,” he said

  Skald stepped between the man and the woman. Tor moved to join him.

  “We have need of the hospitality of these people if we are to survive this night,” Tor said.

  “People?” Kai spat out a laugh. “Such as these are not people.”

  Baden pulled at Skald’s cloak.

  They are better people than you Kai Persson.

  Tor and Kai stared at each other, hands on swords, neither moving

  Skald realised that he had missed something important. But now wasn’t the time to consider it.

  “Come then Tor,” Skald said. “You at least shall share their hospitality with me. The rest can take their chances with the Alma if that is what they wish.”

  Still Tor did not move. Then he relaxed, and laughed.

  “I believe you have the correct plan Skald,” he said. “But we must do as our Captain commands. However I am certain our Captain does not want his charges standing on this beach all night. Is that not right Captain?”

  Kai eyed Tor suspiciously, then looked away.

  Bjorn the sail-master came to stand beside Skald and Tor. Five other Viking moved to join them.

  Tor could be Captain. Mayhap he should be.

  Then he had no more time to think. Baren pulled at his cloak once more and, with the mummery, explained that the Alma would return, as soon as the fire from the boat died down.

  Skald nodded.

  He looked from Tor to Kai.

  “We must go now. The Alma have no liking for the fire. But they will return, once the snow and the sea quench the flames.”

  Indeed the fire on the water seemed to be less bright than before.

  Kai seemed unsure. Either that, or he was unwilling to make a decision. A wild roar from out in the storm decided the matter for him.

  “We shall shelter with the Skald,” he shouted. “In the morning things will be clearer.”

  Skald led them all back through the settlement, and the fire-wyrm once more snaked up the hill.

  15

  Tor was last to enter the cave. He had one last look around him before going in, but nothing could be seen in the snow and the wind. There was nothing to show of the battle, no sign that the best man he had ever known beside his own father had gone to Valhalla. He strained, hoping to hear the noise of good cheer and the banging of shields as a newcomer was welcomed into the Halls.

  But there was only the mournful whistle of the wind, bringing with it a biting cold, even through the thickness of the wolf-cloak.

  He stepped inside the cave, and immediately wished he had stayed outside. A thick, musty smell hung heavy in the air, and with the press of bodies and the burning firebrands it was stiflingly warm. But he hardly had space to lift his arms from his side, never mind remove the fur cloak.

  He did a quick headcount of the Viking.

  Thirty. Thirty out of near a hundred. By Odin’s name, these beasts will pay dearly for that.

  Skald pushed his way through the crowd to Tor’s side.

  “There is something I must show you,” Skald said. “Then we will tell our tales.”

  Tor let himself be led over to a long wall. As he crossed the cave small hands reached for him, stroking the fur of his cloak.

  Skald stopped in front of a long frieze that had been carved into the wall.

  “This tells the story of these people,” he started. Tor listened as the story was laid out for him. Skald was about to show him the silver pendant when Tor spotted Kai watching them.

  “Keep it hidden,” he said softly. “And do not tell the others.”

  Tor told the tale of Per’s ending, tears flowing down his cheeks as the memory of the immolation came flooding back. When he finished, he sat in silence, neither he, nor Skald, having the words to hide the depth of their despair.

  They were not alone. Injured or not, the Viking present all felt the loss of their Captain deeply, though none spoke of it.

  The small people did their best to be hospitable, and handed round endless bowls of fish stew, and a fermented brew made of milk that smelled terrible, but proved far more potent than any mead. Coupled with the perils of the day and the shock of losing so many comrades, most of the Viking took to it with gusto. There was none of the merriment that usually accompanied their drinking. No songs were sung, no tales told, and the women of the small people were left alone as Viking after Viking descended in
to their cups as fast as the cups would allow.

  “Skald,” Kai called out. “A tale. A tale to lift our mood this night.”

  “Our mood is as it should be,” Tor said.

  Kai tried to stand, but fell backward too drunk to maintain balance.

  “You will do as your Captain commands,” he shouted, still trying to sit up.

  Tor moved forward, but Bjorn held him back.

  “Best do as the Captain says,” the sail-master said. “And do not press the matter. The lad has lost his father.”

  Aye, Tor thought. But his mood is not as it should be.

  “It is of no matter,” Skald said to Tor as he stood. “I am Skald. This is what I am here for.”

  Skald started to recite, and the Viking grew quiet.

  Long ago there was a fisher-wife who lost her husband. Blaming the Gods, she called down a curse on them, and her curses reached to Asgard itself where the lambs died and the harvest rotted and the sea gave up neither whale nor fish for a year.

  Odin saw, and with Loki visited her, and pleaded with her to lift the spell. She replied that she would…if the Gods could raise a laugh in her, for she had not laughed since her husband had died.

  So Odin took out his glass eye, and pulled faces, then made the eye appear to look out of his ear, his mouth, and even his belly button. And through it all the fisher-wife remained stony-faced.

  Then it was the turn of Loki. Taking off his belt he looped one end around the horns of a goats in the field around the fisher-wife’s cottage. The other end he looped around his testicles. Then he roared, scaring the goat so much that it took off at speed, dragging Loki along behind it by his balls.

  Loki screamed in pain.

  The fisher-wife laughed for a week.

  The curse was lifted. The woman had learned to laugh again, Loki had learned something of the ways of the female mind, and Odin had learned how far Loki was prepared to go to get his own way. None of the three would forget the lessons they learned that day.

  Several Viking laughed, but their hearts were not in it. Tor smiled ruefully as Kai, stretched out on his back on a fur rug, started to snore, ropy drool dribbling from the corner of his mouth.

  “There lies our fine Captain,” Bjorn said, arriving at his side.

  Tor spat on the ground.

  “If we survive this Viking, I shall never follow him,” he said.

  “Nor shall I lad,” Bjorn said. “But come. You too must rest. We will have much to do on the morrow.”

  A small fur clad person – Tor was not sure whether it was male or female – showed him to a rocky shelf that was laid out in furs. Skald was already nearby, sleeping, but not soundly. His eyes shifted wildly behind their lids, and he muttered to himself, about Jotun and stone.

  “Hush Orjan,” Tor said, laying a hand on his friend’s brow. “You can be Skald again in the morning.”

  Skald went quiet, and started to snore. Tor smiled and laid himself down on the furs. He was asleep almost before he rested his head.

  He woke to sunshine in the cave mouth and the sound of Viking paying dearly for the excesses of the night before. He hadn’t thought it possible, but the stench in the cave was worse now than before. Skald was no longer there on the furs nearby, so Tor went outside in the hope of meeting him, and some fresher air.

  Kai sat in the cave mouth, head in his hands and groaning.

  “Fucking dwarfs,” he said as Tor passed. “Cannot even make proper mead.” He coughed, spluttered, then had to hang his head over the side of the cliff as a milky white fluid came up.

  “Have a good morning Captain,” Tor said, and was almost cheerful as he made his way down the slope in the morning sunshine. The snow had frozen into a crisp crust that crackled underfoot, and the wind had fallen to the merest whisper. Tor’s better mood lasted only as long as it took him to look down at the smoking ruins of the three longboats.

  He got to the shore to find Bjorn directing salvage operations.

  Skald sat on a rock, staring out to sea, lost in the wyrd. Tor knew there would be no talking to him for quite some time. He walked over to where Bjorn inspected a large piece of sailcloth washed up on the beach.

  “Can we save anything?

  “Nary a thing,” the older man said. “Mayhap about a third of the hull of the Firewyrm where the wind kept the worst of the flame off, but that will be about all.”

  “Provisions?”

  Bjorn shook his head.

  “We found two braziers, kept intact due to being iron, but everything that could burn has gone. We have a full sail, but no boat to put it on.”

  Tor motioned around at the forests on the hillside.

  “Can we rebuild? We only have need of one boat.”

  “I have been wondering that myself lad. That decision is for the Captain to make.”

  Tor stared out at the black scarred skeletons of the longboats.

  “Are there any bodies?” he whispered.

  Bjorn kept his voice low.

  “Nary a one,” he said. “Neither Viking nor beast. And there is worse. Come.”

  He led Tor to the far end of the shore where the sea loch butted close up against the forest. A small patch of snow covered gravel was all that separated the water from the tree line. Footprints studded the snow – deep, wide footprints too large and too heavy to be made by men. Alongside some of the prints were long deep gouges that went down through the snow into the gravel below leaving brown runnels that were easily followed.

  Drag marks.

  “The bodies have been dragged away?”

  Bjorn nodded.

  “Then we must follow,” Tor said. “We cannot leave them in the hands of those beasts.”

  “Follow?” Kai said behind them. “Follow who?”

  “Our kinsmen,” Bjorn said. “The beasts have taken their bodies. Without proper burial, they will never find Valhalla.”

  Kai looked into the forest then spat in the gravel.

  “There will be no following,” he said. “See to your boat-building sail-master. I want to be on the water and out of here in three days.”

  He did not give Bjorn time to reply as he turned and went back along the shore, pausing only to throw up more of the milky-white fluid.

  Bjorn looked at the forest, then back at the boats.

  “We must obey. He is our Captain.”

  Tor said nothing, and stood looking into the woods for many minutes after Bjorn had left to continue the salvage.

  16

  Skald came out of the wyrd with a start, almost falling off the rock on which he sat. He was confused by what it had shown him, for all he had seen was a retelling of Loki’s Testicles as he’d told it in the cave. It was a comic story that he’d told often in the Great Hall, for it always amused the wife of the Thane, even on the twentieth telling.

  Why would the wyrd show me the old story? Why tell me about Loki?

  He wasn’t given time to think. Most of the Viking were now down on the shore, some helping with the salvage, others merely standing, staring in horror at the ruin the fire had made of the longboats.

  “Viking. To me,” Kai called out. Everyone responded. Some moved faster than others, and many still looked pale and sick from too much fermented brew. Soon the surviving Viking had all gathered around.

  “We will not cower in the cave with the dwarfs another night,” Kai said. “I need five men to work with Bjorn on the boat. The rest will build. I want a stockade around the central huts. And I want it done before nightfall.”

  At first the Viking did not move, but Kai’s three henchmen stood beside him, and one by one the men moved off to start work.

  Tor stood, unmoving, staring at Kai.

  Kai broke first, turning on his heels.

  Bjorn dragged Tor and Skald away.

  “Come lads. Let us build our Captain his boat.”

  And so began one of the weariest days of Skald’s life. They spent the morning dragging timbers out of the freezing water and sort
ing them on the shore, burnt from merely singed. The shore and area around them soon became a slushy mess, so cold that Skald ceased to feel his toes after only ten minutes, and after an hour he was sure that his feet were no more flesh, but had instead turned completely to ice. By the time they broke for rest Skald’s whole left leg felt like a cold slab of stone, and it moved about as easily.

  “We can do this Orjan,” Tor said, coming to sit beside him. “You should rest. I have not seen you so pale since the night of the fall.”

  “Please do not remind me,” Skald said. “At least then I was lying swathed in hot furs with a fire to warm me.”

  “Rest then,” Tor said. “No one will think less of you.”

  Yes, they will.

  Tor was blind when it came to how others saw him, but Skald did not have that luxury. He knew he was seen as weak. He would never be Viking, and the men all knew that. They thought him feeble, and they were afraid of the wyrd. In combination, that was enough for them to already think less of him. If he did not work with the rest of them, it would be just another step lower for his status among them, and he was already near as low as he could get.

  “Just give me five minutes,” Skald said. “The leg will ease. I will work.”

  Tor looked like he might say something, but he kept quiet.

  Skald was thankful that his friend didn’t press the matter.

  For, in truth, I might weaken and do as he says.

  And I would only regret it later.

  The small people brought a hot fish stew. It contained too much salt, and only warmed a small part of his insides, but the rest had given time for some feeling to creep back into his leg.

  Then it was time to get to work hewing timber from the forest. Twenty Viking worked among the trees, and every one of them looked at least once to the high ground above them. No man was ever more than six feet from a weapon or ten feet from a fellow Viking.

  But the Alma did not come.