18
Skald was asleep and dreaming. He knew it was a dream; he remembered falling into it, and could feel his sleeping body as a presence some way removed from him. His leg still hurt, and that also told him this was a dream, for in the wyrd, his body was always whole again and pain free.
Where the wyrd and Midgard felt like two aspects of the same reality, the place where he was now was far removed from either. He floated in a vast empty blackness, with no sense of either up or down. He hung there for a long time, but felt no urgency to move -- no panic. He merely waited, curious to see what would happen next.
“For sure, this is the strangest dream ever. At least the fever dreams after the fall had something happening in them, even if they made no sense.”
But eventually he became aware of movement, far away at first, but getting closer all the while.
Something danced in the dark, something huge and heavy. He felt it first through the soles of his feet, but soon his whole frame shook, vibrating in time with the rhythm. His head swam, and it seemed as if the very darkness melted and ran. He was alone, in a vast cathedral of emptiness where nothing existed save the dark and the pounding beat from below.
Shapes began to move in the dark; wispy shadows with no substance, shadows that capered and whirled as the dance grew ever more frenetic.
He was buffeted, as if by a strong, surging tide, but as the beat grew ever stronger he cared little. He gave himself to it, lost in the dance, lost in the dark.
Voices rose in a chant, but he understood none of it. It did not matter. He was at peace. He floated up and away from the other dancers, away from the darkness, ending high above where he was finally able to look down.
A vast figure lay bound on a huge high plinth. From this distance Skald could not make out any details. But he could clearly see the Alma.
All around the bound giant, the hairy ones danced.
Scores of them.
He woke, confused. It was if the dance went on, for he still heard a rhythm. But there was no dance to this, or if there was it was a frenzied jig that he wanted no part of.
The noise came from outside the cave. He made his way to the mouth. Three of the small people blocked his way, insistent that he should stay inside.
The noise sounded louder still here, and it was driving Skald to distraction that he did not know its source. He pushed at the small people, but they would not budge. He pushed harder, angry now. Still they did not move.
He screamed in rage, and they jumped, almost as if he’d hit them. Their eyes went wide and they cowered away from him, moving quickly out of his way.
Skald suddenly felt ashamed at scaring them.
But I do not have time for apologies.
He went out onto the ledge. When he looked down on the settlement below it felt like his heart had stopped and he had to force himself to breathe.
The moon lit the whole scene in sharp outline. The Alma stood in a group on the shore where it butted up to the edge of the forest, throwing rock after rock at the stockade.
The stones flew in high arcs, tumbling through the air. Skald felt a heavy pain in his leg and the memory of his own tumble down the scree slope came vividly to mind. But even when he had finally stopped rolling and hit bottom that fateful day, it had not been with the force with which these missiles hit the stockade.
If it had been, I would be in much smaller pieces.
Even from high above the noise was almost deafening. Chunks of wood flew in the air from the stockade wall, and Viking cowered on the walkway, unable to lift their heads.
The wall will hold.
He could see that, and had just relaxed a fraction when a large male Alma raised hands to his lips and hooted.
The barrage of rocks stopped.
The big male strode forward and inspected the stockade wall from a distance. Skald couldn’t see its face, but imagined an air of puzzlement being there. Small piles of rock lay at the base of the stockade wall. The wood was pocked with scars that showed as white streaks in the moonlight. In two places the outermost of the timbers had broken and fallen off leaving a jagged stump.
But the wall held.
The beast strode all the way round the stockade.
He is looking for weaknesses.
When it returned to the shore the beast raised its hands to its lips and hooted loudly.
A group of Alma advanced on the stockade.
The siege proper had begun.
19
It finally fell quiet.
The Viking stayed under the parapet, fearing a possible trap.
All was still for almost a minute.
“Is it over?” Bjorn said, whispering.
“There is only one way to know,” Tor said.
He risked a look over the battlement. The beasts were all still there, lined up along the shore. The large male lifted his hands to his lips and hooted. Alma advanced on the stockade, silently, like white ghosts, steam rising off them in the chill night, giving them an almost spectral air.
“It is not over. It is only just beginning,” Tor said.
All around the stockade Viking still knelt or sat below the level of the wall where they had cowered during the barrage.
Where is Kai? He should be rallying them.
There was no time to wait.
“To arms,” Tor called loudly. “Make ready. They are coming.”
All along the wall Viking stood and stared at the beasts.
“In the name of Odin,” a man standing near Tor said. “We cannot fight such as these. We must flee.”
Bjorn smacked the speaker hard across the face with a gloved hand, rocking his head sideways and bringing a gout of blood from his nose.
“We stand. If we die, then it is the will of the Gods, and we will tell tales of it in Valhalla,” Bjorn said.
The man looked at him sullenly.
Bjorn drew his sword.
“You have a choice,” he said, showing the bloodied man the blade. “Fight like a man, or die like a dog.”
The man backed away, wiping blood from his nose. But there was no more talk of fleeing.
Bjorn raised his sword and shouted.
“We are Viking!”
“We are Viking,” the men responded, and beat a rhythm against the wall of the stockade with sword and spear. They started a chant, well known to Tor from many nights in the Great Hall. He had never expected to be singing it to beasts such as these. Every man joined in and the pounding song echoed in the hills even as it stirred Tor’s blood, readying it for battle.
Hail, Viking! Hail, sons of Viking!
Now is the time for glory and blood
Now is the time for strength and iron
Our fathers in Valhalla await us.
We shall meet in the halls of the brave.
Hearing the noise the Alma raised their heads and as one gave out a series of barking coughs as they came on, a martial rhythm in time with their steps.
A battle song. They too have songs.
Tor realised they had seriously underestimated the intelligence of their enemy, but it became a moot point very quickly as the Alma walked to the foot of the wall and started to methodically break up the stakes that had been placed there. They threw huge logs aside as if they were mere twigs, and tore at the wall itself.
The Viking had been expecting a group of uncoordinated beasts that would attack them blindly, giving them the chance to pick them off one at a time.
And now we shall be undone by our hubris.
Splinters flew as the beast’s talons tore at the wood. The heads of the creatures were several feet below Tor, but he would have had to lean over too far to get in a killing blow, and he was reluctant to get anywhere close to the reach of one of those huge hands.
“Oil,” Tor called. “Use the oil. It is all that will save us.”
Below Tor two of the beasts had already torn all the stakes away and loosened one of the timbers of the main wall. Bjorn heaved a barrel up onto the
lip and Tor removed the bung, gagging at the acrid stench that arose from the oil.
The sail-master poured more than half of the thick foul liquid down the side of the wall where it formed a slick. It pooled at the beasts’ feet and confused them enough that they stopped their attack on the defences to investigate. One of them bent and rubbed a huge palm in the fluid. It lifted the hand to its mouth and its nostrils flared in disgust at the stench, making it draw the hand away quickly. More slowly now, it licked the palm with a massive red meaty tongue, drew back its lips and looked up at Tor.
Not only do they have songs. They also smile.
But they will not smile for long.
The beasts returned to their assault on the wall.
“They are almost through,” Bjorn shouted.
Tor dropped a firebrand, just as the beasts tore a large timber free. They tried to force their bodies through a small gap into the stockade, and roared with rage when they found the gap too narrow.
The firebrand hit the ground and lit the oil. It went up with a whoosh, the heat of it singeing Tor’s eyebrows as he pulled back. He just had time to watch the fire catch in the fur of the Alma before the flame spread up the wall and he had to retreat away from the heat.
Below him the squeals and screams of beasts were terrible to hear. All along the wall the same act was being played out. The air filled with the stench of burning hair and flesh and a dense black smoke hung like a pall over the wall.
Now it was Tor’s turn to smile, although there was little humour in it.
The smell of cooking flesh started him salivating and he gagged, almost threw up, at the thought. He had eaten bear meat on a hunt last winter, but somehow that was different. These beasts, whatever they were, were close enough to men to make the thought of eating them a sickening one, and he felt ill to the pit of his stomach.
Screams finally, thankfully, fell away to piteous moans.
Then, finally, the night fell quiet except for the crack and crackle where the walls of the stockade yet burned.
He looked out over the settlement. The large male stood, watching as Alma burned. A dozen of them lay charred and still at the base of the stockade.
The beast showed no concern for the dead. Instead it watched the flames intently.
And soon, so did Tor, for parts of the stockade were now well aflame. The patch of wall where Bjorn had poured the oil burned furiously, as if the oil itself had sunk into the wood turning it into a huge firebrand. The wood cracked and spat, sending smoking sparks flying high into the air.
Bjorn stood at Tor’s side.
“At least we shall not perish from the cold,” the sail-master said.
They both watched the fires.
“Shall we put out the flames?” Tor asked.
“We are caught between the rocks and the maelstrom,” Bjorn said. “If we put out the flame, the beasts will attack and overrun us. If we do not, the stockade will burn and then the beasts will attack.”
Out on the shore the remaining Alma showed no sign of being in a hurry.
“Mayhap we can choose a third way,” Tor said. “Do we have any oil remaining?”
“I have half a barrel here,” Bjorn said. “And there will be more. By my count there are six fires burning. If luck is with us we may yet have three or four barrels worth.”
Tor smiled grimly.
“It will have to be enough.”
“What are you thinking lad?”
Tor was thinking of Per, walking among the Alma on the longboat, touching them with flame. But now was not the time to remind the sail-master of the death of their Captain.
“Mayhap we can trap them and lure them in,” he said. “Let us discover just how much like us these beasts are.”
It took ten minutes for Tor to prepare his plan. In that time the walls burned further, but there were no breaches, and the Alma stayed back on the shore, well away from the flames.
Kai arrived just as they were finishing preparations. He looked flushed, but it wasn’t exertion or excitement that Tor saw there. He realised with disgust that it was fear.
Tor spat at Kai’s feet.
“Where were you when the beast’s attacked? Shitting your breeks again?”
“You cannot speak to me like that. I am your Captain.”
Tor laughed in his face.
“Then mayhap you need to start acting like a Captain. A Captain would have been on the wall with his men, not cowering inside like a maid.”
Kai’s hand went to his sword, but Tor didn’t flinch. He just smiled again.
Kai looked to Bjorn for help.
“We must flee,” he said. “We must go back to the cave. We will be safe there.”
Bjorn and Tor both laughed.
“Safe? You wish safety?” Tor said, disbelieving. “What kind of Viking are you?”
“There’s the gate,” Bjorn said to Kai, pointing. “Do not let it bang you on the arse on the way out.”
Kai was getting desperate, his voice high and whining.
“If we leave now, we can take the firebrands. The beasts will not attack us. They fear the flame.”
Again Tor laughed.
“I doubt these beasts fear much of anything at all. But go, if you must. Take as many with you as will follow. We Viking will stand.”
Kai looked around the men. His three lapdogs walked to his side, but no one else moved.
“I am your Captain,” he called. “You must follow me.”
“We are Viking,” Bjorn said quietly. “And we stand.”
“Defy me, and your lives will be forfeit when we return to Ormsdale,” Kai shouted. Tor saw that the man was close to tears.
His father would be ashamed to see him like this.
“Then they are forfeit,” Tor said quietly. “It shall be better to die bravely here than to run home with our heads hanging low and be branded cowards.”
“I order you to follow me.”
No one moved to join him.
“Fools,” he said, and spat at Tor’s feet. He lifted a firebrand and headed for the gate. He put a hand on the locking timber just as a deep pounding started on the other side of it. The timbers shook, and more sparks flew from the nearest fire, but the gate held.
For now.
Kai backed away fast.
“It seems you must stand with the rest of us,” Tor said, smiling. “Try not to disgrace the memory of your father.”
Even as Tor spoke a white arm appeared at the top of the wall above the gate, grasping for grip. The nearest Viking slashed down with his sword and the beast fell away, but, as Tor suspected, they learned fast. Along that stretch of the wall, more hands grasped for purchase, and the defenders were stretched to keep the Alma at bay.
“Well lad,” Bjorn said. “It seems we have need of a Captain willing to fight. Are you ready for the job?”
“At least as long as this battle lasts,” Tor replied. “But that may not be overly long.”
He felt a sudden grip of fear and pushed it away angrily.
“Get six more of the men up on the wall. The others I shall need down here.”
Tor got the Viking working on his plan while Kai watched on sullenly.
Behind the gate they concentrated the Viking, two ranks of them in a half-circle around a patch of ground on which they piled the roofing materials of the huts. The men stood back while Bjorn and Tor doused the whole area thoroughly with oil.
Tor stood and watched as the thatch sucked up the liquid.
“Will it be sufficient?” Bjorn asked. “We have one barrel remaining.”
“It will have to be. I may have use for the remaining one. Open the gate,” Tor shouted, and men to either side drew away the timbers that held it closed.
“This ruse will never work,” Kai called out. “Listen to me. We must flee. Mayhap we can reach the forest in safety.”
This time most of the men responded by laughing, and Tor smiled grimly.
“If it does not work, we shall be drinkin
g ale in Valhalla within the hour. And we shall explain to your father why you did not happen to be travelling with us.”
Then there was no more time for talk. The gate started to swing open under the weight of the doors, only six inches at first.
A hairy arm came through the gap and grabbed at the edge of the door, pushing it open with force. The door swung wildly, hit the inside wall of the stockade with a crash, and fell aside.
A large group of Alma cautiously moved inside the stockade.
20
Skald saw the door being thrown open and the Alma start to funnel inside, slowly at first, then with more confidence as they were not challenged.
He understood Tor’s plan, and had watched his friend organise it with pride.
I am not so sure as he that it will work.
There were now more than ten Alma inside the stockade, hemmed into a tight group by spear-carrying Viking. They loomed over the men, the smallest of them head and shoulders taller than even the tallest Viking. Outside the stockade the big male stayed well back on the shore, watching proceedings intently, and a group of nearly twenty more stayed on the beach around him.
They need more of them to enter. Even if the ruse works, they will not kill enough of them.
Inside the stockade the Alma advanced toward the Viking. Several of the men stepped back, the tips of their spears shaking and showing their fear.
“Stand firm,” Tor called, his voice carrying all the way up to where Skald stood.
“We hold them here.”
The Viking put their feet on their spears and created two rows of iron points ahead of the beasts.
Tor stood just behind the two lines, watching the beasts come forward. He hefted a spear and sent it straight into the heart of the nearest Alma, punching through its chest in a spray of blood that covered the beasts behind it.
“Now,” Tor shouted, and Skald saw Bjorn light the straw even as the noise of the shout reached him.
The straw burst into a high yellow flame and Skald had to look away from its brightness. The Alma howled as they burned, first their legs, then their torsos, the flame getting higher and brighter as it reached the hairy manes down their backs and flared in raging haloes around their heads. The pain sent the beasts into frenzy. They threw themselves at the defending lines.
Berserker Page 9
