Feeling strangely numb, he pulled at the strap around his neck as a sharp prod from the captain's sword urged him on. He spoke without thinking. "There's no-one guarding your ship."
The big one laughed. "Everyone knows what a dragon-ship means. No one who values their life will go near."
"But what if they have no fear? What if they are stronger?"
"Then we don't want to meet them, and they're welcome to it!"
It seemed these men even approached the prospect of failure with a kind of boundless confidence - certainly far beyond anything the people in his village possessed. Except, possibly, Bera. Now, that was a revelation... Atli had always found her a cantankerous, difficult sort, her stubborn ways typical of the old folk hereabouts. Yet, he began to realise, she was as different from her fellow villagers as a wolf from a goat. She had no fear - of others, of the world, of herself. Yes, that tough old widow was was more like these vikingr than most of the surrounding menfolk could ever hope to be.
Whether she or anyone else would live to see tomorrow was the one question Atli was now trying to put out of his mind.
The moment the men entered the shade of the trees, they fell silent. Shields were hurriedly hoisted off backs, helmet straps pulled tight and empty hands filled with weapons. All knew this was the most hazardous part of the raid. Forty vikingr, armed to the teeth and with the advantage of surprise, were more than a match for any village, no matter how bold its population. But there was always the unknown, the unpredictable. Regardless of careful planning and advance information, none could be completely sure what they would find, nor who or what they would encounter first. By chance they might run into another from the village, as they had the farm boy - but this time, perhaps, the stranger would scream or shout, or run from the attackers and raise the alarm. In this way, even the smallest child could treble their casualties.
The path narrowed as they drove deeper into the forest. No one spoke. Only the scratch of branches and brambles against wood and metal and the rhythmic pounding of their feet - made heavy by arms and armour - accompanied their swift advance. The sharp smell of damp pine and bruised bracken filled the air. All knew that being forced to move in single file by tangled bush and shrub made them vulnerable. From beneath the eye-guards of his helm Bjólf's eyes instinctively scanned every tree and shadow, calculating where he would place archers, a trap, men with spears. Hemmed in and spread thin as they were, they would be easy prey for an enemy who was prepared.
But Bjólf knew they would not be.
There was to be little finesse about this attack. No sophisticated strategy, no circling around to seal off escape routes. Bjólf knew there was nowhere - and no one - for the villagers to run to. Today, it was about speed. They would hit hard and fast, taking what they could while their quarry was still reeling from shock. A single hammerblow. He was proud of the fact that, in the past, they had often achieved this without a single casualty.
Looking ahead, he gave a tug on the lad's lead and spoke in a cautious whisper. "Little man... six hundred of your paces or six-hundred man-paces?"
"M-my paces."
"Then we're close."
Up ahead, the trees were already beginning to thin out and, beyond, Bjólf could see gaps of light where the forest gave way to a clearing. For an instant, a light breeze brought the unmistakable scent of smoke and pigs to his nostrils. He pulled at the strap around the boy's throat, jerking him to a sudden halt, and raised his sword. As one, the rest of the company stopped.
Listening carefully, but hearing nothing, Bjólf gestured them forward slowly. They spread out in the dappled light as the close undergrowth gave way to a more even covering of ferns and wild garlic, its thick aroma filling the air. Here and there, a few plants still in flower dotted the forest floor. They paused again, their target now visible from the cover of the trees.
"Fjölvar!" hissed Bjólf. The lean, thin-faced young man came forward. He was one of the least armoured of all Bjólf's crew, with no more than a hide coat upon his back and a soft leather Phrygian cap upon his head. From his back, he unslung a bow, ready strung and almost as long as its owner. From his belt hung a quiver thick with arrows, some fletched with white goosefeathers and some with the mackerel-striped brown of a pheasant. The man's eyes - close together, and peering from either side of a narrow, beaky nose - remained firmly fixed on the boy.
Bjólf turned to Atli. "We'll take things from here," He removed the strap from around their guide's neck and slung it back over his shoulder. "Don't run." As he said this, Fjölvar placed a white-feathered arrow with a barbed iron tip on his bowstring.
Crouched behind the abundant tangle of grasses that marked the edge of the trees, Bjólf and Gunnar looked out upon the village. Ahead, speckling the gentle hill that rose before them, was a scattered collection of thatched houses and barns, each accompanied by small, crudely constructed, but sturdy animal pens. Beyond, across the undulating landscape, stretched acres of lush pasture and growing land, some patterned by rows of cultivation, age-worn paths and the occasional, winding fence. From each dwelling curled a peaceful whisp of woodsmoke, and, between them wound a muddy, heavily-trodden track which disappeared over a rise, beyond which lay the rest of the settlement, ultimately bounded by the northern river. It was an idyllic scene - but for the thick column of black smoke coming from over the rise, and the complete lack of any signs of life.
"Where is everyone?" said Bjólf.
"And where's their livestock?" replied Gunnar. "I can't even see a chicken."
"Do you smell pigs?"
"I smell them. I just don't see them."
Over to their left, just beyond the nearest dwelling, a muddy hog pen lay empty, its gate tilted and broken. Up on a distant slope, in a far corner of an enclosure, a single sheep stood, the only fleck of white upon the hillside. A living thing, at least. To its lonely, urgent bleating, nothing responded.
Gunnar grabbed the farm boy by the shoulder and gave him a shake. "What's going on, boy?" The boy looked at the weirdly empty village, then back at Gunnar, bemused and speechless. The baffled, anxious expression on his face did not reassure them. Gunnar narrowed his eyes, surveying the unnervingly still scene.
"I don't like the look of that smoke." A gust brought the smell to their nostrils again - but there was something else detectable in it; something acrid. From somewhere, caught on the same wind, came the sound of a woman wailing. "You sure about this?"
Bjólf wasn't sure. But what was certain was that they needed supplies of meat, drink and grain at the very least if they were to continue on. He pursed his lips. "Go in fast. Get what we need. Get out."
Gunnar nodded. Bjólf hefted his shield - red-painted - off his shoulder and spoke without turning to his men.
"Finn - you take the left." Wide-Face face nodded. "Godwin you take the right. Gunnar, Thorvald, Kjötvi, Magnus and Úlf - you're with me." Two-Axe, One-Ear, Grey-Beard and another huge man with blond plaits and arms like hams strapped into leather arm guards moved in to join Bjólf and Gunnar.
There was a moment of silence, all muscles tensed, then at a signal from Bjólf, they broke from the trees.
CHAPTER FOUR
BLACK SMOKE
Swiftly, silently, they moved on the village. Finn and Godwin's companies took each flank, and, as they approached the knot of buildings, the two bands began to disperse, pairs of men splitting off and bursting into each dwelling, while Bjólf and the others headed straight for the heart of the village, weapons raised, eyes alert.
The men moved swiftly from house to house, their passing accompanied by the sounds of crashing from within as beds and chests were overturned. "Nothing," called one, emerging back into daylight. They moved on to the next.
"Nor here..." called another.
"Try the barn," called Gunnar.
"Empty."
"The chests have been broken open..." spat Finn, striding out of the nearest house.
"There must be someone here," said Gunnar. "I smell
cooking." So did Bjólf. But there was something about it, different from the honest smells of stew and woodsmoke.
"Keep looking!" barked Bjólf. But his sense of unease was growing.
"Blood," said Kjötvi. Bjólf followed his gaze and saw a trail of fresh gore, and signs that something had been dragged. An animal?
"Rich pickings, you said..." hissed Gunnar, as more men emerged empty handed.
"It was a reliable source," Bjólf shot back. "He's never failed us before."
"Bjólf!" came a voice. It was Finn, emerging from one of the farthest dwellings. In his outstretched hand he held his sword. From it, hooked over the blade, hung a small iron scythe. And, still gripping the scythe's crude wooden handle, a severed hand.
Gunnar scanned the empty village and sniffed the air again in agitation. "There's something very wrong here."
Up ahead, Bjólf suddenly became aware of a single figure, right in the middle of the muddy track. A big man, ragged, staggering slightly, eyes and nose streaming, a mixture of blood and soot smeared across his forehead. He stopped dead when he saw them.
Without hesitation, Bjólf marched up to him, sword raised. But before he could do or say anything, the man collapsed to his knees, sobbing.
Bjólf stared at him. "Get up!" he shouted. "Get up!" Slinging his shield on his back, he grabbed the man's torn tunic and hauled him to his feet, his sword blade against his throat. "Answer me quickly. Where are your valuables? Your food? Your animals? Don't think you can hide them from us. We know all the tricks - and trust me, you will give them up."
Inexplicably, the man began to laugh.
"We have nothing!"
"They all say that," growled Gunnar.
"No, you don't understand..." He choked out the words between bouts of sobbing laughter. "There's nothing left! They took it all!"
Bjólf's blood ran cold.
"'They'?"
The man frowned and looked from one to the other. "Moments ago. Vikingr like you." He pointed a shaky hand towards the far end of the village. "You just missed them."
Bjólf and Gunnar stared at each other in disbelief.
"Regroup!" shouted Bjólf, a note of unease in his voice. "And stay close." He grabbed the man roughly by the shoulder, spun him round and shoved him onward.
As the party of men followed the curve of the wide track, adrenaline still pumping, a group of ragged women and children came into view. Several of the women were on their knees. One pulled at her own clothes and wailed hysterically at the sky. Beyond them, a great fire raged. At first, Bjólf could not make out what it was about it that brought back buried memories. Then the wind gusted, carrying a smell of burnt meat and tallow. And he realised. What he had first thought to be thick branches in the huge pile of wood were the twisted limbs of men. Bodies were heaped one upon the other, crackling, spitting, bubbling. Sizzling fat dripped into the earth, bones cracked, body parts popped and spat and sent jets of steam into the smoky air.
"Gods!" breathed Gunnar. "What happened here?" But it was plain to see. Whoever had raided the village had hit them hard and fast. Efficient. Seasoned. Merciless.
On the pyre, something moved - still alive. Bjólf shuddered.
"Is this how you treat your dead here?" said Godwin, barely able to hide the revulsion in his voice. "You should show more respect, give them the proper rites, or they will surely come back to haunt you."
"No! We have to burn them." said the big man. He gesticulated wildly as he spoke and clawed pathetically at Bjólf's sleeve, a hysterical tone to his voice. "We must send them up quickly. To stop them coming back. It can happen. I've heard of it! It's the only way to be sure..."
Some of Bjólf's crew - battle-hardened though they were - were visibly unsettled by the man's words and the weird, grisly scene. But Bjólf knew it was not fear of death or physical threat that got to them. It was something much worse. Something harder to fight.
"This is a bad omen," said Finn.
"Ah, he's lost his wits," said Bjólf dismissively, and spat in the mud. "Do you blame him?" He was well aware there were superstitious men among his crew - warriors and sailors were the worst for that. But he needed to keep them focused. He turned to Gunnar, speaking now so the others could not overhear. "Can you believe this? No raids for years - no one even knowing it was here - then two at once! This is not turning out to be a good day."
Gunnar sighed heavily, surveying the chaos. He could tell by the damage to the bodies that those who hit this place knew exactly what they were doing. And that was not all. "Could've been worse," he said wistfully. Then, after a thoughtful pause, added: "We might've run into him ourselves."
Bjólf eyed him for a moment. "Then you're thinking what I'm thinking..."
Gunnar nodded.
"Grimmsson." Even uttering the name made Bjólf's teeth clench.
"Looks like his work."
"It couldn't be anyone else." Bjólf waved his sword in frustration at the bodies heaped on the crude funeral pyre. "Look at this mess! These peasants are not the sort to resist. But killing five or six straight off as an example... That's his way." Gunnar nudged the big man with his axe. "You! How many were there?"
"More than I've ever seen. Seventy or eighty at least."
"And the sail of their ship - what colour?"
"Red!" wailed the big man, a bubble of snot bursting beneath his nose as he whimpered at the memory. He flung a wild arm past the fire and smoke, where the village broadened out and dipped down to the bank of the northern river, whose waters were clearly visible. "That's where they came... Took everything. Then off upriver. Just like that. They've ruined us!" He fell quivering to his knees.
There was no doubting it, then. For Bjólf, it was yet another reason to detest his rival. Not that he needed one. He hated everything about him. His brutality, his arrogance, his massively inflated ego. And, most of all, that fucking red sail... Only Helgi Grimmsson was possessed of the kind of vanity - not to mention bad taste - to have an entire ship's sail dyed red. The man had too much money and no honour. Unfortunately, he seemed to attract an exceptionally large number of men - all of whom were as dishonourable, foolhardy and dangerous as him. And with the opportunities for freelance operations dwindling as more regions came under the sway of kings, it was becoming increasingly likely that they would run into Grimmsson's sadly far larger vessel. And that, Bjólf knew, was a confrontation that he could not win.
"Got the same tip as us, I reckon," muttered Gunnar.
"And got to it first..."
"Payback for Roskilde..."
Bjólf stared dejectedly. But, in spite of everything, he was counting his blessings.
As the vikingr launched their attack, Atli had crept cautiously from his hiding place at the edge of the trees and made his way into the village. Everything that had been so familiar for so long - for his whole life - suddenly seemed strange. A kind of panic gripped him. There was no sign of Yngvar's pig, nor of his fowls. Tools lay here and there, as if suddenly abandoned. He had seen the warriors advance ahead of him, and heard their shouts to one another, seen the disarray as he passed dwellings with their doors swinging open. But nothing had prepared him for the sight that finally greeted him: the spitting flames, the acrid smoke, and the stunned looks on the faces of all gathered there. What had happened here? As he approached, a pair of cowed figures appeared on the track. Bera, her face set in a grim expression, and a younger woman who Atli knew as Úlfrún, her features deathly pale and weirdly blank, as if suddenly deprived of the ability to show emotion. They were dragging something between them on a blanket. A body. As they struggled past dejectedly, the head flopped out from its wrappings, its lifeless eyes seeming to gape at Atli. It was a horrific sight: the right cheek purple and swollen almost beyond recognition from some massive blow, and the lower jaw hanging completely off, swinging horribly as they plodded along.
It was Yngvar.
Atli watched as the women shuffled on towards the fire, Bera's gaze catching his. It seem
ed to cut through him. He felt sick and confused, not understanding what had happened. As he drew closer to the pyre, through the wafting, bitter smoke, he saw, near to the captain and his big companion, a pitiful figure crouched upon the floor. The man had his head in his hands, but Atli recognised him immediately.
Bjólf watched Bera and Úlfrún heave the limp body onto the fire, sending a shower of sparks into the air, their faces red from its fierce heat. A blackened skull rolled out of the heap, smoke billowing from its eye sockets.
"Old woman," said Bjólf, a note of pleading in his voice, "why are you doing this? It's madness."
Bera stared back at him and shrugged. "What else can we do?"
He regarded his men, then the villagers. "Well, we'll take some firewood at least. It's better keeping the living warm than the dead."
The big man on the ground looked up, a slightly crazed expression upon his face. "Oh yes, why not?" He laughed, and stood up. "Take it all! Take our homes!" And with that he rushed to the nearest house, trying to pull pieces of wood off it in a frenzy. "Take this! We've no need of it now! Yes! Burn it! Burn it all!" Clawing hopelessly at the solid door and frame, sweat flying off his fevered brow, he succeeded only in tearing off a few meagre strips and several of his fingernails before finally collapsing once again in a sobbing heap. Bjólf and Gunnar watched with a mixture of pity and contempt.
"You can have mine."
Bjólf turned to find the farm boy, standing, arms outstretched, holding his bundle of sticks towards him. The big man on the ground gawped up at the boy in shock, struck dumb. He returned his father's gaze in silence. As boy and man faced each other, the resemblance was suddenly clear. Both Gunnar and Bjólf noted the look that passed between them, and understood.
Bjólf nodded slowly, a flicker of a smile creeping across his face. "Take it back to the ship," he said, packing the boy off with a slap on the shoulder. He looked back once, then ran headlong towards the forest, the bundle under his arm. The boy's father raised his head slowly, tears welling up in his reddened eyes, and held Bjólf's gaze. "A curse on you and all your kind," he said in a hoarse whisper. "May all you've killed return to claim you." And with that, his head fell again.
Viking Dead Page 3
