"Do you still doubt that we can do it?" Bjólf called out, as if daring them to believe it. "Do you?" He drew his sword and ranged its glinting point before them.
"Leave now if you wish. You're all free men. But for good or ill, this ship sails south." He pointed southward with his blade, then swept it over their heads, arm outstretched, his voice rising with vengeful fury as he spoke. "The secret lies within that fortress. Bow to this curse if you like. But that's not my way. I mean to fight it, to fight until my muscles tear and sinews snap, to cut out its stinking black heart and see that stronghold ruined and in flames!" Some of the men roared their approval. "At the very least, I mean to do some good before I die." His voice grew quiet again, his face grave. "If you find that meat too rich for your tastes, go now, and let no more be said of it."
Gunnar drew his sword and raised it silently, slowly into the air. Without hesitation, Atli drew Steinarrsnautr and did the same. Njáll and Godwin joined them. Then Fjölvar, Odo, Thorvald, Úlf... One by one each man raised his blade aloft, every one showing his pledge, until the deck was a forest of glinting steel. Bjólf raised his own sword in salute, and as he did so a sudden breeze moved the gilded vane upon the mast, turning it southwards.
"The wind is with us," called Bjólf. "Raise the sail! To the south, and Skalla's ruin!"
A great cheer erupted. Immediately the men dispersed, each to his task. Shouts went up all over the ship, and men hauled on lines, muscles standing out like whipcords. The yard was heaved up the mast, the great sail unfurled, the great black image of a raven filling the sky above them.
As the rush of activity continued Finn approached Bjólf, and spoke to him in quiet tones. "You did not tell them everything, about what the spirits revealed."
"They showed you victory," said Bjólf. "That's all I need to know."
"They also said that none of us would leave fjord of the black fortress for a thousand years."
Bjólf looked Finn in the eye, then without a word turned and strode towards the tiller where Gunnar stood, staring indecisively at the chain that was still wrapped around the brace cleat.
"What about him?" said Gunnar, a note of indignation in his voice. "We cannot just leave him to writhe and flail in the depths for eternity. It is Magnus! Our friend!"
"Magnus is long gone," said Bjólf. And with that, he unfastened the chain and let it slip over the side. He watched it disappear like a snake into the water as the men made ready to turn back to the land of the death-walkers, and their grim appointment with Skalla.
PART THREE
RAGNARÓK
SECOND INTERLUDE
Skalla sat in the great hall's late gloom, elbows on his knees, one hand held against his wrecked left eye. He felt strangely detached from all that had happened to him - oddly unmoved by his injury, or the loss of half his sight, even as his good eye watched the blood which soaked his sleeve and oozed through his half-closed fingers, drip into a thick pool upon the beaten earth of the floor. An image of a clawed hand flailing towards his face flashed through his mind. He shuddered at the resurrected memory of its bone scraping against his.
That feeling, too, would fade, in time.
Twelve nights had passed since the first one came. The creature had been drawn by the sounds of their feasting, bitter with envy, perhaps, at the pleasures of honest meat and ale and the promise of lusty embraces that it was now denied; enraged by the voices joined in song, the joy of fellowship, the celebration of life. It was a life-hater from the misty margins of this world, of neither earth nor Hel; a lost traveller between life and death who had no lord and bore no arms and was immune to the bite of human blades. Dead, and not dead. A hate-filled monster. A demon.
Such was the opinion of his master. It was, so Skalla had begun to realise, calculated to cast the conflict in a more heroic light.
To him, the act had no more heroism than the killing of a rat. What was certain was that this guest had come with a wholly different kind of feasting in mind. At least, thought Skalla, it displayed a sense of humour - if sense it had at all. He had reason to doubt that, though. It seemed to him they were driven by only the basest instincts. He had observed their movements the past several nights, as one invader had become two, then five, then seven... He had watched as the first of them to invade the hall had struck the guests through with shock and dread, how its bloody assault upon the nearest of them had happened before any knew how to respond, and how all had made repeated, futile attempts at restraining it, having no weapons to hand, while the woman Arnfrith had screamed over and over in confused horror, begging them not to harm her late husband. That man had been killed by some beast whilst out hunting, they said. Now they knew better.
He had watched each successive night as the clamour of feasting had drawn more of them, the dead of previous nights returning as if in some nightmare, and wondered at the dogged refusal of Hallbjörn to admit weapons or to quit the hall, even when his guests were dwindling in number and those that persisted were getting eaten alive.
And he had watched, especially, during that last desperate fight, when the draugr had proved too numerous for the newly-posted hall-guards to repel, seeking confirmation of his conclusions before taking action. And even then, his actions were by way of an experiment - a confirmation, or otherwise, of a theory. The crushing blows to the heads of three of the fiends with the heavy iron poker - the same one with which he had tended the fire for so many years - provided the confirmation he sought. Each of their skulls had been smashed outright with a single impact, felling them immediately - the last achieved in spite of his grievous wound.
The fact that it had also saved his master's life was pure coincidence.
"You have served me well over many years," said Hallbjörn. "And never more loyally than today. You fought when others fled." He turned, walking in a small circle, avoiding a patch that had been churned to red mud in the struggle. "Perhaps it is time to talk about your future."
"Future?" said Skalla.
It was something he had had little reason to think about. He had trained himself to avoid it over the years. What had been the point? How was his wretched future to be any different from his wretched past, consisting as it did of the same tasks, the same hardships, the same endless succession of days?
"About your freedom..." added Hallbjörn. He spoke with great gravity, emphasising the final word as if it were a potent charm, and carried in its utterance some magical, transformative power.
"Freedom," repeated Skalla. He rolled it around in his mind, muttered it again, as if considering it from different points of view might somehow endow it with life. It remained as dead as earth. The notion, after all, was meaningless. It seemed as though every free man assumed the idea would mean so much more to a lifelong slave such as him. They were wrong. "Freedom to do what?"
Hallbjörn laughed, a note of irritation in his voice. "Why, to do whatever you wish. To remain here. Or to make your way in the world, if you so choose."
To remain here. To work exactly as he had been working, no doubt. Or to venture out there, to what? With what? What kind of choice was that? It was, thought Skalla, the kind of generosity that only a wealthy man could think worthwhile; a gift that, to one with nothing, meant nothing. An act of benevolence that, in truth, gave more to the giver.
But then, perhaps there was something out there that had caught his interest, after all. Something no one could have expected. And something of which Hallbjörn was unlikely to approve.
"What would you have me do?"
The question clearly pleased Hallbjörn. "We must go to the source of this pestilence and stamp it out," he said, his voice suddenly charged with a stern gravity. The voice of destiny, thought Skalla. The voice of an imagined saga, told in an imagined future around this very fire. "I ask that you join me in this quest."
So that was it - the great honour that Hallbjörn was now bestowing upon him. To fight and die for his jailer.
In truth, Skalla had been thinking quite a
bit about the source of this pestilence. Since the great firestorm, the night it all began, he had overheard increasingly wild stories about the mysterious island in the fjord and the dark, magical powers that had begun to emanate from it. Skalla did not believe in magic, even as he had watched the dead of the clan of Hallbjörn stagger back into the hall, the marks of their deaths still upon them. In them, he saw no curse. Just another process to be understood. He knew the world for what it was: dead matter, mindlessly shifting in space, grinding the pathetic creatures that scuttled between its cracks with as little thought as a millstone gives a weevil; a relentless chaos of struggle and death, from which only the deluded sought escape through desperate belief in the beyond. Skalla had never had the luxury of such childish notions. Creation was material to be used, held at bay, bent to one's will. Only then could fleeting pleasures, brief moments of satisfaction, be wrung from it.
And what did he care whether dark or light? Two sides of the same coin. Dark, light, day or night - he was equally a slave whichever held sway. The lash raised the same weals, whether brandished by a good man or a bad.
But power - that which dictated whose hand was on the lash... that interested him greatly. It was something he had hardly known. Yet, for that very reason, he felt he knew it more keenly than any of the pampered, overindulged free men who passed him by each day; men who, through years of familiarity, failed to even register his presence. That, too, could prove an advantage.
Yes, there was a power growing upon the island, that was certain. He had seen it challenge Hallbjörn in his own hall, shake his authority to its roots, turn the laws of life and death upon their heads, bringing fear to those who had for so long fancied themselves fearless. It had struck ruthlessly, coldly, without passion or anger and with no regard for etiquette or honour. And for that reason, Skalla knew, it would win. In the past twelve days Skalla had become aware of an entirely different future from the one that, until now, had seemed inevitable. In his mind's eye he now saw something he thought never to see: the fall of the power of Hallbjörn in this land, and the rise of another.
Skalla looked up at Hallbjörn, removing his red, blood-slicked hand from his torn left eye. He saw his master wince at the sight of his injured face, then hastily regain his composure, his kindly, benevolent expression. The reaction gave Skalla a curious glow of satisfaction. He had never before cared how he looked. No woman would look at him, not even the slave girls from whom he had once forced brief, empty pleasures, before such things had ceased to seem worth the effort. But they would all notice him now. Perhaps even fear him. And fear was the greatest power of all.
This would be his way, now. Where others saw a curse, Skalla would find opportunity. And the greater opportunity - the one that had begun to emerge out of the fog over the past few days - finally stood before him, clear and unassailable.
"Odin gave an eye in exchange for wisdom," he said, holding Hallbjörn's gaze. "Perhaps, now, I too see the future more clearly. See what must be done."
"Good." said Hallbjörn, smiling. He turned and went to the high seat, and from behind it drew out a sword in a gilded, richly embossed scabbard. He turned and approached Skalla, carrying the sword before him with great reverence, laid flat across his upturned hands. Its hilt and pommel were of gold, with fine cloisonnÈ inlay of garnets and blue millefiori glass, its grip made of alternating rings of silver and whalebone. This was a great sword from the old times, the only battle-blade permitted in the great hall. But this one ventured into battle no longer. Even in the desperate conflicts of past nights, it had remained sheathed. It was a sword of ancestors, meant for the giving and taking of oaths, upon whose blade - and the blood it had spilled - such oaths were made inviolate.
Hallbjörn, still smiling, drew the great blade and, laying its scabbard gently upon the ground, held the sword before him towards Skalla. Only gradually did Skalla grasp the nature of the honour that was to be bestowed upon him. He was to be given his freedom, and the opportunity to swear his allegiance to Hallbjörn. To be given the status of a warrior.
To Hallbjörn's surprise, Skalla reached forward and took the sword by the grip. Without expression, he swung it from side to side, judging its weight in his hand. Hallbjörn half laughed, frowning at his slave's ignorant action, went to correct him. Before he could do so, Skalla swung the blade with all his strength, severing the old man's head. The expression on its face as it left his body and bounced sizzling into the fire was one of utter disbelief.
Yes, it was a good blade. Sharp enough. It would serve him in his new purpose.
This new power would need men. An army. And an army would need a captain. So why not him? They cared not for status or protocol. But he had to move quickly, before another saw the chance. He would gather others around him - slaves, like himself, who had suffered under the yoke of the old ways. They would accept his authority. He would exploit their bitterness and resentment, fashion a force of men to offer to the new regime that was rising in the fjord, and in doing so turn the tables on their masters.
Skalla glanced down without feeling at the headless body of the man who had once owned him. Taking a step back from the spreading pool of blood, he looked up at great beams of the hall that would one day be his, and, sheathing the great sword in its magnificent golden scabbard, shoved it roughly through the worn, dirty leather belt fastened about his greasy tunic and stalked off into the night.
The first blow of the new order had been struck.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THE RETURN OF THE RAVEN
The sailing was good; their passage swift. Beneath the great raven - bulging before the wind, wings outspread - their expressions were grim. But, as they were carried southwards towards their fate, there was a growing defiance upon the brow of each and every man. They had witnessed much in the past few days - seen a possible future presented to them in the grisly fates of their less fortunate comrades. But, with their quest now set, they were now determined. Swords were sharpened, axes honed. They would not end like Magnus, or Jarl, or Einarr. They would fight until they were victorious, or until death took them. And each man silently pledged that he would not leave another of his fellows to suffer the living death.
When they once again stood before Halldís and her court, with Bjólf at their head, they were very different men. There was no pretence now. They came fully armed and armoured, sweeping aside protests as they entered the hall.
"We come to war," Bjólf had said, "and go nowhere unless equipped for war."
Halldís had allowed it. That tradition, noble as it was, had cost them enough lives.
"We thought you lost to us," said Halldís. Her voice was cold, but Bjólf fancied he detected more than a hint of irony in it. Well, he could hardly blame her for that.
"It seems things once thought lost have a habit of coming back."
"Some more welcome than others." She paused, keeping him guessing another few moments. "We are glad at your return." Her expression warmed, a flicker of a smile crossing it - even, he thought, something mischievous, flirtatious. "Tell us, what was it drew you here again?"
"We have a new purpose," he said. She raised her eyebrows, questioningly. "Before we came merely to trade, knowing nothing of your plight."
"And now?"
"We come to fight. To destroy the black ships and put Skalla in the earth. To fight our fate. The fate that afflicts us all."
She held his gaze for a lingering moment, knowing now that Bjólf's crew laboured under the curse of undeath that, even as his ship had been leaving, she had hoped they'd escaped.
There were murmurs of approval at Bjólf's bold announcement. Ragnhild beamed with joy. At Halldís's shoulder, Frodi held Bjólf's gaze and nodded slowly in satisfaction. At last, it seemed, the two men had come to an understanding. Bjólf was glad to have regained his respect.
Then a pale, joyless figure stepped forward from the rest, regarding Bjólf and his men with a sideways look. Óflár the Watcher. Óflár the Patient.
"You seriously believe you can alter the course of fate?" he said. His voice was thin and reedy, its tone as pinched and mean as his person. He extended his long, skinny hand in the direction of the distant harbour. "Why not try to change the course of this river while you're at it?" Several members of the court sniggered at that.
"I have seen the course of a river changed," responded Bjólf calmly silencing the doubters. "I have also seen blocks of stone piled high as mountains in the deserts of the south. And a great wall, as high as three men and twenty sjømil long or more - the whole width of England. Men did these things. Men who did not shrink from challenge. Who did not sit comfortably at home, who did not amount to nothing merely because they refused to question what was thought impossible."
Óflár's milky eyes narrowed to slits. His supporters among the assembled throng shuffled their feet uncertainly as he passed before Bjólf in silence, then circled and stalked slowly back. "You have great confidence in your powers where before you had none," he said, then turned on the rest of the crew as if probing for signs of weakness. "Is this the view of you all?"
Gunnar cleared his throat and shrugged. "My noble captain and I do have rather differing views on the nature of fate," he said. Óflár allowed himself a thin smile at this.
The big man's tone changed as he fixed the pale figure before him with glowering eyes. "But better to fight than to cower."
Óflár's pale fists clenched. Frodi did not attempt to hold back his smile.
"Are you with me?" called Bjólf to his crew.
"Aye!" came the shout - strong and clear, all voices as one, the sound ringing about the rafters of the great hall.
"You have your answer," said Bjólf.
Seething, his mouth downturned like a spoilt child, Óflár slunk back into the shadows.
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