He is coming out of the wyrd.
“Tor?” Skald said, but Tor had no time to reply.
“Viking. To me,” Tor called out again.
There were four men left at the bottom of the steps, all standing as if in a dream.
“To me,” Tor called, but it was too late. Three Alma pounced, and seconds later the air was filled once more with screams. The noise was terrible, but it did not last long.
Tor looked around.
Two Alma were between them and the plinth beyond. Out on the other side stood at least ten more. They seemed confused, staring at the dead Alma at Skald’s feet.
Skald killed their leader. We may yet get free of this.
But they did not stay leaderless for long. A large male roared, and the rest of them joined in.
“Prepare yourselves,” Tor shouted.
The area between the two pillars was too wide to be defended by one man.
But two might hold it. Or at least die valiantly trying.
“Tor?” Skald said again, and this time his eyes were clear. “Is it really you?”
Tor smiled.
“Well met friend.” Tor handed Skald his staff.
“Thank you for lending me this,” he said. “Now, stand with me, this last time. Valhalla is calling, and I am reluctant to go alone.”
Kai was one of the Viking standing beside them. He looked pale and frightened. He pulled the wolf skin cloak around him as if it might somehow offer some protection.
“Skald. Give me the staff. I have no weapon.”
Tor laughed.
“You took a perfectly good sword from me. Why do you not use that?”
Then there was no more time for talk.
The Alma in front of Tor roared once more, and leapt into the attack.
The Viking held their ground as three Alma barrelled into them. Tor managed to step to one side and smack the hammer down on the nearest ones shoulder. The arm immediately went limp and the creature howled in pain. Tor brought down the weapon again and smashed the back of its skull.
Two Viking hung on to another, one at the waist tearing at its groin, the other had got his legs round the beast from the back. He pushed its head down towards its chest in a wrestling hold that Tor recognised from the training ground. The noise of its neck breaking was loud even above the uproar.
Another beast leapt forward, its hand smacking Tor on the head, sending him falling sideways. Talon like nails scratched across the iron studs of his helmet. The other hand of the beast swiped across his vision, missing Tor’s face by less than an inch. He felt the wind of its passing, and smelled the stench of damp fur. He lashed out with the hammer at the only target he could reach – the hairy foot of the Alma. The stone head crushed bone, flattening two toes into a mushy pulp.
The beast fell away sideways. One of the Viking grabbed it by the head. He shoved the head into his armpit and twisted.
The Alma fell, dead.
The Viking threw his head back and roared his victory, but the roar was cut short as a second beast bent over him and bit halfway through his neck, the victory shout turning immediately to a gurgle as blood bubbled form his torn throat. Tor slammed the hammer into the beast’s side, breaking ribs. The beast rolled away but it was too late for the Viking. He stared up blindly as Tor spun away to the next attack.
40
The two Alma between Skald and the plinth seemed reluctant to advance. Behind him Skald knew that Tor was in a life or death battle, but he could not take his eyes from the beasts. They watched him intently, standing on the balls of their feet. They swayed slightly from side to side. Skald hefted his staff, holding it with hands a foot apart, ready to strike with either end if an attack came.
But still the beasts did not advance. One of them shifted its gaze, looking at the body of the old male at Skald’s feet, then looking back to Skald. When it saw that Skald was looking at it, it averted its eyes.
They fear me.
Am I now the pack leader? Is that what this is?
Skald stepped forward.
The beasts took a step back.
He raised the staff, threatening them.
They dropped their heads, subservient.
Skald roared loudly and ran forward two steps, brandishing the staff.
The beasts bounded off into the darkness.
Skald was about to turn, to tell Tor of the development, when a large piece of stone fell from the plinth.
He looked up.
The Jotun had come almost halfway out of the stone. His whole left arm, part of his chest and almost all his head showed white, bristling fur. The eyes stared straight at Skald. The great mouth opened, wide enough to swallow Skald whole. He tried to scream, but the rock held his chest too tight, and no noise escaped. More stone crumbled and fell from the body, bringing him closer to escape every second.
“Tor,” Skald called. “To me.”
41
Tor heard Skald’s call, but could not spare the time to turn. A large male Alma stood in front of him, crouched in a fighting stance. Tor believed it was the very male who had directed the attacks on the stockade. And this was the beast that now had assumed the leadership of the attack here.
He was aware that only two other Viking still stood beside him. One of them was Kai, who had yet to take any part in the fight, seemingly struck immobile in terror. The other was a small wiry Viking, some four inches shorter than Tor himself, a man from the Firewyrm. He fought with a frenzy that equalled that of the beasts, biting as much as bitten. He was covered in wounds, streaming blood, but he roared back at an Alma and threw himself at it. It caught him in mid air and pulled him forward. Even as the creature tore his face off he head butted it, hard, bringing it to its knees. The beast broke his back but with his last act he bent forward and bit deep into its neck, tearing the jugular and sending a fountain of blood in the air. The Alma staggered, the Viking still clamped to its neck, and finally they fell together, and lay still.
Tor kept his gaze on the big male. It came forward slowly, not taking its eyes from the hammer. It smiled, showing Tor its teeth. Tor smiled back.
He showed it the hammer.
It leapt forward.
Tor tried to jump aside, but his foot caught on a dead beast at his feet. He tripped, going on one knee. The Alma screamed in triumph and Tor saw his death coming for him. He started to raise the hammer, but knew it was too late, the beast closed on him too fast.
It showed him his teeth again, opening its mouth for the killing bite. But it did not come. An arm came into Tor’s view and was thrust between him and the gaping maw. When the beast bit down it met the wrist.
Tor looked up.
Kai stood above him, grimacing in pain. Even as the beast chewed on his hand the Viking reached forward with the other and thrust his thumb deep in the Alma’s eye bringing blood.
The beast howled. It cuffed Kai on the side of the head, caving in his skull.
Kai stared straight at Tor as he fell, his eyes going dim.
“I die Viking,” he whispered. It was almost a question.
“Yes,” Tor said. “You die Viking.”
But the man was already gone, and did not hear him.
Kai’s sacrifice had bought Tor enough time to regain his balance. The beast spat Kai’s hand to the ground, as if it was unpalatable. Blood ran from the corner of one eye but its roar was as fierce as ever as it aimed a blow at Tor’s head.
He ducked under it and hammered the stone weapon into its belly. It was a sound stroke, and raised a chuff of pain from the Alma. He had not hit any bones, but blood came at the beast’s lips. It held a hand across its stomach and moaned. It pushed itself upright and screamed in pain. Blood poured from its mouth and ran down its chest.
Tor smiled grimly as it came at him again.
He ducked under another swinging arm and pounded it in the stomach again, but this time it was waiting for him. It grabbed the hammer and wrenched it from his hand. Tor tried to roll away but
a huge foot kicked him, hard. A rib cracked. Tor tasted blood in his own mouth as he smacked into one of the black pillars.
The beast loomed over him.
Tor waited for the killing blow.
It never came.
The beast stood still as a roar echoed around the cavern.
42
Skald saw the Alma’s kick and watched in horror as Tor slammed hard into the pillar. He held his breath until he saw Tor struggle to his knees. The beast raised its foot for another kick, one that would stomp Tor into the ground and crush his chest to a pulp.
Skald raised the staff above his head and roared.
All movement in the cavern stopped. The only sound was the tumble of stone from the plinth behind him, but Skald did not have time to look around.
He stared straight at the big male that stood over Tor, never taking his eyes off it.
It stared back.
It raised itself to its full height and thumped its palms on its chest.
Skald stood quiet, but he never let his eyes stray from those of the beast.
Tor staggered to his feet and made for the hammer.
“No,” Skald shouted. “This one is mine.”
If Tor had laughed then it might have gone differently, but he nodded to Skald and leaned back against the pillar, coughing, then spitting some bloody phlegm at the Alma’s feet.
Skald showed the beast the staff again, and let out a roar that echoed through the cavern and brought more flecks of snow from high above.
He took two running steps forward.
But the trick that had worked with the other two did not work with this one. It drew back its lips and laughed at him. It dropped into a wrestler’s crouch and walked forward, once more tensing and relaxing its hands.
Skald stood his ground, wielding the wood in his hands like a quarterstaff. He knew he did not have the dexterity to escape if it came to close fighting – his bad leg would hamper him too much for that. So he stood, eye to eye as the Alma came on.
He roared as it got to within six feet of him, surprising the beast such that it stopped, curious. Skald led the wood slip quickly through his palms then swung, with all the force he could muster. The beast tried to duck away but the staff caught it flush on the side of the head and more blood flew from its mouth.
Skald brought the wood back.
He thrust the staff, like a sword, deep into the Alma’s belly. Already wounded there by the blow Tor had given it, it collapsed to its knees, spewing up gouts of blood at Skald’s feet.
It turned its head and stared at him. It opened its mouth, tried to roar, but only a mewling wail came out and even that stopped as blood filled its mouth.
“Skald,” he heard Tor cry.
He looked up, and Tor threw him the hammer.
He caught it on the rise and brought it down in the same action, right between the beast’s eyes, the stone following through into the skull in a spray of brain and bone.
Skald raised his head and roared.
43
Tor turned, expecting an attack from the remaining Alma, but they all stood silent. They looked towards Skald who stood arms raised, the bloody hammer in one hand and the staff in the other.
Then Tor realised it was not Skald they watched.
It was the giant figure that tried to rise up from the rock behind him. It looked like a huge Alma, one that would tower thirty feet high or more if it ever got upright, and it had started to push itself out of the rock it was encased in.
And that is something we cannot allow.
He staggered over to Skald’s side.
“What in Odin’s name must we fight now? What is this thing?”
At first Tor thought Skald would not answer, but finally his friend whispered.
“He is like me.”
Skald did not elaborate. He left Tor’s side and walked towards the giant.
“What do we do?” Tor said. “Can we kill it?”
Skald looked back at him, then over his shoulder. His eyes widened.
“I am not sure we will have to do anything.”
Tor looked round, expecting an attack.
A large group of the small fur clad people walked up the staircase towards him, the old woman Baren in the lead.
44
Baren walked up to Skald, stretched and rapped him on the forehead.
He heard the words from the wyrding in his head.
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.
Some of the small people had already walked past them. They clambered up on the plinth and pressed their bodies against the places where the stone had turned to fur. Where they touched, they melted, flesh turning grey, hardening, their bones and blood, even their furs being incorporated into the rock.
The Jotun thrashed and screamed, dislodging rock and bringing more snowflakes down on them from high above. Slowly, inexorably, the stone crept through the fur, hardening and blackening. More of the people climbed on the plinth, clambering over the already hard bodies of their brethren to reach the exposed fur. They too melted and hardened, giving all of themselves to the stone. They smiled as it took them.
Soon all had gone to the rock except Baren.
She took Skald’s hand. She had tears in her eyes, tears of joy. She hugged him tight. She smiled up at him, then waddled to the plinth and clambered, high up, until she was level with the face of the Jotun. One huge eye glared at her. She patted a hand on the giant’s cheek, and fell against it. Flesh turned to stone.
She looked back one last time, then she was gone.
Blackness crept until all trace of white was erased and there was only the gnarled rock, the bodies of the people indistinguishable from each other where they entwined with the Jotun.
Skald and Tor stood, waiting to see if anything else might happen, but there was only stone and the soft snow falling from above.
“What just happened?” Tor asked quietly.
Skald watched the rock for a long time but there was no movement.
“They have gone to sleep with their father,” Skald said, and turned away so that Tor would not see his tears.
45
They had plenty of time to talk on their slow trek back to the settlement, but they passed most of it in silence, each lost in their own thoughts, their own pain.
No Alma followed. Indeed, they had seen none since back in the cavern. After the Jotun was taken by the rock the beasts had lost all interest in the Viking. When Tor and Skald walked back through the streets pale eyes watched them, but did not approach. Instead they shrank back into the shadows, heads lowered in subservience.
The climb down the cliff proved taxing, but Tor led the way, helping Skald find handholds, taking it slowly.
They walked across the glacier by night while the sky sang and hissed with colour and the Gods walked above.
At one point Tor asked Skald what had happened. The reply did not make much sense to Tor. Skald told of Loki, and a child who tried to be free of its bonds.
“The small people were made first,” Skald said. “But there was too much of his father and not enough of his mother in them. So he tried again, with the Alma.”
Skald had looked at Tor, tears once more in his eyes.
“I am like them,” he said softly. “I am like them all.”
He would say no more.
Skald’s mood only improved when, on the afternoon of the second day, tired and pained, they walked out of the forest onto the shore by the stockade.
A boat lay on the water, sail flapping in the wind. Sail-master Bjorn hailed them from the bow.
“Well met Viking.”
Tor raised the hammer and Skald raised his staff, and the four Viking aboard the boat banged against the deck in welcome. They waded out to the boat, almost running. Bjorn leaned over and helped them aboard.
Five minutes later they sat at a brazier, drinking hot stew and telling their tale. By the time the
y had finished the stew was doing its job and both Tor and Skald were in danger of falling asleep.
Bjorn handed Tor a long sword.
“This belonged to the Captain of the Firewyrm. It is now yours, by right of your courage.”
Tor shook his head.
“There is another Viking more deserving.”
He hefted the hammer he had used in the battle with the Alma.
“This will do for me,” he said.
He took the sword and offered it to Skald.
Skald nodded, took it, and gave it a few practice swings.
“We are Viking,” Skald said quietly.
Tor smiled.
“We are Viking. But even Viking must sleep.”
“Before that, we must decide on a course of action,” the sail-master said.
“Home,” Tor replied. “Home to Ormsdale. Our Skald has tales of glory to tell in the Great Hall.”
Tor’s head nodded forward onto his chest and blissful sleep beckoned, but he raised a smile as he heard Bjorn’s next words.
“Whatever you ask, Captain.”
End
Gryphonwood Books by William Meikle
The Watchers Trilogy
The Coming of the King
The Battle for the Throne
Culloden!
The Midnight Eye Files
The Amulet
The Sirens
The Skin Game
Berserker
The Invasion
The Valley
Island Life
Concordances of the Red Serpent
For a complete list of works by William Meikle, visit his website.
About the Author
William Meikle is a Scottish writer, now living in Canada, with twenty novels published in the genre press and over 300 short story credits in thirteen countries. His works span a variety of genres, including Horror, Fantasy, Mystery, and Science Fiction.
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