Shrunk against the gunwale, half-slumped in horror, Atli scrabbled backwards at the sound as if to put more distance between him and this new nightmare. Next to him, the old, rusted spare anchor - the very one Háki the Toothless had swung with such crushing effect at the jaws of Grimmsson's men - shifted noisily at his elbow and fell flat against the boards. At the sound, the dead parody of Magnus turned, baring its teeth, and lunged at the boy.
Atli flung himself out of the creature's way as several men - snapped out of their reverie - jumped forward in an attempt to restrain it. As they did so, its arms finally sprang free of its linen bindings and flailed about wildly, catching one or two across the face. They reeled back, but more waded into the fray, grabbing at it in a disordered melÈe of shouting and thrashing. The thing turned on anyone that came near, fearless, thoughtless, punctuating the uproar with the sharp clatter of its teeth snapping at their flesh.
Many now had weapons drawn; seaxes and knife-blades flashed in the sunlight. Yet many who would not have hesitated under other circumstances - who had survived past battles only because of their lack of hesitation - were suddenly afflicted by a crippling doubt. This was Magnus. Wise Magnus. Gentle Magnus. Was he alive after all? He walked. He moved. Could he not be crazed with fever? Might he not be saved? Even as the ghastly, pallid mockery lurched before them, evoking all the horrors of the previous night, misplaced hope stayed their hands.
Bjólf stepped forward, then, sword drawn. "Get back!" he called as he strode towards the wild brawl, blade raised and ready over his shoulder. The men immediately scattered, knowing their captain would not wait to strike his blow. The creature whirled around, saw his approach, and even as Bjólf swung at it, flew at him with no regard for its own welfare. The sudden move caught Bjólf off guard; he tried to redirect his blade as it sang through the air, and caught the creature across its raised arm with a clumsy strike. The thing staggered and crashed against him. Bjólf fell as its severed arm - still moving - thudded on the deck next to him, splashing thick, foetid fluid across his face.
The thing was still on its feet, looming over him. Some of the men, the spell broken, had snatched up spears and poked at the writhing figure. But its eyes were fixed upon Bjólf. Ignoring the spear-points, it cried out again - a hollow moan of blind, ravenous hunger. Drool dripped upon Bjólf's chest.
Gunnar, meanwhile, had grabbed the nearest thing to hand - the iron chain that had come aboard with Grimmsson's treasure chest. He swung it around his head in a great circle, its heavy length clinking and roaring in the air. The others stepped back at the sound, and he made his move. The iron links caught the thing a heavy blow on the side of the head, wrapping around its neck, and Gunnar hauled the creature towards him with a roar and threw loops of chain about its body, pinning its arm against its chest. He spun the creature around and looped the chain through itself before pulling it tight at its back. "Finish it!" he cried out, gripping the thrashing ghoul from behind in a bear hug. Thorvald broke from the crowd, his heavy axe in his hand.
Then, just when it seemed it was over, the fiend smashed its head back into Gunnar's face. He staggered back, letting go his grip, blood pouring from his nose. The thing teetered sideways, away from Thorvald, its remaining arm wriggling free again, the long chain dragging after it.
Crouched by the gunwale, Atli looked up once more at the thing that had been Magnus, stumbling above him. This time, his mind was clear. This time, it would be different. Out of the corner of his eye, he had seen Bjólf scramble to his feet. A look passed between them as Bjólf hefted one of the oars. Atli understood. "Hey! Over here!" he cried. The creature whirled around and made for him once more. Atli did not move this time, but pressed himself hard against the gunwale until the very last moment - human bait for the monster. In moments the thing was almost on him. As its hand grasped for his face he dropped, curling himself into a ball. The full weight of the oar, swung with all Bjólf's strength, cracked against the creature's back and sent it flying forward, stumbling over Atli and tipping head-first over the side.
The weight of its iron bonds dragged it swiftly beneath the surface. As the loose chain rattled along the deck, Bjólf caught hold of it and wrapped the end around the brace cleat. The chain pulled tight, and Atli peered tentatively over the side, into the churned, weedy water that had swallowed the creature. But of Magnus there was now no sign.
Bjólf clapped Atli on the shoulder with a grateful nod, even allowing himself a hint of a smile. He did not say anything. But that silent recognition meant the world to the boy.
Gunnar approached, shaking the dizziness from his head. He scooped up some water from the river and splashed it over his face and beard, then spat, and snorted the remaining blood out of his nose noisily.
"You should know better than to put your face in the way of someone's head," said Bjólf.
Gunnar simply made a gruff rumbling sound deep in his throat, one of his more subtle means of expressing annoyance. He wiped his big forearm across his mouth, and then stared at the few tiny bubbles that broke the surface, a dark and brooding look upon his face.
"Kylfing. Gøtar. Oddvarr. Now Magnus," he said. "They were all dead, of that there can be no doubt. And yet..."
Bjólf raised his hand, silencing the big man, and turned and leaned on the gunwale, staring at the place where the still quivering chain disappeared beneath the water.
"We've all seen it now," he muttered, gazing into the impenetrable, green-tinged depths, his expression dark. "The dead return." He sighed deeply. "I needed to see it with my own eyes. That is my own failing." Gunnar shrugged, as if this were not such a bad failing to have. Bjólf spoke slowly, in calm, even tones. "This was how Grimmsson's ship died. The ones you saw in the woods, they not only attacked his crew; they took the pestilence aboard. Passed it on."
He looked along the length of the Hrafn, and amongst the men spied a solitary, motionless figure sitting slumped, head hanging, his face pale and with a clammy sheen of sweat.
"Watch Jarl," said Bjólf.
He searched further, found another whose eyes were fixed upon the same subject, as they had been since departing the vale of Halldís and Hallbjörn. "And watch Einarr too. His wits have been shaken since last night. Who knows what master he follows now." Gunnar, his heavily browed eyes scanning the ship, gave a curt grunt of acknowledgement.
"But what of Magnus?" he said after a long pause. "He suffered no bite. No wound at the draugr's hand. And Kylfing and the others, too..."
"It is among us," Bjólf said, nodding slowly, his voice grim, resigned. "As with the dead of Hallbjörn's clan - they leave their graves regardless of the manner of their death. It is in the air. In their blood. In us. Now we carry this curse with us, wherever we go." He turned to Gunnar. "There is no escape, old friend."
Gunnar stood in silent thought, then exclaimed defiantly. "Pah! So what if death stalks us? When did it not? Nothing is changed. We do as we have always done - fight to stay alive!"
But Bjólf was not cheered by the words. He spread his hands out before him, reviewing every mark and scar, as if suddenly baffled by his own flesh. "We're dead already."
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
THE END BEGINS
Atli crept away from Bjólf and Gunnar, simultaneously appalled and numbed by their words. They had not known he was listening, had not even noticed him lingering there. That was the one advantage of being the least among the crew. Yet the knowledge had not helped. Instead, it had crippled him. He wandered the length of the ship not knowing what to think, let alone what to do. Here he was, starting out in life, yet already marked for death, doomed never to rest, never to ascend to the great halls of the warriors.
All about him, men muttered darkly. They had not been party to the same exchange, but they were not fools. Many had already drawn the same conclusions. Here and there, strange stories sprang up. They spoke in hushed tones, huddled in small groups.
"Kylfing used to say that among the Rus they told of a night-
time blood-sucker," whispered Farbjörn to those gathered around him. "It was said a cursed man, or one who died in disgrace might become one, and that the affliction was passed on by its bite." At these words, all eyes slid sideways to where Jarl sat. He stared vacantly at the deck, making no movement but the occasional febrile shiver. None sat with him.
Though doing so gave him a sickening feeling of shame, Atli gave the man a wide berth as he passed.
"My cousin has sailed far and wide out in the west," said Skjöld the Icelander to another small knot of men. "He says there is a deadly disease out there in the icy wastes in which the victim comes back to life for a time and can divulge secrets about the future." Several around him nodded as if they knew this to be the truth.
"We should have asked Magnus," said one, shaking his head. "We have squandered a valuable opportunity."
"What's the point?" scoffed Njáll dismissively. "Our future is clear enough." But few shared the Celt's cheery fatalism.
At the far end of the ship, another man sat alone. Einarr stared the length of the vessel, two swords upon his lap - his favoured blade, and an old notched weapon of his grandfather's - both of which he sharpened with a steady, obsessive purpose.
It fell to Bjólf to finally break the sombre mood. Stepping up to the steering deck, he addressed the crew, his message straightforward, the words brusque and practical. "We rest now. Go and hunt. Then we'll eat and drink ashore." Pausing for a moment, he cast a cautious eye upon the forest, and added: "Keep your weapons about you. Tonight we sleep aboard ship."
None argued the point.
A rope was swiftly set up between the ship and the shore by which they could ferry themselves back and forth in the boat, and within only a few hours, men were returning from the woods with raised spirits. The hunt had been good: there were game birds of all kinds - pigeons, plover, lapwings and grouse, as well as several duck and a wild goose. Some had trapped hares, and Fjölvar, by a stroke of good fortune, had almost walked straight into a deer. Thanks to his skill with the bow, it was soon destined for the spit. Hazelnuts, berries, wild celery, nettles and a variety of herbs had been gathered, too - but the greatest prize was brought home by Úlf, who emerged red-faced and covered in stings, proudly holding aloft the crushed remains of a bees' nest, dripping with that most luxurious of commodities - honey. His arrival drew a cheer, and as Thorvald set about making the fire, a few men even began to sing as they sat and plucked the feathers from their dinner.
It was then that Finn, seeing Bjólf alone, approached him. "I beg your permission to stay ashore tonight," he said. Finn's mood was sombre and subdued, even by his own cool standards. But Bjólf recognised the look in his eye, a look that had come upon him before at times of trouble or doubt.
"You have it," he said.
"You have not asked me why."
"You have your reasons."
Finn allowed the faintest of smiles to flicker across his thin, straight lips, gave a brief nod, and made for the boat.
Back on the Hrafn, Atli was crouched upon the deck. He had been charged with scrubbing the boards clean of the gore that had been spilled upon it. Had, in fact, been abandoned there until the job was done. Exhaustion from lack of sleep had nearly got the better of him. The sound of the rowing boat hitting the side of the ship made him jump out of his reverie. Watching quietly, he saw Finn step aboard and, approaching his sea-chest, draw various strange objects from it. Chief among them was what, at first, appeared to be a large wooden bowl, but proved to be a drum, the skin painted with all manner of strange images and symbols: birds and beasts and stylised figures of men, and a host of bizarre, spindly signs and characters at whose meaning he could only guess. Finn tapped its taut surface with his finger. It rang out a clear, resonant note. Seemingly satisfied with its condition, he rummaged further in his chest and drew out a small bundle of cloth, in which were wrapped a metal ring and a smooth length of animal bone. He wrapped them up again carefully, and placed both bundle and drum in a skin bag which he slung over his shoulder. As he turned to make his way back to the rowing boat, he caught sight of Atli. The boy looked away and scrubbed fiercely. When he looked up again, Finn was towering over him. For a moment, each looked at the other. Then Finn spoke in quiet tones.
"I go to listen to the earth spirits, seek their guidance. For that my feet must be upon the earth. I do not know what they will say, or what they will ask of me. But if I do not come back, tell them this is what I did. That I did not leave willingly, but acted out of love for this ship." Atli nodded, wide-eyed. With that, Finn turned and left.
All ate well that night, but, few slept soundly. From the dark shadows of the shore, the hollow sound of Finn's reindeer-skin drum beat its lonely, melancholy rhythm on through the dark hours. Most aboard understood what that meant, though none would speak of it. And beneath them, somewhere in the weedy waters, another sound - one that Atli recognised - further disturbed their restless slumber. It was the never ceasing scrape-scrape-scrape of Magnus's fingernails clawing against the wood of the hull.
The morning - sunlit and beautiful as it was - brought a new and unexpected horror. So withdrawn had he become from the rest of the crew that none could remember for certain when Einarr had ceased to be among them. A search of the shore at first yielded nothing - then Finn appeared from the woods, looking haggard and drained, and directed them to the spot.
"I kept the wild beasts from his body," he said.
In a clearing, beneath a tall pine, Einarr's lifeless, bloody corpse lay. Hanging from a branch high above was a length of rope, and at its end a curious contrivance formed of two swords. Each was lashed to the other close to the hilt, their blades uppermost, like a half open pair of scissors. A short way up, another length of rope was twisted around the crossed blades to prevent them parting further, and it was to the middle of this that the line to the branch had been tied. The lower part of it and much of the tree were splashed with blood. Einarr had evidently placed his head between the blades, tightened the rope behind his neck, and jumped from a lower branch. It had decapitated him instantly, like a pair of shears snipping off a flower head. It was, for him, the only certain solution. Finn had heard the sound, and stayed with the body until morning, when the boat would return.
Bjólf surveyed the scene with a mixture of pity and contempt.
"What do you want done with him?" said Gunnar.
"Leave him to the birds," said Bjólf bitterly. "Nothing we can do will bring any honour to this."
Bjólf then went and spoke with Finn for some time, away from the others. Gunnar watched Bjólf's face as he responded to Finn's muttered words, listening intently, and wondered what it was that passed between them.
When they returned to the ship, news came that Jarl, too, had passed. None had checked on him during the night or made efforts to tend his wound. As Bjólf approached the pale body, its expression haunted and tortured even in death, he saw that the crew maintained a wide space around it - and not, he knew, out of respect. Without hesitation he took up Godwin's axe, swung it high in the air and brought it down upon Jarl's neck. His head sprang from his body and rolled towards their feet, spilling fresh gore upon Atli's carefully scrubbed deck.
Bjólf leaned on the axe and looked each one of them in the eye. "I would expect any of you to do the same to me." He handed the axe back to its owner. "Set his body in the boat and let the river take it. He was a man of the sea. Let him return there in peace." And he headed towards the prow.
"What now?" called Thorvald.
"Now we go back."
"Home?" came a hopeful voice.
"To Björnheim and the hall of Halldís."
There was consternation among the men. Even Gunnar looked at him in surprise. Bjólf stood upon the foredeck, facing his crew.
"Finn! Tell them what you told me."
All eyes turned to the Saami shaman. He spoke in a clear voice. "Our future lies with Halldís and the men of the black ships. There can be no doubting it."
/> The grumbling of the men surged again; some in protest, others suddenly less certain. Many believed implicitly in the power of Finn's magic. Bjólf raised his hands to silence them once more.
"I speak with no spirits. No gods. But for what it's worth, I am of the same opinion." There was further muttering of discontent, but Bjólf raised his voice again. "This tyrant Skalla, and his men, they are the source of this scourge. But they also possess its secret." He paused as the men became suddenly silent. "A secret that we can take from them."
So that's it, thought Gunnar. He has a plan.
"We cannot fight the power of a black wizard!" called one.
"He is no wizard," spat Bjólf, angered at the words. He strode back and forth as he spoke. "The white powder. The clear liquid. Halldís spoke of these things. Skalla controls his death-walkers with them, just as Magnus used herbs to heal. And Magnus was no wizard." There was a murmur of agreement. "Skalla is just a man. And if he can control this pestilence, then why not we?"
Bjólf turned to Finn once more.
"Tell them..."
"The spirits showed me a vision of their island fortress split apart and consumed by fire."
The murmuring grew in volume again.
Viking Dead Page 19
