Viking Dead

by Toby Venables

  For what seemed an eternity, Bjólf and Halldís, their hands never relinquishing their grip, crept forward through the dark, listening intently. Early on, they had often heard the crack and swish of movement off to their left, where they believed the others to be. Sometimes, it could clearly be distinguished from the slow, shuffling motion of the death-walkers. At other times, the distinction was not so clear. When he could, Bjólf had altered their path towards it, or at least tried to keep it close while navigating his way by the brief, bright glimpses of the sky. But, despite his efforts, the sounds only became increasingly distant, or sometimes baffled his senses entirely, seeming to come from all directions but that which his rational mind told him should be right. Finally, he abandoned his dependence upon them altogether and pressed forward according to his instincts, all the time fighting against the thought of becoming like the lost, directionless death-walkers, doomed to wander this place for eternity, and hoping against hope that the shore of the fjord lay before them.

  Though almost blind, he could sense that Halldís, resilient as she was, was close to exhaustion - something he also knew she would never admit. His mind was racing, weighing the possibilities, trying to calculate how much longer they could reasonably continue, when, with no warning, a great expanse of clear sky suddenly opened up before them. They staggered to a halt, staring up. The wind had risen during the evening, clearing the cloud, and the whole dizzying night sky that arced above them was dusted with countless stars. Amidst the needle points of light hung the huge orb of the moon, its ghostly light illuminating a small open glade before them, casting their cold shadows upon the grass. Just ahead, filling nearly half of the tiny clearing, was a grey, flat outcrop of rock, rising towards the far end and falling sharply away where the forest once again took over. Bjólf crept slowly towards it as if in a dream, suddenly feeling his own exhaustion wash over him. "We can rest here," he said: "Death-walkers cannot climb."

  She did not argue the point. He helped her up onto the rock, then heaved himself up, threw off his helm and the shield from his back and slumped beside where she lay, her body limp, already possessed by sleep. His hand found hers and closed around it. For a moment, he lay with his eyes wide open, his back to the mossy rock, listening to her quiet breathing and staring up at the impossible abundance of stars - too tired now to make sense of whatever they might once have told him. For a moment he had a vivid memory from his childhood, of lying on his back looking up at the night sky, feeling as if the whole universe spun around that one spot. He thought, fleetingly, that he should stay awake, and on watch until morning. Then he let his eyelids close, and a deep sleep took him.

  He awoke suddenly to bright sunlight, his head pounding. Only gradually, as he blinked in the sun's unkind glare did he realise that Halldís was no longer at his side. He gripped his sword and whirled around in panic. But it was certain; he was alone on the rock. Cursing his weakness, staggering to his feet, every bone and muscle aching, he climbed to the highest point and looked about desperately. Nothing but the tall trees of the forest greeted his eyes.

  "Hey!" The voice made him start - so much so, he almost toppled from his lofty vantage point. When he looked around, the smiling face of Halldís had appeared above the side of the outcrop.

  "What in Hel's name are you doing sneaking around like that?" said Bjólf.

  "Come on," she said, extending her hand. "I have something to show you."

  Grabbing his gear and scrambling down into the grassy glade, he was led into the trees on its far side where, he could see, the vegetation had already been freshly beaten down. They followed the path, and within moments the trees had dwindled once again, the unmistakable smell of open water met his nostrils, and ahead, to their left, rising above a mountainous tangle of briar and elder, was a great dome of grey-brown stone.

  Halldís pointed. "Ægir's rock," she said. Bjólf grabbed her and spun her around - weapons, armour and all - laughing triumphantly.

  She beamed as her feet came back to earth. "They say the sea-giant Ægir settled down to sleep one night and was disturbed by a pebble under his back - so he picked it up and threw it inland. And here it came to rest!"

  With another shout of delight he grabbed her hand and ran forward, both of them almost tumbling down the steep, tangled bank to the foot of the huge boulder. Within minutes, panting with the exertion of the climb, hauling her after him, they had found their way up onto its great curved brow. As they walked forward to its highest point - the great, dark forest that had so tested them to their left, the great expanse of the fjord and its far shore stretching away to the right - a most welcome sight was slowly revealed before them, one that made them shout again with joy: down below was the small bay they sought; there, still tethered, a little way along, was Grimmsson's ship; and milling about on the shore were Gunnar, Frodi, and the crew.

  "What kept you?" called Gunnar, waving.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  BLACK SHAPES

  The reunion was an exuberant one; the men in resolute mood. The discovery of the ship, upon which so much depended, had greatly lifted their spirits. The vessel itself was in good order. The sky, too, was clear, and there now rose a brisk northerly wind to speed them to their destination. Preparations for the journey had begun before Bjólf's return - all eager for the moment of retribution. Now, all the elements were finally in place for their hammerblow against Skalla.

  But not all the news was good. As the crew busied themselves ashore, getting their gear in order for the battle that lay ahead, Bjólf walked the length of the ship alone with Gunnar, and broached the subject that had been troubling him since his descent from Ægir's Rock.

  "I see many faces missing from our company," he said. Gunnar nodded, a grave expression upon his face. "How bad is it?"

  "Bad," said Gunnar. "Five did not make it out of the barn. Egil. Farbjörn. Guthmund. Sigvald. Kari."

  Bjólf's frown deepened. "And the rest?"

  "Olaf, Ketill and Ragnar were lost in the forest. Ran into a pack of those creatures in the darkness. Skjöld survived to tell the tale. But..."

  Bjólf looked up at Gunnar. "But..?"

  The big man's expression grew darker. "He had been bitten When we awoke this morning, he had gone, his sword and armour abandoned by the shore. Hakon and two of Frodi's men also remain unaccounted for. What has become of them, we cannot tell."

  Bjólf stood by him at the gunwale, the grey-green water lapping at the timbers. "I make that twenty-one of us now," he said. "That was a costly tactic, back at the farm."

  Gunnar shrugged. "Without it, many more of us might be dead."

  "Can we still do it?" Bjólf seemed suddenly struck through by doubt. "The men are strong, but is that enough? After all this, I can hardly believe their hearts are still in it."

  "Wrong. They are more determined than ever. Change our fate or die trying, that's what we vowed to do. That's what we will do."

  Bjólf smiled. "That is what we always do."

  "We will make this Skalla pay," said Gunnar, his voice suddenly hard as steel. "For lost friends. For everything. Every one of those deaths will be added to his account."

  Bjólf turned and looked back along the length of the ship; a vessel built for war. Yes, Skalla would feel the full heat of their wrath. He slapped its thick timbers. "So, now we have this great tub to contend with..." It was not quite what they were used to: Grimmsson's ship was far younger than the Hrafn - cruder in build, longer, and narrower across the beam, with fixed thwarts that served as rowing benches. It also had certain decorative features that were not entirely to Bjólf's taste: the red sail, the iron spikes, the upper three strakes painted yellow, blue and red. But since Björnheim and their first sight of Skalla, he had begun to feel rather differently about the arrogant, vain Grimmsson. Perhaps these affectations were not so bad after all. Grimmsson had saved Bjólf's crew at the expense of his own life, and furnished them with their most awesome weapon - a weapon with which they would strike with
deadly speed at the very heart of their enemy. When they did so, it would be for Grimmsson too.

  "We've loaded stones for ballast to make her steady in the water," said Gunnar. "It was the one modification needed, with there being so few of us. Other than that, she's ready to go. Everything was in place when we found her - it was as if her crew had simply vanished.

  "Let's just make sure our fate is happier than theirs," said Bjólf, and turned towards the gunwale on the landward side, catching sight of Halldís amongst the busy throng at the edge of the trees. Then, just as he was about to jump ashore, something strange caught his eye. Glimpsed at the very edge of sight, something of which he was barely aware, it made him pause. He turned southward, towards their destination, then stepped back from the gunwale, taking in the length of the shore stretching away to his right. Shielding his eyes against the sun, he could see, some distance away, a curious, blurry flicker in the sky immediately above the trees - like smoke, he thought, or the heat haze above a fire. As he watched, he realised it was gradually drawing closer, sticking close to the edge of the trees, becoming more solid as it neared - a texture formed of many different movements. Black shapes. The breeze dropped for an instant, and he thought he heard a strange confusion of hoarse, lonely cries - then the wind once again whipped the sound away.

  "What is that?" he said.

  Gunnar squinted along the shoreline. "Hmm. Just a flock of birds. Rooks or ravens." He made to go ashore, but stopped himself as he suddenly realised what he had said, turning back to Bjólf with a deeply furrowed brow.

  "How can that be, Gunnar?" said Bjólf, a note of urgency creeping into his voice.

  Gunnar wrestled with the question as the chaotically swarming flock, its harsh, throaty cries now clearly audible, drew rapidly closer. "It was a raven led us here," he ventured.

  "To the inlet, yes," said Bjólf. "But have you seen or heard a bird the whole time we have been near Björnheim, or this part of the fjord? A single one?"

  Gunnar stared back up at the approaching black cloud. "Why do they move so strangely?"

  Bjólf moved towards the gunwale, his sense of unease growing. "Get everyone into the trees - now!"

  He leapt ashore, Gunnar hard upon his heels. "Get under cover!' he called. "Into the trees!"

  For a moment, several of the crew stopped and looked at him in bemusement. Then the black mass of ravens fell upon them.

  Everyone scattered, heading for the cover of the forest, swatting frantically at the air as the black, ragged shapes flapped and croaked about them. Spiked beaks and claws stabbed and tore, catching in their hair and clothes as they ran. The ravens attacked without fear or caution. Here and there, the crew grabbed at the struggling creatures and flung them roughly away. Some immediately took to the air and resumed their assault; others, broken, fluttered and flopped wildly upon the ground, or scuttled and hopped randomly about, pecking at their feet. Their movement on the ground was twitchy and erratic, like crazed, diseased livestock. In the air they darted more like bats than birds, but their eyes, like those of the death-walkers, were utterly dead; their one clear purpose to pick at living flesh.

  The warriors had soon plunged in amongst the trees, where the ravens' attacks foundered upon branches and brambles. But they did not stop. Many caught in the tangle of briar and ivy and flapped and jerked convulsively, hung like moths in a web. Others broke through and hurtled about in their mindless quest for blood.

  Bjólf rapidly located Halldís in the dark tangle. With a nod, she reassured him she was unharmed. Like many others, she had donned her helm to protect her head and eyes, but they were struggling to wield their weapons against the creatures in the close confines of the wood. They couldn't stay here. If the ravens were anything like the death-walkers, they would relent only when the source of food was entirely exhausted.

  When the creatures had first approached, they had clung to the shore, seeming reluctant to venture over the water. Bjólf could only hope that this reluctance was stronger than their craving for flesh.

  "We have the get to the ship!" he cried. "Hold your shields high, and grab whatever gear you need on the way!" Swords drawn, he and Halldís took a deep breath and broke from the trees. As they battered against his shield, Bjólf swung his sword wildly, smashing them out of the air. Others followed suit, swiping with axe, sword and mace, splattering blood, and sending squawking, scrawny, bundles of tattered black feathers bouncing in all directions and littering the floor.

  Bjólf hurled himself into the ship, hauling Halldís after him. By ones and twos, the rest of the crew clambered or flung themselves over the side.

  "Raise the sail!" bellowed Bjólf, loosing the reefing lines as the croaking mob fluttered and beat about his head. Men flew to their tasks, heaving the yard up the mast. The wind began to fill the sail.

  As the ship moved, the attack seemed to abate and a few of the crew cheered in relief. But just when it seemed the crisis was at an end, Bjólf heard another cry go up and saw someone pointing. From the port gunwale he could see, half crumpled on the shore, the figure of Kjötvi. Slowed by his injured leg, he had been mobbed by the main body of ravens, which all but smothered him as he lay hunched in a ball among the twisting roots, his arms protecting his head.

  Before he could make a move, Bjólf saw another figure leap ashore. Hrafning ran to his friend, a wooden stave in his hand, cutting a swathe through the swarming multitude, batting them this way and that like in a game of Stick-Ball. He beat them off the fallen man, heaving him to his feet as the birds flocked around his head, wading into the water and finally delivering him to the ship. The ailing crewman was hauled aboard and Bjólf could see that where Kjötvi's right eye had been, there was now no more than a gaping, bleeding hole.

  They reached for Hrafning, but he hesitated. Looking away, along the shore, he turned from the ship, waded to shore, and ran along the waterline.

  "What's he doing?" said Bjólf. "If he delays any longer, he'll have a swim on his hands..."

  The sail was now fully hoisted and bulging in the breeze. As soon as they were clear of the bay, the full force of the wind would take them. Bjólf threw off his helm and mail, about to head back onto the shore, when Gunnar restrained him.

  "The line!" said the big man. And Bjólf saw it; in the water, the line that Gunnar had left ashore during their encounter with Grimmsson, that Bjólf himself had tied to the spike on the ship's prow. As he watched, Hrafning, swamped now by the ravens, struggled to where the line lay anchored drew his knife and sliced through the rope. It sprang free and he collapsed, weighed down by the massing bodies of his attackers. The crew could only watch him die, as the ship caught the wind, turned from the shore and was drawn inexorably away from the last resting place of Hrafning, son of Róki.

  Though it had hardly been the start they had imagined for the voyage, they were at last under sail, and drawing closer to their goal. Kjötvi, oblivious to his own injuries, was devastated by the loss of his old friend, but all about him, the men muttered words of deep admiration for Hrafning's final deed. While there had been many deaths, this one, at least, had some purpose. It was selfless, heroic. From a barrel of mead discovered amongst Grimmsson's stores, they drank a toast to his memory, all satisfied that Hrafning's place in Valhalla was assured.

  As they did so, Gunnar edged up to Bjólf, speaking in confidential tones. "About Kjötvi..."

  "I know what you're thinking," replied Bjólf.

  "Those ravens drew blood. Will he be all right?"

  Bjólf shrugged. Who could know in these strange times? "If anyone will, it's Kjötv. But keep an eye on him all the same."

  Stepping up onto the prow, relieved to once again have the timbers of a ship beneath his feet, Bjólf looked at the figurehead - an ugly, oddly elongated, impossible to identify creature painted green and red. There was one more thing to be done.

  "Boy!" called Bjólf.

  Atli gave no answer, but looked about him. "Did someone let a boy on board?" he said.
A guffaw went up from the crew and Bjólf took the point.

  "Noble son of Ivarr," began Bjólf again with a bow. "If you would be so kind as to grace your captain with your esteemed presence..." His tone suddenly shifted. "And you better not have lost that bag I gave you."

  Atli approached, dumping the heavy bag upon the deck in front of him. "If I had lost it," he said, "I could not have shown my face again."

  From the bag, Bjólf drew the scorched, finely carved dragon's head that he had salvaged from the smouldering wreck of the Hrafn, and climbed high in the prow. Within minutes, he had lopped off the old gaudy, figurehead and crudely nailed the Hrafn's in its place.

  There was a cheer as he stood back to admire his handiwork. "Now," he called out. "Does anyone know if this ship has a name?" All looked at each other blankly. In all their deaings with him, none had taken enough interest in Grimmsson to find out his ship's name.

  "A ship must have a name!" called Gunnar.

  "How about Naglfar," called Thorvald. "The ship that takes the doomed warriors to the final battle at Ragnarók!"

  There was laughter at that, it was the kind of grim humour that had kept them all sane over the years.

  "I have a better idea," said Bjólf. He filled his mead horn and raised it aloft, standing high before the full sail. "Fire-Raven!"

  "Fire-Raven!" they cried back, and all drank in its honour.