Berserker

by William Meikle

  I almost wish they would, if it means I can rest.

  He was immediately disgusted by the thought. But all afternoon he had watched as the stockade was built and stakes were laid. The structure had taken shape, and already they were at work building an interior walkway.

  They are making better progress than we are on the boat at least.

  The sail master announced they had cut enough timber. It was all laid out along the beach, a mixture of old and new timbers of varying lengths. Now Bjorn had them sorting it into piles. Skald shifted wood until his hands bled and his leg could hardly take his weight. And still he worked, only his will keeping him going. The men grumbled and complained against the cold and damp, but Skald said nothing, lost in a world where all he knew was how to lift a piece of wood and place it somewhere else.

  The sun was going down when Bjorn finally called a halt for the day. Skald sat back on the same rock as before and was not sure he would ever be able to stand again. Every muscle in his body cried out for rest, and he could scarcely remember anything of the day beyond the pain. Viking began to head for the shelter of the stockade, where smoke told of fire, heat and sustenance, but Skald could not stand, could not get his arse up from the cold rock.

  It was Baren who got him moving. She arrived in a hurry, and did her mummer’s play of the Alma that Skald was starting to know only too well.

  It was so comical that he laughed, and forgot how tired he was. It obvious that she did not find it funny. She danced around him, clearly agitated, gaze flickering between Skald and the gathering shadows under the trees.

  Finally he caught her meaning.

  “Tor,” Skald called. “They are coming.”

  Baren grabbed Skald’s arm and heaved him to his feet, so fast that he nearly tumbled over. Only his staff saved him from going headfirst to the ground. She kept pulling, insistent, dragging him along the shore. She pointed up the hill to their hiding place, and pulled hard at him again.

  “Tor,” he called. “She asks for us to go to the cave.”

  Tor strode over and stood beside them.

  “Kai will not go,” he said. “He mistrusts these people.”

  “Kai is an idiot.”

  “Hush,” Tor said. “We all know it. But he is Captain. We must do his will, or forfeit our own lives.”

  “Do his will? Even he himself does not know what that is.”

  “Nevertheless, that is what must be.”

  “This cannot be right.”

  “Mayhap not,” Tor said. “But it is our way. We follow him until he is dead, then we choose another.”

  “Then maybe someone should make sure he dies soon,” Skald whispered. “For the good of those that remain.”

  Tor looked shocked, as if a great sacrilege had been committed.

  “If another had said that, I might have killed him on the spot,” he replied. “Do not ask me of this again Skald. I will not go against the Viking way.”

  Skald turned his back and took the old woman’s hand.

  “If you will not go, then I will,” he said. “If Kai wants a Skald, tell him to come to the cave. I will have no more of this foolishness.”

  He waited just long enough to see if Tor would follow.

  He did not.

  “You will die on this beach,” Skald called back.

  “Then I die as Viking,” Tor replied.

  The last Skald saw of his friend was the wolf’s cloak swinging as he walked into the new stockade alongside sail-master Bjorn.

  17

  The stockade gate was sealed behind them as soon as the last man came in from the shore.

  “Where is the Skald?” Bjorn asked.

  “With the small people,” Tor replied. “He wishes to learn more about them.”

  “They are short, they are ugly and they smell,” Bjorn said laughing. “What else is there to know?”

  That is what I am wondering.

  He was remembering the carving on the cave wall, and the silver pendant they had given to Skald. Obviously there was more to be learned. But Tor knew well enough that only Skald would have the wits to do the learning. He looked up the hill to where Skald slowly followed the small woman up the path. Even from here Tor could see that his friend’s limp was much worse than it had been earlier.

  He will be safe. And my place is here. Where there is fighting to be done.

  He put all thought of Skald to the back of his mind, content to know that his friend was in a place that had obviously kept the small people from harm for many generations. He remembered Per’s last words to him.

  Someone will have to keep the men together. Kai does not have it in him. Keep them together, and bring them safe home to Ormsdale. For me?

  He turned his attention to the defences. Kai had ordered them built, but good Viking strength had done the real work, and Tor noted with satisfaction that they had built well. The stockade was built of newly hewn timber, a thick sap still fresh and running down the sides in places. It stood nearly ten feet high, two logs thick all the way round, and looked to be thirty yards across at its widest, encompassing the eyes, nose and mouth huts of the face he’d seen earlier from above. The outer circle of huts lay beyond a ring of tall pointed stakes facing out from the base of the stockade wall at a sharp angle, each no more than two feet from the next. Firebrands had been placed at six-foot intervals along an internal walkway, which was patrolled by Viking carrying tall spears.

  “They have done better than I had expected,” Tor said to Bjorn.

  There was a harsh laugh behind them, and they turned to see Kai and his henchmen.

  “Mayhap your Captain is right after all?” Kai said. “A good Viking wall is more fitting protection than a dwarf’s cave.”

  “Mayhap we shall find out what our Captain is made of when the beasts return,” Tor said. “Will you be leading the defence, or hiding in the midden like a maiden?”

  Kai’s eyes flared in anger.

  “When we return to Ormsdale, I will stand before the Thane in the Great Hall, and you will return that sword, and that cloak, to its rightful owner.”

  Tor laughed at him.

  “And I shall continue to wear it in honour of its rightful owner until that day comes.”

  Two of the henchmen reached for their swords, but Bjorn stepped forward.

  He looked Kai in the eye.

  “A good Captain knows whom his best men are when a fight is coming,” he said.

  Kai took his eyes from Tor and looked at Bjorn.

  “There is a fight coming,” he said. “I will grant you that much.”

  Once more he turned away to avoid Tor’s stare. His henchmen followed.

  Tor spat at the ground.

  “You should have let him try,” he said to Bjorn.

  The sail-master shook his head.

  “We will need every man before this night is out. I can feel it. Besides,” he said, clapping Tor on the shoulder. “There will be another time. He will not always walk away.”

  “Good,” Tor replied. “For I am ready for him.”

  Night came quickly, a star-studded night with a full moon that reminded Tor all too much of the white faces of the Alma.

  “Come inside lad,” Bjorn said. “It will be colder than a witches teat’s tonight, and you’ll need some stew inside you.”

  Tor shook his head.

  “I shall stay,” he said.

  Someone should.

  Kai had gone into the largest roundhouse near on an hour ago, and had not shown his face again since. After twenty minutes Tor had taken it on himself to walk the stockade, talking to the guards, showing them that someone cared that they were out in the cold keeping watch. Two of the guards had called him Captain.

  He did not correct them.

  He walked the circumference of the walkway, finishing above the gate. Snow gleamed, silver in the moonlight, light dancing off the trees like faerie spirits.

  Overhead Odin’s Wagon straddled the sky.

  Look d
own on us tonight Odin. Look down, and send us your protection. For we shall have need of it.

  He dropped his gaze from the sky, checking the stockade, then the rest of the huts of the outer circle. Finally, he looked high up on the hill. A red glow showed at the cave mouth where the small people had retreated to safety.

  Be well Skald.

  Part of Tor would have been happy, up there in the cave, drinking some fermented milk and listening to Skald recite the old tales. But the other part, the larger part, could scent a battle coming. His blood sang and his arm forever reached for the hilt of the sword at his side. The beasts had killed the nearest thing he had to a father.

  And they will pay dearly for it.

  Bjorn came and joined him on the wall.

  “Jarryd has found some barrels of fish oil in the huts. It is foul stuff, but it will burn well enough. Come, help me get them up on the parapet. We will have need of them I think.”

  For the next ten minutes Tor helped to heft the barrels of oil, ten of them. They placed them at intervals around the walkway, each near a firebrand. As they placed the last barrel down, Tor thought he caught a flash of white from between the trees at the shoreline, but when he turned there was only deep shadow.

  Tor and Bjorn walked the perimeter, checking the defences.

  “We have done as much as we can lad,” Bjorn said, “Now will you take some food?”

  At the thought, Tor’s stomach rumbled loudly, like distant thunder. He followed Bjorn into the roundhouse and accepted a bowl of stew that was thrust at him. Kai sat silently at the hearth alongside his three henchmen. Tor and Bjorn ate in silence, but Tor could see that most of the men were tense, expecting an attack at any moment.

  If Skald were here, he would tell a tale, remind them of glory. Remind them that they are Viking.

  Tor stood.

  “We have no mead or ale,” he said. “But I would have a toast, even if it is only with this stew.”

  He raised his bowl.

  “Last night we lost many Viking. We lost our Captain.”

  His voice grew stronger as he warmed to the task.

  “They are out there, the beasts that killed our brothers. When they come, we will show them the error they have made. We will send them to Helheim where they belong.”

  He raised his bowl again.

  “To our dead. We shall avenge them.”

  Many of the Viking stood and hailed him. All save Kai and his henchmen. They sat at the hearth, brows like thunder, saying nothing.

  Tor finished the stew and headed back out to the wall, expecting an attack at any moment. But none came, and when Tor’s turn for patrol arrived, the man he replaced told him to expect nothing but a cold boring watch.

  “The fire has scared them away,” the man said. “We shall not see them again.”

  Tor thought otherwise. He had seen the beasts closer than most.

  They will come. They are too much like us not to.

  But for several hours it went as the man said. Tor’s head ached from the strain of peering into the dark shadows under the trees, and he had to walk briskly along the parapet to stop the chill settling in his bones. High on the hill the red glow from the cave showed bright in the darkness. Waves lapped on the shore, bringing the soft rattle of pebbles as they receded. But there was no sign of the Alma.

  Halfway through his watch Bjorn brought him another bowl of fish stew.

  “Drink it fast lad,” the sail master said. “It tastes even fouler now than it did earlier, but it is warm, and that is the important thing."

  Bjorn looked out over the beach as Tor ate.

  “Kai talked to me,” he said in a whisper. “He wanted to know how quickly I could have a boat, any boat, ready. He is still sitting by the hearth in the hut, shivering like a maiden on her wedding night, shitting in his boots at the thought of another fight.”

  He spat over the parapet.

  “How Per managed to father one such as that I shall never know. I have talked with the others,” he said. “We will follow you if you wish it.”

  I wish it. But I cannot.

  “For better or worse,” Tor said. “He is Per’s son, and Captain by right. I cannot kill him.”

  Bjorn spoke softly.

  “And if someone else were to do the job for you? What then?”

  Tor was spared having to answer as the first noise came in the silent night.

  There was a soft whuff, then a high pitched hooting that echoed around the hills.

  At first Tor took it for an owl, for it did indeed sound similar to the hunting calls of the snow-white owls that arrived around Ormsdale in the first days of winter. But these calls were deeper, and where the owls hunted in pairs, this call was answered by many more, dozens more, out in the forest to the east of the settlement.

  The night air was full of the sound, which rose, and rose again into a wailing howl. Tor had heard something like it once before, when a wolf pack was choosing a leader, but that had not shaken him all the way down to the bones like this did. The wail caused his helm to vibrate and thrum against his ears, and loosened his bowels such that he thought he might shit right there and then.

  “Rouse the men,” Tor said. “They are here.”

  Even as Bjorn left his side, the first of the Alma walked out of the trees.

  It was a big male, silvery-white in the moonlight, almost glowing. It stood there for ten seconds, looking around the settlement, and studying the stockade. Tor lifted a spear from where it leaned on the wall, but the distance was too far to contemplate.

  He watched the beast, and it watched him. If this one had been in the fight the night before it showed no sign of it. There were no wounds on its body, and it rippled with muscle under sleek fur. It was difficult to gauge its size, but it could not be less than nine feet tall. The head was even more conical at the rear than any Tor had seen before, and even from the front the shaggy mane showed, being blown in a slight breeze.

  It put huge hands to its mouth, pursed its lips, and hooted, five times in quick succession.

  As if from nowhere, a horde of tall white figures strode out from the shadows.

  They were all large males, and Tor lost count at forty. They stood behind the first one on the shore.

  He is the leader. They wait for his commands.

  Once more Tor considered the spear. If he could take out their leader this battle might be over before it had begun. He gauged the distance.

  No matter how many times I look, it will still be too far.

  Behind him he heard the sounds of Viking preparing for battle. The shadows in the stockade flickered in black and red as all the firebrands were lit and the air was suddenly full of the stench of oily smoke.

  The Alma began to shuffle forward slowly.

  I hope we have built this stockade as well as it looks. For we will need it this night.

  In seconds all of the Viking were armed and arranged around the walkway. But the beasts showed no signs of being in a hurry. The big male strode, in long loping strides, along the beach, inspecting the timbers that had been laid along its length. It picked up a log that had taken three men to carry and threw it aside casually, sending it rattling across the stony shore. It sniffed at the burnt pieces from the longboats, and raked through them with his feet. Finding nothing, it hooted again, and Tor thought there might have been a tone of derision in the sound.

  The beast walked back along the shore to the settlement and inspected the empty huts in the outer circle, walking completely around one of them, pulling at the thatched roof, pounding a huge hand against the stone wall. It came to the midden where the Viking had killed the first female and stood, head bowed, for long seconds.

  It is mourning their dead.

  There is where we made our mistake. Odin save us, and allow us time yet to make some more.

  Bjorn once more came to Tor’s side.

  “Mayhap they are merely curious?”

  Tor laughed bitterly.

  “I th
ink we both know better than that by now friend. They are beasts made for fighting. And we have brought their blood to a boil. Mayhap if we had let the female leave, then we may have avoided this. But now the fight is coming. And we brought it on ourselves.”

  The big male bent to the shore and hefted a rock bigger than a man’s head with as little effort as Tor would have made if lifting a pebble. Without warning it threw the stone, straight at the stockade. Tor flinched and ducked involuntarily, but the rock was missing them by some way. It hit the wall five yards to his right. A large chunk of wood split away and the whole wall rang with the shock.

  The beast hooted loudly, and the Alma behind him came forward.

  “Do we have any archers?” Tor asked.

  Bjorn shook his head.

  “We recovered but one bow from the longboats, and no arrows.”

  Tor looked out to where the beasts stood. They bent, and started to lift rocks from the shore.

  “Then pray to Odin that this wall is as strong at it looks,” Tor said. “For it is about to be tested.”

  There was a dull thud as a rock hit the wall only feet from them.

  “And it might be best to keep our heads down,” Tor said as they ducked under the level of the timbers.

  Rocks struck all along the wall, rattling like heavy hail on a helm. Splinters of wood flew in the air. Some rocks flew over the wall to crash heavily onto the ground. One particularly large stone crashed clear through the roof of one of the huts inside the stockade. Tar Petrsson lifted his head too high above the parapet and a rock caught him full in the face, crushing his skull like an eggshell. A larger rock hit the gate and the wood cracked, like a sudden thunderclap from an overhead storm.

  “Will the wall hold?” Bjorn shouted.

  Tor chanced a look around the stockade. The attack was concentrated on an area near them, just to the right of the main gate.

  “If they target the gate we will surely be in trouble,” he said. “But the wood here is strong. It will splinter and bend. But it will not break. Not unless they start throwing larger rocks.”

  “Then let us pray they are not as strong as they look,” Bjorn said.

  Rocks continued to rain down on the stockade, and no man would lift his head above the parapet for fear of losing it.