Bjólf watched him in silence for a moment, then turned to his men, determined to make the best of the dismal situation. "Let's see what we can salvage from this mess and get out of here..." Then he muttered to Gunnar, with a nod towards the father: "... before we all end up as crazy as him..."
Gunnar shrugged. "Maybe he's not so crazy."
Bjólf stopped in his tracks. It seemed Gunnar, for all his old-fashioned ways, still had the capacity to surprise him. "He's throwing his neighbours on a bonfire to prevent them rising from the grave. These are hardly the actions of a sane man. Someone of your religious convictions should at least deplore the lack of ceremony."
"Maybe there's something in his stories."
"Or maybe," said Bjólf dismissively, "he's suffered brain sickness as a result of a serious blow to the head." He turned away once more.
"I'm just saying I've heard of such things, that's all. The dead coming back, I mean."
Bjólf stared back at his friend.
"It was from a merchant..." began Gunnar defensively, his face reddening. "Last time in Hedeby." He raised his hands in an apologetic gesture. "I'm only telling you what he said." Bjólf looked from Gunnar's face to those of his men in amazement. One or two gruffly acknowledged Gunnar's words.
"I met a man last month who said he'd seen it with his own eyes," said Godwin. "South of here. Dead men walking. Refused to put ashore, even though his crew was parched. Face was white as a swan's back when he told me."
"Everyone's heard tales of draugr," added Úlf. "And more often, of late."
"Tell me you don't believe all this," said Bjólf. "Stories to scare children!"
"The people there told of fire-drakes flying in the air, and the sea boiling - terrible portents." Godwin added.
Magnus stared at the pyre, its flames glinting in his eye. "The gospels tell of such things." A few men murmured in agreement. "They say that when the dead return, it is a sign of the coming Apocalypse. The end of all things."
Gunnar nodded solemnly. "Ragnarók."
Bjólf looked from face to face in silence. "Horseshit! Will you listen to yourselves? The dead coming back! You sound like old women! One bad raid and suddenly you're doubting everything." They stood, heads hanging, like chastised infants. He pointed at them with his sword, sweeping it slowly from one side to the other. "We've seen more death than most. Never yet has someone I've put down with my sword got up again." He fixed his steely eyes on each one of them in turn. "So, tell me, has any one of you, ever, in your whole life, and with your own eyes, seen a dead man walk?"
Magnus shuffled his feet uncomfortably. "I know it's in your bible-book, Brother Magnus..." said Bjólf irritably, not looking at him. "But actually seen..."
None spoke, their eyes cast down. Bjólf turned on Gunnar.
"And you, of all people, should know better than to listen to merchants' tales. They spend half their time going to places that are just like everywhere else, and the other half inventing things designed to make them sound more exotic."
"Like 'rich pickings' you mean?" grumbled Gunnar.
Under normal circumstances, Bjólf - rarely at a loss for words - would have countered Gunnar's comment with an even more withering reply. It was the kind of exchange upon which their relationship was largely based - a relationship only made possible by an underlying, mutual respect. But just now, he seemed not to have registered Gunnar's words. His mind was elsewhere, his expression changed, distant. Beneath his helm, a frown creased his brow. "Coming back..." he muttered to himself. Gunnar looked at him, puzzled.
"You say the raiders who came before us went upriver? What is upriver?" Bjólf shook Atli's father roughly by his shoulders. The man just stared at him, vacantly. "They went upriver to see if there was anything more worth having. Is there? What is upriver?"
"Nothing." Bera stepped forward, her head raised, her gaze unwavering. "Water. A bend in the river. Then rocks."
"Rocks?"
"A ford. Beyond the fells." She waved her hand vaguely at the eastern horizon.
"Deep enough for a ship?"
"Only if you have a crew happy to drag it."
Bjólf and Gunnar looked at each other.
"It's fully-laden," said Bjólf. "They won't be dragging that ship over any rocks."
Gunnar's expression became one of slow realisation. "They're coming back..."
"We have to get out of here."
In haste, they turned to leave, Bjólf rallying his men to him. As they did so, Gunnar glanced back towards the river. His face fell.
"Too late."
CHAPTER FIVE
HELGI GRIMMSSON
No sooner had the distinctive, spiked prow of Grimmsson's ship loomed into view between the banks of dark trees than his men were pouring ashore, spilling over the garishly-painted gunwales and swarming up the grey, stony bank. They pointed and shouted, some shaking their weapons with movements that, from a distance, seemed wildly exaggerated - almost absurd. For a split second, Bjólf and his crew stood stunned - then, instinctively, and as one, tensed and tightened, locking shields, shoulders hunched, weapons gripped, muscles set, as their fate flung itself headlong towards them.
"Orders?" barked Gunnar.
Bjólf hesitated.
"It's two to one at least," came Kjötvi's voice.
"If we stand, we die," added Godwin.
"I thought we all returned from the dead nowadays," said Bjólf, tersely. Still he did not move.
Godwin gave a grim smile. "Let's not put that to the test just yet, eh?"
"Nothing focuses the mind like a blade in the belly," said Gunnar, then added - more urgently this time: "Orders?"
Bjólf knew there was only one choice. But the thought of showing his back to Grimmsson - of running... It stuck in his craw. Anger welled up and pride gnawed at him. His teeth clenched until he felt they would crack, the paralysing knot of indecision burning in his chest.
Grimmsson's men - many with their clothes awry and bereft of armour - were now pounding up the track, red-faced, the fire from the previous raid still in their eyes and the new fury on their faces clearly visible, their hurled insults already striking the ears of their quarry, their footfalls shaking the earth.
An arrow glanced off the rim of Úlf's shield and was sent high into the air. It was now or never. Steeling himself for the inevitable humiliation of retreat, Bjólf raised his sword and took the breath to give the command, when... A harsh cry from the depths of the advancing army brought the thundering horde to a shuddering halt. Bjólf froze, holding his breath, sword aloft, every sinew taut. From either end of the rutted village track the two sides eyed each other in a tense, eerie silence. For the first time, Bjólf became aware that the villagers had disappeared - no trace of them remained, except those whose corpses still crackled and spluttered upon the fire. Then the ranks of the opposing army parted, and from them stepped Helgi Grimmson himself.
He stopped a few paces from his men. Built like an ox - and, Bjólf knew, with a personality to match - Grimmsson stood, stripped to the waist, his shirt tied loosely around his middle, looking for all the world like a man called forth in the middle of a wash. He was armed only with a long, grey throwing spear and, like the majority of his men, had neither helm upon his head nor mail upon his body. Clearly, this encounter had caught them by surprise, with their guard down, basking in the glory of a successful raid. Equally clear was the fact that they had not had the time - or the inclination - to equip themselves before confronting Bjólf and his crew.
"He wants to talk..." muttered Bjólf, barely able to conceal his own disbelief.
Gunnar frowned. "But why?"
"I could take him," said Fjölvar, a white-fletched arrow ready on his bow.
"No!" said Bjólf, and, lowering his sword, took two steps forward. "Let's see what he wants."
For a moment the pair stood face-to-face across the yards of hoof-churned mud, behind one a knot of armoured men in tight formation, behind the other a steaming, panting h
orde. Bjólf debated within himself how best to approach this previously undreamt-of dialogue. Open with a joke? Grimmsson had no sense of humour. An expression of defiance? Unwise, under the circumstances. Keep it simple, perhaps. Firm and direct. Polite.
No sooner had Bjólf settled on a form of words than Grimmsson flung his arms wide and bellowed to the sky at the top of his lungs. "Odin!" The sound echoed off the distant, mist-wreathed mountains. Rooks croaked in alarm in the far treetops. "To you, I dedicate this... my enemy's destruction!" And with a great, bestial grunt he hurled the spear high over the heads of Bjólf and his men.
There was to be no hesitation this time. "Run..." hissed Bjólf - and as they turned, a great roar rose again from the throats of their foe.
What followed was chaotic and confused. With the slope in their favour as they pounded over the rise and back towards the trees, Bjólf's crew made good headway against their pursuers. But as Grimmsson's men charged down the same incline, unencumbered by mail and equipment, the gap began to close. When Bjólf and his men hit the trees, arrows, axes and other projectiles were already thudding around them. There was no time to look back. Bjólf flew along the path, lashed by branches, occasionally catching glimpses of members of his crew ahead of him, and dimly aware of others crashing through undergrowth to his left and right. The forest muffled the savage cries of their enemies. It became impossible to judge distance. Bjólf could no longer guess how close he was to capture or death. He only knew to keep running.
As the path widened and the trees became more scattered, he knew at last that he was nearing the south river - and the safety of their ship. Up ahead and converging on either side of him he could now see dozens of his own men. From the left, Fjölvar flew out from a tangle of brambles and overtook Bjólf with incredible speed, face scratched and bleeding. A long-bladed spear whizzed after him as he hurtled past, missing by an arm's length and sending a chunk of bark flying as it caught the trunk of a beech tree. To the right, Kjötvi - running full tilt - suddenly cried out and fell with a heavy thud, bowling over and over in an eruption of leaves and pine needles. From behind, crunching through the forest like a giant, came the hulking figure of Gunnar who, without stopping, grabbed Kjötvi's padded tunic, hauled him to his feet and set him back on course for the beach before Kjötvi had time to realise what had happened.
Finally, his lungs bursting, Bjólf broke out of the trees. Ahead, a few were already at the ship, their shoulders to the prow. More joined them, heaving at the old, heavy timbers. The final stretch down to the water's edge seemed to expand like a bad dream. Bjólf felt his feet - made clumsy by exertion - stumbling over the uneven stones, then sinking into the rough, grey shingle as he grew closer to the shore. Finally, close to the water, the ground firmed up; he put on a burst of speed and cannoned into the ship with his shoulder. It shifted against the grit. Gunnar slammed into it with a great roar, and the ship slid another five paces. With the cries of their pursuers ringing in their ears, the gathering men heaved at the hull. It began to move easily now, further with each effort. Turning, Bjólf saw that the first of Grimmsson's men would be upon them before they made clear water: at least five - the youngest and fittest - were already half way down the beach. But these few had run so swiftly, with such eagerness, that they were now alone - unsupported by their slower comrades. And they were without shield or armour.
As his men splashed deeper into the river, heaving the ship away from the shore, Bjólf did something his pursuers did not expect. He turned and ran at them. Bjólf barely had time to register the lead attacker's shocked expression before delivering a devastating punch to his face with the iron boss of his shield, knocking him flat and sending his axe flying. Without pausing, Bjólf swung round with the full weight of his sword and caught the second attacker across the face, his blade smashing through his teeth. He felt hot blood splash across his cheek and bits of tooth rattle off his shield. The man's momentum carried him forward, and he careered drunkenly for several more paces, his smashed, almost severed head gurgling and gushing as he finally collapsed face-first onto the rocks. He was dead before he hit the ground.
A third had gathered his wits and was on Bjólf before he had time to prepare himself, aiming a huge swing of his short axe at Bjólf's exposed shoulder. Instinctively, his head turning in anticipation of the impact, Bjólf punched upward with his shield and caught the full force of the blow. The axe blade cut through the wood of the shield, narrowly missing his left forearm, and was firmly wedged, gripped by the grain. Without stopping to think, Bjólf heaved violently with his shield, giving his assailant two choices: keep a grip on his axe and be pulled to the ground, or let go and lose his weapon altogether. The man - a wiry character with a spiky, brown beard and a missing front tooth - surprised Bjólf by immediately letting go. The man was now unarmed, but he had his feet and he was alive.
At once, Bjólf sensed he had a bold and unpredictable opponent. Without hesitation, knowing the urgent need to end this, he aimed a killing blow at the man's exposed head, but as he did so, the man surprised him again, charging at him, grabbing at the embedded axe and almost wrenching both axe and shield from Bjólf's grasp. The sword blow came down wildly but with full force, missing his opponent's head but finding another target. As Bjólf struggled to steady himself, he saw the man stagger back, staring with a strange, blank expression at the cleanly cut stumps where his hands had been, his thumping, battle-charged heart pumping the lifeblood from him, a splash of steaming red upon the dull, grey stones.
Now Grimmsson's men were coming in their droves. Bjólf turned and, not daring to look back, ran headlong for the ship - now floating free of the beach, hastily deploying oars like the struggling legs of a great insect. As he neared, splashing into the water, his throat and lungs on fire, he saw Fjölvar perched on the dragon prow, bow drawn, and aimed directly, it seemed to Bjólf, at his head. The bowstring sang. The arrow hissed past - so close, Bjólf felt the wind from it brush his right cheek. Behind him was a stifled cry; something heavy fell, catching his heel, and the sword that had meant to cleave his skull clattered past him into the rocky shallows. With moments to spare before Grimmsson's men overran them, Bjólf flung his shield over the bow of the ship and Gunnar' reached down, grabbed his hand, and hauled him aboard.
Panting heavily, his head throbbing, Bjólf lay flat on his back on the deck as the ship headed into the safety of deeper water. Bathed in sweat, his armour weighing upon him, he watched as more men joined Fjölvar at the prow to pick off Grimmsson's men with their bows. Then, as the ship turned slowly downriver, he stood, threw off his helm and surveyed with relief the receding mob left behind on the riverbank. Nodding wordlessly, he slapped Gunnar on the shoulder.
Gunnar nodded back. "I see you had to go back for a souvenir." Bjólf followed his gaze. Upon the deck was his cloven shield, the axe still embedded in it, and, still gripping it, one of the pale, lifeless hands of its owner.
He looked back over the heads of his crew, now settling into an even rhythm as Úlf, who had taken the role of rávordr - the watch position by the mast - called the strokes. Bjólf's eyes darted from man to man, only now realising that not all were on board.
"Hallgeir?" he called.
"Spear in the back," panted Finn.
"And Steinarr?"
Magnus Grey-Beard answered him. "I saw him fall on the rocks as the shore was overrun. He was last out of the trees."
Bjólf cursed under his breath. It was not their way to leave others behind. He remembered that, before the raid, Steinarr had been complaining about a loose shoe. Quite likely, it had been the death of him. Bjólf gazed through the mist towards the ugly horde on the stony bank, wondering at Steinarr's fate. Then, another distant cry went up, and before they were finally swallowed up by fog he saw Grimmsson's men turn again and make for the trees.
It wasn't over.
CHAPTER SIX
THE WHALE ROAD
Gunnar immediately sensed something was wrong. "You hurt? Apa
rt from your pride, I mean..."
Bjólf, still staring back upriver, ignored his question. "I need you to take the helm."
"Thorvald has it."
"It's going to need more weight behind it..." Gunnar frowned. Bjólf spoke without turning. "They were heading back to their ship. In haste. The north river joins us up ahead - and it flows faster than this one." Without another word, Gunnar turned and hurried towards the stern.
Bjólf climbed high in the prow, arm wrapped around the dragon's neck. "Úlf! Full-stroke on the oars!"
Some of the men - until now laughing and joking with relief, blood still fizzing in their veins - looked at one another in concern. A silence fell.
"We're not out of this yet," added Bjólf, a sense of foreboding in his voice.
With a terse nod, Úlf changed to a new chant - a song, this time, slow to begin, but gradually picking up the pace, from short-stroke, through steady-stroke, until the men were rowing at the limit of their abilities. The ship creaked and cracked, lurching forward as each pull on the oars ploughed its timbers on through the water. The song told of sailing north to Tronhjem - a cheerful song of homecoming. It was the one Úlf always used when speed was required. They needed a cheerful song then; rowing at full-stroke meant they were rowing for their lives. At other times, when the rowing was more leisurely, the men would often raise their voices together, but this song was always sung alone.
Leaning hard into the steer-board, praying to Thor that the old leather of the rudder-band would take the exertion, Gunnar steered the straightest possible course through the bends of the river, taking the ship as close to the banks as he dared. Magnus and Godwin, not needed at the oars, positioned themselves amidships to port and starboard, signalling to Gunnar at any sign of rocks or sandbanks, while Thorvald, relieved from his position at the helm, had taken up a section of planking just behind the mast-fish - the huge block of oak that held the mast - and stood waist-deep below the deck, wooden scoop in hand, ready to bail when they hit wilder waters.
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