Viking Dead

by Toby Venables

  "Gøtar asked me to give you this," he said. Atli took it from him, momentarily lost for words. Like the mail, it was far heavier than he had imagined. Responding to Magnus' encouraging nod, he lifted it and placed it carefully over his head, uncertain how he was supposed to tell whether it was a good fit or not. His head rattled around inside the metal casing like a clapper in a bell. Magnus raised a finger, then reached inside his tunic and pulled out what looked like a woollen cap. "Here," he said, "you need one of these." And with that he took off the helm, then, having pulled the tight-fitting cap onto Atli's head, put it back over the top. Atli shook his head from side to side again. It was a snug fit now. Magnus smiled and rapped a knuckle on the front. "Better!"

  Atli beamed. "I should thank him..."

  Magnus shook his head solemnly. "He has passed. But this was his last wish."

  Atli's face fell at the words.

  "He knew the life was leaving him," said Magnus. "The helm was no protection when his time came. But he hoped it might help you live out longer days."

  And without another word, he turned and left Atli standing in silence. The boy could not put a name to the feelings he felt at that moment. Never had he experienced such a mix of pride and sorrow. That a man who he barely knew - a warrior - had spent his last breath upon him... As he thought of the lives these many forge-fashioned works of metal had known - these things, everything he owned, that now were part of him - his feelings resolved into a steadfast determination, a decision about how his own life should be. Whatever he did, wherever he went, he would strive to honour them all - Steinarr, Hallgeirr, Gøtar and the rest.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  LANDFALL

  "Make ready!" called Bjólf. He, too, was fully fitted out with war-gear now, more than Atli had ever seen: fine mail-coat gleaming, gold-hilted sword at his side, short seax hanging cross-wise beneath his belt, a bright blue cape over his shoulders and clasped by a gleaming gold brooch, and over that, at his back, a red-painted shield with bronze decorations on its face, and a bearded fighting axe. In his right hand he held an ash spear, its long, leaf-shaped point glinting in the sunlight. Only his helm hung from his belt, to show his intentions were not hostile.

  Every one of the other men was similarly attired, each in their own fashion, but all contrived to invoke awe in those who confronted them. In the short time this had taken, the ship had closed upon the boggy harbour, and half the crew kept up the pressure at the oars as Thorvald, who had taken the helm, guided her in. Gunnar now stood alongside his captain at the prow, his great, grey wolfskin across his shoulders.

  "Ymir's breath..." he muttered, looking out at what greeted them. "What is this?"

  Atli moved forward to get a better view. In many ways, what he saw still greatly resembled the river approach to his own village: there was the natural harbour, the gently sloping shore leading up from the water, providing a good landing place for boats, the protective banks of trees and foliage on either side. But where his home was all pebbles and shingle, here the bay was lined with dark estuary mud giving way to thick grass that, but for a worn yet oddly neglected path, swathed the long, gentle slope far inland to the boundaries of the forest, only occasionally punctuated by an outcrop of jagged, grey, moss-covered rock. And, where the woodland around his village was, he now thought, welcoming in character and pleasing in scale, the forest here was massive, thick and brooding, its gigantic forms seeming to pile up and press in on either side, ancient boughs that hung so far out over the edges of the water that one could hide a whole army beneath them. Dotting the muddy shore were five small boats - one filled with greenish water, and one so old and uncared for it had rotted through to its ribs and sat, half sunk, like a forgotten carcass. And there, way ahead up the slope, at the far end of the untended path, the first sign of human settlement; a towering rampart of whole pine trunks, higher than a house, curving away on either side until it disappeared behind the screen of trees, at its centre a crudely constructed but formidable pair of gates hanging between rough wooden watchtowers, the whole length of its top edge lined with thick, sharpened stakes.

  The men shipped the oars and, in silence, the ship slowed and came to a gentle stop as its keel eased into the mud, its prow sliding part-way up the marshy bank. Four men hauled up a long section of the deck that served as a gangplank and rapidly extended it from the port bow to more solid ground.

  "Úlf," called Bjólf. "Take Eyvind, Guthmund and Ingólf and form a watch. We do not leave anything unguarded here."

  "And keep vigil over our fallen brothers," added Gunnar gruffly, his eyes scanning the sky. "We've fed enough ravens today."

  "Amen," muttered Magnus under his breath.

  With their captain at their head, the party tramped down the gangplank and gathered on the shore, Atli making sure he was close behind Bjólf and Gunnar. It had only been a day and a night since he had first trod the deck of the dragon ship, yet now it was the solid ground that felt unfamiliar beneath his feet. He staggered unsteadily, unconsciously anticipating its rise to meet him. Even in this sodden state, it seemed strangely unmoving and implacable - a memory from an age ago that already his body had forgotten. As he moved across the muddy ground with the other men, he felt the full weight of arms and armour pull down upon him - the warrior's burden.

  The assembled men made an imposing sight - something no foe, no matter how fearsome, would wish to tackle lightly. Yet Gunnar surveyed the scene with trepidation. There was a strange air of abandonment about the place. In the mud, near the waterlogged rowboat, a familiar, grisly shape caught his eye. A human skull, bulging out of the dank-smelling mire. Nearby, the same colour as the mud in which it lay, the stark, curled claw of a ribcage. Gunnar nudged Bjólf, but Bjólf had already seen them for himself.

  "What in Thor's name is this place?" whispered Gunnar. "Is it deserted, do you think?" Thoughts of plague and pestilence still played on his mind.

  Bjólf said nothing, but simply pointed to a patch of sky immediately above the stronghold's wall. A thin column of grey smoke curled upward from its interior. Gunnar hardly knew whether to be glad or sorry.

  "We go!" Bjólf called, and they began the march to the gates, mail and war-gear clashing as they went.

  "So," said Gunnar, close to Bjólf's ear. "How do you want to handle this?"

  "Carefully. Does that meet with your approval?"

  "Does Idun have apples?"

  "Remember the old saying: where we can't raid, we trade."

  "Trade? With what?"

  "Our hands. Our wits. Our swords." Gunnar looked skeptical. Bjólf merely picked up the pace. "We have few choices, big man. Let's see what we can make of it."

  "What we can make of it..." he grumbled, then nodded towards the stockade. "What do you suppose inspired someone to make that?"

  "Perhaps a need for men just like us."

  Great, grey clouds had begun to move rapidly across the sky, casting huge, solid shadows that rolled across the landscape like striding giants. Gunnar felt the wind on the side of his face. "Hmm! Now we get a breeze!"

  Picking their way up the path, making no effort to conceal their approach, they saw no signs of life besides the trail of smoke. The path itself had been used over years, that much was clear - and here and there it seemed the damp, overgrown grass may have been trodden or parted by something - but whether any man had come this way in recent days was impossible to tell. They pressed onward without a word, crushing the covering underfoot, the grass giving up its sweet, moist scent.

  Finally, the great stronghold, an endless row of stout pine trunks, loomed above them. Still nothing stirred. Bjólf halted before the bulwark.

  "What now?" said Gunnar.

  "We do what any well-mannered man would do," said Bjólf. "We knock."

  And with that, he strode straight up to the gate and, raising the blunt end of his spear, hammered hard upon it five times.

  He stepped back. Then, at the lookout point atop the left of the two watchtower
s, a face appeared.

  "Who are you?" snapped a voice.

  "Well, at least he speaks our language," muttered Gunnar.

  He was an old man, bearded and grey, his rheumy eyes squinting and blinking ceaselessly behind his quivering bowstring. Not the most obvious choice of lookout, thought Bjólf. Little wonder their approach had not been spied earlier.

  "I am Bjólf, son of Erling, captain of these men."

  "State your purpose!" Even from here, Bjólf could hear the old man's wheezing.

  "Please, friend, lower your bow. Only I'm afraid you might let go and accidentally kill one of us."

  The man's bow dipped and trembled, his grip on the arrow faltering. Several men in the front rank of Bjólf's company winced as it wavered in their direction. "We require provisions," continued Bjólf. "Grain, meat and ale..."

  The bow drooped immediately. A look of terror had passed over the man's face. "You are Skalla's men?"

  "No." Bjólf noted the look of relief that transformed the watchman's features. "But perhaps there is something with which we could help. A trade..."

  The old man frowned. Other voices could be heard behind the stockade: one harsh, one less so, both female. The old man responded to them, then disappeared from view. The tone of the discussion turned to one of bickering, in which the watchman seemed to be coming off distinctly the worst.

  "They must not get many visitors," said Gunnar.

  In another moment, the face of an old woman, well-dressed, her hair in a fine linen hood but her expression sour, bobbed up and glared at them, then after another bout of babbling, another female figure appeared, and stood for a moment studying them, silent and unmoved, framed by the timbers of the watchtower.

  The second woman had quite different qualities - qualities which Bjólf and his men were quite happy to regard at greater length. Her neck was pale and slender, her features fine and well-proportioned, her dark chestnut hair drawn back in two elegant plaits which were wound at the back, a slim band of green and gold brocade across her forehead. From a belt about her slim waist hung a bunch of iron keys. No peasant, this one, thought Bjólf. Though little more than twenty summers, he would guess, she held her head like a queen, and looked down upon this daunting band of men with no hint of fear, a hard frown upon her face.

  "What do you want?"

  "We have travelled a great distance, my men and I. We wish to speak with the lord of this noble place."

  "There is no lord," she said. "I am mistress of its hall."

  A few of the men murmured in amazement. Bjólf tried not to show his surprise.

  "Then... we throw ourselves upon your hospitality," he said, pressing his hand to his breast, "and hope that we may offer something in return."

  "Don't offer too much..." hissed Gunnar.

  A frown crossed her face. Urgent, whispered words were uttered somewhere behind the stockade. "What is it you bring?"

  Bjólf spread his arms and gestured either side at the fearsome company that surrounded him. "As you see... No more. No less." Then, acting on a gut instinct - the instinct of an opportunist pirate - added, "This 'Skalla' you speak of..."

  The woman's expression turned to one of sudden realisation. "Then at last you have come," she gasped, and disappeared from view.

  Bjólf stared up at the empty space and, leaning towards Gunnar, allowed a puzzled frown to cross his face. "What did she mean, 'at last you have come'?"

  Before Gunnar had the chance to respond, there was a sudden uproar behind the gates, followed swiftly by a great grinding of wood against wood, a chorus of voices joined in effort, and a heavy thud that shook the earth beneath the warriors' feet. And with a deep, sonorous creak, as of something unused to movement, the gigantic gates swung inward. From its opening crept a slender figure robed in green - a two-part dress of exquisite handiwork with fine clasps of gold above and below the breast. She flew forward suddenly, and flung her arms around Bjólf's neck, grasping him tightly to her. In her wake came the old woman, arms aloft, exclaiming tearfully as she threw her own arms about an astonished Gunnar, then, upon her toes, planted kisses on each black-bearded cheek.

  Both men stood, disarmed and dumfounded, as behind them the whole company of men struggled to contain their mirth. With the fine scent of the woman's hair filling his nostrils, the soft green fabric of her dress pressed against the unyielding grey metal of his mail shirt, Bjólf turned his head and beamed at his comrade. Gunnar, the old woman's face buried in his chest, glowered back, daring him to speak.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  HALLBJÖRN'S HALL

  Though he had never encountered her like before, Atli knew at once she was of noble blood. It was not just the fine weave of her clothes, the softness of her skin and the glittering adornments of gold. It was her whole being - the way she spoke, the way she moved. She was also one of the most beautiful women Atli had ever seen, though perhaps, he thought, that was not saying much. There was, above all, a kind of dignity contained within her young frame by which one could hardly fail to be impressed. All the more odd, then, that she should fling herself at Bjólf with such abandon. Had she thought he was someone else? Some long-lost friend? Atli could not fathom it.

  As soon became clear, it was not only he who regarded the scene with puzzlement. Looking around at the faces of the others, he read in them all varying degrees of amazement. And so, bemused or not, he found himself able to chuckle along contentedly with his new-found fellows.

  "Please, forgive me," she said, releasing her grip on Bjólf, her face flushed, her head bowed, as if with sudden embarrassment. "We had given up hope..." She smiled and wiped away a tear.

  As she withdrew her hand, something caught Bjólf's eye. He caught her hand in his. Around her pale, slender wrist was a thing he had seen only hours before, in the grim, fog-bound delirium of that long night on the heaving ocean. It was the simple, solid band of a bracelet, formed of two interwoven strands plaited carefully together - each no thicker than a barley stalk - one blood-red, the other crow-black. For the space of two breaths he stood with her small, delicate hand held between his rough fingers, scrutinizing it intently, a frown spreading across his forehead. "Where did you get this?" he said.

  The woman's face reddened. "It was a gift," she said, seeming suddenly downcast.

  "It is very distinctive," said Bjólf. "Are there... many like it?"

  "One other. But it is lost. As is its owner..." - she struggled to recover her composure, her voice wavering - "my husband."

  The old woman, who had now released Gunnar from her clutches, clasped her hands together and gazed tearfully at her mistress. Turning the band around her wrist, momentarily lost in thought, the young woman looked up at Bjólf, cocking her head quizzically. "Why do you ask?" she said. A look of vague hope then lit her features. "You have seen its like before?"

  Bjólf slowly shook his head. "No. Never."

  Her eyes lingered on him for an instant, then she gathered herself, standing straight and smoothing her hands down her dress. "I welcome you to Björnheim. I am Halldís, daughter of Hallbjörn, jarl of this land."

  "Bjólf, son of Erling," responded Bjólf with a bow of his head, then gestured towards Gunnar. "And this..."

  She held up a hand, silencing him. Atli was impressed.

  "You and your men are surely tired and in need of refreshment after your long journey. And we should not linger longer than necessary outside."

  Indicating for them to follow, she turned and moved swiftly towards the narrow opening from which she had come, the old woman scuttling behind. Bjólf and Gunnar registered her nervous glances towards the dark edges of the forest that surrounded them. They exchanged a silent, questioning look - then led the band of warriors between the great, rough-hewn wooden gates to the interior.

  What met their eyes as they entered was a bizarre mixture of sights. Within the colossal stockade lay a wide, open space of grass and beaten earth in which were arrayed a great variety of sturdy, wooden buildings, of
considerably greater age and quality than that surrounding wall. Up ahead, at its centre, past houses, barns and a forge and dominating the view, stood a huge hall, its great roof curved along its length like an upturned boat. The thick timbers that supported it were sturdy and of exceptionally fine craftsmanship, the gable ends delicately carved with intertwining patterns of branches and vines, all filled with stylised representations of birds and beasts, the richly decorated boards crossing at the peaked roof and finished with the elegantly sculpted, curving heads of horned stags. Rarely had Bjólf seen a hall of such scale and grandeur.

  Yet all about, the haunted, hollow-cheeked faces of the rag-tag band of villagers that silently greeted them seemed to tell a quite different story. For the size of this settlement, they were pathetically few in number and curiously devoid of vitality. Ragged, thin and baffled of expression, they were composed of the leavings of society: the old, the crippled, the infirm, the weak of body and mind. Among them, Bjólf counted less than half as many men as women, and of those, barely a single one between the ages of twelve and forty. Halldís' limited retinue - the nobility among the population - were also few in number, and, despite the few trappings of wealth and the healthier disposition that came with it, seemed ill-equipped to protect even this sorry crew. Of them, only Halldís and her companion - the old woman, Ragnhild - seemed to stand out as still stout of heart, undefeated and indefatigable.

  Gunnar had been wrong - the place was not deserted. But the dead, stultifying air of emptiness and desolation hung about its neglected beams and rafters as surely as if it had been left in the keeping of ghosts. A deep, portentous thud sounded behind their backs as the gates were pushed shut, and a huge bar of wood was heaved into place by its weary-looking custodians. For good or ill, Bjólf, Gunnar and the rest were now captive within this strange, necrotic netherworld.