The sword hit stone and was wrenched from his hand. It tumbled away into the night.
Tor toppled over, falling on top of the Alma.
His weight sent them both tumbling down the cliff.
The wind roared in his ears and he grabbed and tore at anything he could find that might stop his headlong rush to the ice far below.
The Alma saved him. It found a hold with its right hand, just as Tor grabbed at its mane with his free hand. He wrapped the hand as firmly as he could in the long hair and held on tight. Both of them swung wildly, and Tor thought they might once more fall, but the Alma held, huge fingers wedged firmly in a crack in the rock, arm muscles bulging as it took the strain of both bodies on one arm.
It turned its face and roared at Tor, spraying a fine mist of blood from the bloody cheek. It squirmed and threw its body from side to side, trying to reach Tor with its left hand, but he hung almost directly behind it. The Alma could not get to him without using both hands.
They hang there for several seconds, then the beast surprised Tor by starting to climb, going up nearly as fast as they had come down.
And when we reach the top, I will have to face it without my sword.
34
Night had fallen outside, but Skald became aware that it was not completely dark inside the cavern. The walls themselves seemed to glow with a silver luminescence. Skald had seen something similar from weed in the water at night in the fjord at home.
Mayhap this is something similar. But I do not think I will be allowed to investigate.
The luminescence provided enough light for him to make out most of the cavern.
All the visible nests on the rooftops were now occupied by Alma, settling themselves down, like dogs creating a sleeping space. But escape wasn’t going to be that easy. The old male showed no signs of sleep. It sat on the bed of ferns and never took its eyes off Skald. It hooted from time to time, lips drawn back in a smile, and drummed the flats of its palms on a patch of exposed stone. Skald wondered if it was quite sane.
Not that it will make any difference.
Skald’s bad leg ached with a deep pain. He longed for his staff, but that was long gone. He was forced to sit, with the leg stretched out in front of him. He kneaded it, as if he was making bread, but the pain persisted, and indeed was getting worse.
If he were back in Ormsdale, or even on the longboat, he would have escaped into the wyrd, where there was no pain, for a while at least. But he could not do that here. All that waited in the wyrd in this place was the sleeping giant, and Skald was in no hurry to face that fury again.
The old Alma laughed again, as if it had heard Skald’s thought.
And mayhap it did.
Skald remembered how easily the Alma had taken them both into the wyrd. In all his time since the accident Skald had never been in the wyrd with another being, and now, in the space of a few days, he had done it twice, with Baren and now with the Alma. He suspected it was something to do with the sleeping giant and its desire for freedom and awakening.
He was very frightened that such an awakening was not too far from coming to pass.
And it will all be my fault.
35
The Alma sped up the cliff. Tor clung tightly to its mane, trying not to think what would happen if the hair came away in his hand. They passed close to the spot where his sword was still stuck in the crack in the rock, but Tor dared not try to reach it for fear of losing his already precarious position.
Up here the air was even colder, and he felt frost at his cheeks. He tried to wrap his hand even tighter in the mane. The shoulder bag still swung at the end of Skald’s staff, and he clung tightly at the wood with his left hand.
If I lose that, I will have no chance at all.
The climb seemed to go on forever, and Tor’s right arm and shoulder had gone almost completely numb. He locked out his muscles, but wasn’t sure he would be able to hold for much longer.
He was thinking of a way to take the beast down to death with him when the Alma suddenly pulled them up onto a ledge.
Tor had just enough of his wits about him to roll off the back and scuttle to one side before the beast turned on him, roaring anger in his face.
He swung the staff in a wide arc. The shoulder bag was still accelerating as it smashed into the side of the Alma’s head. The cut on its face widened and blood poured down that side.
Tor almost cried out in triumph, but he had celebrated too soon. The beast grabbed at the bag, dragging it, and the staff, from Tor’s hands. It ripped the bag in two and the contents -- a water bag, some dried fish and the stone hammer -- fell to the ground at its feet.
The Alma dropped into a crouch and launched itself at Tor. He waited until the last possible instant and leaped to one side. The beast threw out an arm, but only caught the edge of Tor’s cloak, ripping it from his back. The beast wasted seconds tearing the cloak to shreds, by which time Tor had rolled to where the bag had fallen.
He retrieved the staff and the hammer, and when the beast turned its attention back to him he was ready for it. He swung the staff like a sword, and hit his mark, once more getting a blow in on the cut on the beast’s face. The whole of that side of its face was now a pulpy red mass. It smiled through bloody gums, two teeth hanging loosely in their sockets.
The beast grabbed for the staff, but Tor was too fast for it, spinning and swinging the wood again at its head. This time when the beast grabbed for it Tor let go.
While the Alma spent time in tossing the staff to one side, Tor rolled forward beneath its belly and smashed the stone hammer into one of its knees, feeling bone crack and crumble. The beast howled and fell to one side, all strength gone in the injured leg.
Tor stood above it, and brought the hammer down once more. The Alma raised an arm in defence and the stone head struck it full on the elbow.
Bones cracked.
The beast howled again and tried to crawl away, all thought of fight forgotten. Tor leaped onto its back, grabbing the mane in his left hand and bringing the hammer down with his right. He hit the skull on the conical point at the back. His first stroke sent the beast to its knees. His second broke bone and tore scalp, punching through to the brain below. Blood gushed over Tor’s face and he tasted it in his mouth. The beast jerked and bucked in its death throes as he brought the weapon down a third time. The stone head of the weapon went all the way through the beast’s head to hit the rock beneath.
The beast finally went still, but Tor pounded, again and again, until his arm, red with gore all the way to the elbow, got too tired to lift the hammer.
He dropped the weapon and staggered over to the water skin, drinking deeply until he could no longer taste blood at his mouth. All the while he kept his eyes on the beast, appalled at the ruin he had made.
Slowly, his heart stopped pounding in his ears, and his blood calmed. For the first time since the beast pulled them onto the ledge he had time to look around. He stood at the mouth of a large cave, looking like a black empty maw in the dim light. A slight breeze came from inside, and it smelled, of Alma.
Tor walked over to the hammer and lifted it. It felt twice as heavy as it had before. He leant over Skald’s staff and bent to pick it up. Nausea and tiredness hit him as much as if he had himself been hit by the hammer. He sat down, hard, bringing fresh pain to tired muscles and fresh blood to the cuts on his shins.
He bound the cuts with strips from the breeks. When he tried to stand again he knew that he did not have the energy to fight another Alma.
Not without rest. Not if merely standing is going to take so much effort.
He shuffled on his arse to the nearest wall and leaned back against it, looking down the black maw of the cave.
If an Alma comes now, it could kill me by merely breathing heavily in my direction.
He started to laugh, but did not even have the energy for that. He lay the staff and hammer crossed on his lap and tried to relax. He meant to keep his eyes open, but within second
s a great tiredness washed over him. His head fell forward on his chest.
Seconds later he was sound asleep.
36
Skald came awake with a start. He’d had no thought of sleeping, but the longer the night had gone on, the more tired he had become, and the old Alma had not shown any signs of going to sleep itself. Boredom more than anything had caused Skald to doze.
Dim light came into the cavern from high above. Looking upwards, Skald saw a distant patch of blue sky, thin white cloud dancing across it.
I have slept the night away. It is morning.
He pushed up to his feet, wincing at fresh pain in his leg, having to flex at the knee for several minutes before it would take his weight. The old Alma sat and watched him. It looked amused.
“Good morning to you,” Skald said sarcastically, and bowed at the waist. The Alma hooted with laughter and slapped his palms noisily on the stone beneath it.
Skald sensed movement from the corner of his eye. Beasts were waking and stretching from sleep on the rooftops around him.
The old Alma stretched its arms, pushed against the ground and stood, shaky at first, then more assured as it came towards him. It reached out and grabbed Skald’s arm, hard enough to bring pain, dragging him across the nest. At the ledge it cradled him in a huge hand, and scrambled down the side of what Skald now saw was another of the tall stone buildings. They swung down using a series of windowsills, headed for the street far below.
Across the street three large male Alma herded a sorry-looking group of Viking out of a building. They started to push them, none too gently, towards the towering black pillars at the other end of the cavern.
Skald’s heart sank.
So it begins.
37
Tor woke with a snell wind blowing cold air into his face from the cliff outside. He stood, groaning at aches and pains throughout his whole body. Stiff-legged, he walked to the ruin of his bag. He found some water left in the skin, and some dried fish that could be safely dusted off and eaten. He broke his fast looking out from the cave.
The sun was coming up far to his left, throwing long shadows across the glacier. Far away to his right the fjord glinted in the early sunlight, but both the hut circle and any boats that might be lying offshore, were hidden by the hills between here and there.
I could go back now. Bjorn will have a boat ready.
I could go back, and mayhap be Captain.
From deep in the cave behind him came a rhythmic pounding, like distant drums.
Without any hesitation he took Skald’s staff in his left hand, the hammer in his right, and followed the drumbeat down into the darkness.
38
The old Alma led Skald into the space between the buildings that might once have been a street of kinds. A beat rang out around the cavern, stone crashing on stone. As they got closer to the end of the cavern the source of the rhythm soon became apparent. An Alma stood in front of each of the black pillars, holding a large rock and hitting it against the stone pillar. The noise reverberated all the way to the ceiling of the cavern. It came back again in a booming echo that rang around them like a great bell.
The old Alma stopped when they reached a staircase between the black pillars. The group of Alma and their Viking prisoners also came to a halt and stood behind Skald.
The Alma at the pillars kept beating on the stone columns as the old one led Skald up the staircase. If Skald could have managed to run he would have fled then and there, fled screaming from the sight he knew was waiting. His stomach tied itself in knots and his bad leg throbbed in time with the beating of stone on stone.
I cannot.
He tried to pull back, but the Alma held tightly to his arm and almost dragged him up the rest of the stairs, stopping at the top of the flight.
The drumming of stone against stone stopped and silence fell.
Skald was looking at his nightmare made real. The bastard son of Loki was there only ten yards away. The stone effigy of the huge Alma lay on top of the same high plinth he had been shown in the wyrd.
Varni.
Something moved in the wyrd, the red rage of the berserker he was coming to know intimately. He forced it down.
If I let it come, I will be little more than one of these beasts.
And I am better than that.
I am Viking.
The old Alma had also felt the movement in the wyrd. It hooted with laughter then turned to look down the staircase.
It gave out two harsh chuffs.
An Alma walked forward, passed Skald and headed for the plinth. With one bite it opened up its own arm and let blood drip down onto the stone. The thick red fluid ran down the runnels and hit the stone of the statue. Where it met the effigy, the blood itself turned dark. It melted, joining with the rock and hardening.
That is why they need us. Their blood does not work, for they are made of the same stuff as the Jotun. They were made from it.
He did not get time to consider the ramifications. The aged Alma chuffed in disappointment, and the bloodied beast returned to join the others, sucking at its wound.
The old one chuffed again, twice. In reply two of the beasts grabbed the nearest Viking and dragged him towards the steps.
Some of the men had enough spirit to try to stop them. The Alma who were guarding them merely cuffed them aside as if they were no more than excited children that needed to be quietened.
The chosen man wept as he was brought up the steps. He looked straight at Skald, but there was no recognition there. He was one of Kai’s lapdogs and had been the bane of Skald’s life only months previously, but he looked at Skald as if he had never seen him before.
“Die well. Be a Viking,” Skald said as he passed, but there was no reply, only the sound of the man’s weeping. The Alma dragged the man forward. At the last second the man seemed to wake from his dream and tried to pull away from the beasts. One of the cuffed the man lightly on the head and slung his body onto the plinth.
Only then did he scream, but it was too late for anyone to save him. The Alma tore open the still living body with their hands, coolly methodically, disembowelling, tearing. The man’s guts were strewn over a wide area of stone, and still he screamed, high wailing screams that Skald knew he would hear for the rest of his life. Blood splattered on and around the plinth…but most ran down the runnels towards the statue.
Where the blood hit it, the stone began to change, lightening in colour, softening. It took on the texture of white hair and pink flesh, soaking up the blood, drinking it in.
The old Alma by Skald’s side hooted in excitement.
The screams suddenly stopped. The two Alma kept tearing at the Viking until the flow of blood slowed. Red gore covered the fur of the Alma’s thick arms all the way up to their elbows. Blood dripped in a splatter on the stone floor as they walked back past Skald, heading for the group of Viking. This time two men were chosen, the Alma lifting them as if they were babes. These men hadn’t seen the fate that waited for them -- their view was blocked by the stairs -- but they had heard the tormented screams. They kicked and screamed, trying to tear themselves free, but the Alma paid them little mind. Once more the beasts climbed the staircase heading for the plinth.
The Viking met the same fate as the first. Their ribcages were splayed open so that their lights could be fed to the wakening Jotun. Their screams echoed high above.
The statue now had a large patch of fur showing, almost the whole length of one of the arms, and beneath it the flesh moved, straining at the rock. Stone cracked and fell away as one of the huge fingers twitched.
I cannot allow this to go any further.
Skald pulled hard at the arm of the old male who held him. It looked at him, as if surprised by the rebellion, and cuffed him on the jaw with the other hand, a blow that sent Skald’s head spinning.
The red rage washed up in him again, and this time he let it come. He leapt forward, thumbs heading for the beast’s eyes.
39
When he heard the first screams Tor though he might already be too late. They echoed down the tunnel like spectral wails foretelling doom.
I am spending too much time with the Skald.
He started to walk faster, almost a run. The exertions of the day before still clung to his muscles, but as he moved deeper into the cave he started to loosen, and soon he was able to run, full pelt, down into the blackness.
He arrived in a large cavern filled with high vaulted buildings, but he did not have time to stop and appreciate the architecture. The high screaming cut off, but he had already pinpointed its source as being between the tow black pillars that dominated the far end of the cave. He headed for them at a run, expecting at any moment for an Alma to step out of the darkness in front of him.
But no one, or no beast, challenged him, and when he arrived at the clear space before the pillars he saw why. All attention was on a tall plinth behind the pillars. Two Alma carried Viking warriors up the steps to where an ancient Alma stood, holding tight to a slighter figure.
Skald!
As more screams started, twofold and louder, Tor was already running. As he passed the group of Viking he called out.
“Viking, to me. Form a circle.”
One of the Alma guarding the Viking made a grab at Tor. He felled it with a single blow of the hammer, hitting it right between the eyes. It fell, dead before it hit the ground.
Some of the Viking were fleet of mind enough to follow Tor as he leapt up the steps. Skald was there, standing over the body of a dead Alma. His hands dripped gore and the Alma had bloody holes where its eyes had been seconds before. Its head hung limply on its shoulders, showing where Skald had broken its neck.
Skald looked up, and Tor recognised the blank stare.
Berserker Page 14
