Viking Dead

by Toby Venables

  At the far end of the courtyard, Bjólf now saw that the single surviving guard had somehow succeeded in opening the heavy door - how, he could not guess. It opened further, and he had his answer: within were two of his fellows, gesturing eagerly for the desperate man to enter. But he seemed unwilling to abandon one of his fallen comrades, and was pulling at his collapsed body, even though it was clear to all that he was utterly dead. As the guard dithered, Bjólf shouted to his men. "The door!" he said. "We must get to it before it closes again."

  But between them and it stood the last remaining berserker, his attention turned from the guard and focused fully on the warriors.

  Hammer-Fist.

  For a moment it stood in that bloody, corpse-filled arena, head low, eyes burning at Bjólf, a steady, snorting breath coming from its nostrils like a bull making ready to charge. Behind it, the guard - still not having been persuaded to leave his friend - was being physically hauled through the gap in the door.

  "Keep it busy," said Gunnar. And before Hammer-Fist could make a move, he charged at it with a mighty roar. Almost equal to the berserker in size, he slammed into it, sending it spinning, and thundered on past, jamming himself in the door as it shut against him. A struggle immediately ensued between him and the retreating guards, as they heaved on the door from the far side, and he lashed at them through the gap with his sword. The thing, meanwhile, bellowed horribly, almost as if angered, and flew into a frenzy, pounding towards its attacker.

  They had to distract the creature long enough for Gunnar to secure the door.

  "Hey!" called Bjólf.

  The thing did not react. He ran after it, shouting - then hurled a throwing axe, embedding it in its back. That got its attention. It swung around and, without hesitation, lowered its head and charged at him full tilt, arms and hammer flying as it came. Bjólf stood in the path of the oncoming giant, no trace of a plan in his head. He backed away, made ready to leap, vividly recalling the fate of Arnulf, knowing it would have to be at the very last moment.

  Suddenly, the creature jerked and fell forward, its face ploughing into the ground, and came to a standstill at Bjólf's feet. He looked around in shock, and saw Halldís standing behind him, a crossbow in her hand. Then he turned back to the felled berserker. Her crossbow bolt stuck in its forehead, piercing its thick helm.

  Bjólf allowed himself a smile. They had done it. They had defeated the masters' most powerful fighters.

  His sense of victory was short-lived. They heard Gunnar suddenly cry out. Finn, Fjölvar and Frodi were already racing to his aid, but as they hurried towards the door, they saw him knocked to the ground, limp and bloodied, his helm rolling away in the dirt. His body was dragged roughly through the dark gap, which slammed shut, its bolts shot on the far side. Bjólf pushed past the others and hammered his fists against the door in rage and frustration, but it would take more than fists to get them past the barrier.

  Exhausted, but knowing they must fight on, he stalked back to take up sword and shield again, and as he did so happened to glance at Halldís. She looked past him, up high towards the parapet, and her expression darkened. He followed her gaze and there, upon the inner rampart, lurking upon the upper level, was Skalla, his cold eye watching.

  Bjólf, his eyes ablaze, pointed his sword at Skalla's heart once again - surrounded, this time, by the masters' ruined army. A renewal of his warning, his pledge. Skalla stared back without expression. In fury, Bjólf snatched up the huge head of Fork-Hand by its hair, its face smeared with Filippus's blood, and with a defiant roar hurled it at Skalla. He dodged as it bounced against the wall, leaving a dark stain, and backed away slowly.

  "Your ruin is coming," called Bjólf, his thoughts now only of vengeance, his whole being, spurred by Gunnar's fall, like some primal force of doom.

  "Why wait?" said a voice at his side, and Halldís let fly a second bolt from her crossbow. It struck Skalla in the left shoulder, spinning him around. He cried out and staggered, disappearing back through another doorway, into the shadows.

  Bjólf lowered his gaze and glared at the thick door ahead of them, somewhere beyond which - dead or alive - he knew his friend Gunnar lay. He turned to the others. "Chop it to splinters."

  Godwin, Úlf and Njáll set about the door with their axes, chips flying, its heavy bolts rattling as their blades battered against it in a persistent rhythm, echoing about the space within.

  Atli, meanwhile, stood in a kind of daze, staring at the torn and twisted bodies that lay on every side, at the reddened blade in his hand. His feelings surprised him. He did not feel sickened; he did not feel afraid. He felt only gladness at being alive. Here, surrounded by so much death, perhaps only moments from his own, being alive had never meant so much. Then a sharp cracking sound made him glance back past the open portcullis towards the outer gate. It bulged inward, the great bar across it now half broken, showing pale wood where it had split, bending as the pressure from the massed death-walkers increased.

  "We have a problem..." he said. Bjólf saw it and, urging the others on as they cleared the way ahead, he dropped his weapons and turned his attention to securing the way behind, heading back towards the winch and the half-open portcullis. But as he stepped past the crumpled bodies, something caught his foot. Bjólf stumbled and fell to his knees, cursing his clumsiness. When he looked up, he saw Hammer-Fist rising, staggering to his feet once more, the crossbow bolt still embedded in his skull, his red eyes half rolled back in his head, but the semblance of life not quite gone out.

  Bjólf scrambled to his feet, the thing lumbering unsteadily after him, close on his heels. Its hammer caught him on his shoulder, sending him flying. Something snapped. In moments he was back on his feet, searching desperately for a weapon, when the creature's hand gripped his arm. He struggled, pulling in all directions - the grip tightened...

  Atli snatched a grappling hook up from the ground and swung it at the towering figure's head, a length of rope trailing behind. Hammer-Fist shuddered and staggered to one side, relinquishing his grip on the vikingr captain. It gave Bjólf a second chance at life, but the creature was not stopped for long. Now, in fury, it turned towards Atli.

  The boy would not last a moment in the hands of the creature. Bjólf looked around desperately, grabbed Odo's great sword and swiped at the thing's head; the sharp pain in his left shoulder barely registered. Metal clanged against metal. It staggered, its anger growing, and turned back to Bjólf. He hit it again, backing towards the winch, luring it on, one eye on the outer gate, just moments from bursting open. Half blind, it lumbered forward.

  "Come on!" he cried, suddenly aware as he spoke that he was echoing Grimmsson's last words. As it kept on towards him he battered it around the head again and again, each blow more desperate than the last, but doing no more than slowing its relentless advance.

  Behind him, a sudden great crack, and groan and crash of wood, told him that the outer gate had finally given way. A chorus of chilling moans - hundreds of voices merged together into a single ghastly sound - filled his ears. He did not dare turn. In the next moment he stumbled against the winch, almost fell, scrambled back past it. Beyond the inner gate he could see the host of death-walkers advancing, just moments from surging into the courtyard where the warband stood, watching in horror.

  Hammer-Fist, sensing weakness, lurched at him, crashing over the spindle of the winch, its arms flailing past the taut portcullis chain. Bjólf saw his chance. He looped the trailing rope around the creature's neck, around the portcullis chain, and pulled it tight. It thrashed and struggled, unable to right itself, blind to what was happening. He looped the rope again, twisting it around the chain, then kicked away the lock on the winch.

  The portcullis came crashing down, cutting the first of the death-walkers in two, the rattling chain hauling the writhing Hammer-Fist up high into the air, smashing its head into the great stone lintel that spanned the gate. It dangled, swinging, revolving slowly, lifeless at last, the crossbow bolt driven deep into
its poisoned brain.

  Bjólf heaved himself to his feet, walked past the clawing hands of the death-walkers that now filled the outer ward, their bodies pressing against the iron gate in their futile quest for flesh. He said nothing, but merely slapped Atli upon the arm in gratitude as he passed, wincing at the pain shooting through his own shoulder. He took up his sword and shield.

  As he did so, the wooden door at the far end of the courtyard caved in, reduced to firewood.

  Bjólf turned then to Thorvald, who lay slumped against the side wall, his face pale and sweaty, his mail and tunic soaked with his blood. Kjötvi was tending to him, but stood back as Bjólf crouched by Thorvald's side.

  "I'm done," said Thorvald weakly. Bjólf nodded solemnly, his jaw clenched. They had known each other far too long to dress it up. "I never thought it would end like this," he added. "To be honest, I didn't think it would be this interesting." Both laughed, Thorvald blanching in pain as he did so.

  "We can't leave you," said Bjólf.

  Thorvald nodded. "I know what you're saying. You're asking whether I want someone to finish me off, so I don't get up again, like one of them." He gestured towards the gate. He shook his head. "I wouldn't wish that task on any of you. Just leave me one of those." He pointed at the crossbow in Halldís's hands. She nodded at him, began drawing it back ready to take a bolt, fighting back tears as she did so.

  "Make sure you don't miss," joked Njáll. "You're shit with a bow."

  Thorvald smiled. "Go!" he said, waving them away like a parent shooing children. Then his face darkened, a look of pleading mingling with the pain in his face. "Go..."

  Bjólf turned his back on Thorvald for the last time, passing through the silent company until he stood before the dark entrance - the goal that had been so hard won.

  "Now we finish it," he said, and walked inside.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  THE DARK CASTLE

  Inside, all was black. With no means of lighting their way, they crept forward, along a straight passageway, constructed, as far as they could tell, from the same uniform grey blocks. Occasionally they passed open doorways - all dark, all as dead and empty as the buildings on the mainland. They stumbled upon objects - some familiar, some unidentifiable, all apparently dropped in haste, perhaps only moments before. Ahead, they fancied they could sometimes hear movement, echoing distantly, as if from some deep cave, some great, labyrinthine space. And another sound - harsh and insistent, like a single note blown upon a horn, but somehow empty, repeating mindlessly, over and over. Then, there was a flickering light, dim at first, but, like the sound, growing in intensity as they moved forward, its source far ahead, where the passageway seemed to come to an abrupt end.

  The end proved to be a junction with another passageway, that stretched away on either side. But this was unlike anything they had ever seen. The walls were smooth and white, the floor hard and of an shiny, unidentifiable material, the ceiling flat and featureless and as square and smooth as the floor and walls, entirely lacking any visible means of support. Along its centre, they now saw, ran the source of the flickering: a line of light - neither firelight, nor daylight, but some other sickly illumination that had no clear means of production. It stretched the full length of the long passageway in both directions, unbroken, but here and there, sections of the line flashed intermittently like a guttering flame. For a moment they stood, uncertain which direction to take.

  A sound of running footsteps off to their left made the decision for them.

  As they passed along the passage, more doorways came within view; some rooms dark, others brightly lit. One contained nothing but rows of beds. Another, angular, spindly tables and chairs, and the remains of a foul-smelling meal, recently abandoned. They moved on, the insistent sound ringing ever louder in their ears, never varying, never stopping. It was, thought Bjólf, like the sound of insanity.

  Up ahead, three black-clad figures, laden with unidentifiable objects, emerged from a doorway. Seeing the approaching warband, one dropped everything and fled, leaving the others standing in shock. Bjólf flew forward with the others close behind. They hacked down the two guards where they stood. Fjölvar raised his bow to bring down the third, but Bjólf stopped him. "We follow," he said.

  The trail led them to a wider corridor with many more rooms leading off it, and at the end a doorway that looked to be made entirely of glass. None could imagine how such a thing could be made, or why.

  From a side room came a crash. They followed the sound.

  Inside, there were benches like those in the grey, squat building, many of them covered with glass containers, things made of shining metal, weird instruments out of some delirious nightmare. Cowering in a corner was the one remaining guard, Bjólf recognised him as the man who had eluded them in the courtyard. He stepped up to him, putting his sword point to the man's throat.

  "Skalla," he said.

  The guard pointed a shaking hand in the direction of the glass doors. Bjólf withdrew his sword, not wishing to demean its blade with this man's blood, leaving him to his miserable life.

  Beyond the glass doors was darkness, but for a weak pool of light in the chamber's heart, and a scattering of strange, small dots of light - some green, some red. The doors themselves - if such they were - offered no means of opening. Bjólf nodded at Godwin, who stepped forward, spat in his hands, then swung his axe at them. They shattered in a great explosion of glinting shards, scattering across the floor like gemstones.

  Bjólf entered first. Ahead, there was another door, some unknown material this time, smooth and featureless. To their left, in a dark corner, completely in shadow, he sensed a movement. There was harsh breathing, and a cough.

  "Why did you come here?" came a hoarse voice. It was Skalla.

  "I told you my reason," said Bjólf.

  "Some pointless revenge? What am I to you?' He paused, coughed again. "Or perhaps I should ask what she is to you..."

  Halldís stepped forward, her sword raised. Bjólf held her back. He could just make out Skalla's feet now, just beyond the pool of light, where he was slumped against the wall. But he could see little more, could not see whether he had a weapon trained on them.

  "Are you dying?" said Bjólf.

  Skalla gave a grating laugh. "Perhaps. It's so hard to tell these days."

  "Then I will not waste time. The black box you carry around your neck. You still have it?"

  "For what it's worth."

  "Give it to me."

  "And if I do not?"

  "Then I will take it."

  "So why even ask?"

  "Because now, at the last, I wish you to know why we came." He stepped forward, into the light. "To destroy you. To destroy your masters. And to wrest from your dying hand the remedy for the living death."

  A strange, throaty sound came from the shadows. At first, Bjólf thought Skalla had succumbed to his wound. Then he realised, as the sound grew, that it was laughter; deep, resounding, uncontrollable laughter, broken only by a bout of painful coughing. "You did all of this, for that?" chuckled Skalla. He laughed again. "Here! Take it!"

  The black box skittered across the smooth floor to Bjólf's feet. Halldís snatched it up, opened it, peered at the contents.

  She frowned, sniffing at what she saw, then touched it with a fingertip and raised it tentatively to her lips. A look of disbelief came over her. "S-salt..."

  "Yes!" laughed Skalla. "That is what you all fought for. That is what you all died for. A box of salt!" There was a movement. "You'd better have this too." From the shadows, the flask slid across the floor, the same Skalla had used to awaken the berserkers. Bjólf snatched it up, tipped its contents into his hand. Water. Plain water.

  "It's a trick," said Bjólf. "This is not the remedy."

  "You fools! There is no remedy! No respite, no rescue, no escape."

  Halldís swayed, suddenly dizzy. "You lie. The white powder... we have seen it work..."

  "On the berserkers... of course! Becau
se my masters made them that way. To be controllable. But they are different. It will not stop the living death that is all around us. Not even the masters can stop that."

  Beyond the end door came a thump. A scratching. Sounds of movement.

  "What is that?" demanded Bjólf.

  "My masters. They shut me out. Left me to my fate." He gave a cynical chuckle. "I cannot blame them for it. I would do the same."

  The sounds intensified. There was a sudden hiss, and the door slid open, flooding the chamber with light. In the doorway, silhouetted, stood a huge figure. For a moment all stared, blinking at its half-familiar shape, struggling to focus against the glare. Then, with a roar, it flew at them.

  The door slid back, plunging them back into near darkness. Bjólf grabbed for the black box - but as he did so, the huge warrior swatted it out of Halldís's hands. It clattered on the hard floor, its contents scattered among the glinting fragments of glass. Staggering backwards, Halldís drew her sword. The creature's swiping fists struck it from her grip, sending it spinning past Atli's head, then battered her shield, splitting it with one blow. She smashed against the wall and slid to the floor, as the members of the warband, as one, fell upon the hulking creature. In the confined space, in the dark confusion, weapons were as much a danger to their fellows as to their enemy. They set upon it instead with their bare hands.

  It had no weapon of its own, this one, but all knew that once its fingers grasped them, they would be torn apart. Úlf and Frodi held one arm fast, Njáll and Godwin the other, and with others grabbing its legs they wrestled the roaring, thrashing thing onto its back. Bjólf stepped into the pool of light, standing over it, his sword drawn. Atli, knowing his part, jumped forward, heaving at the gleaming helm upon its head, ready for the killing blow. It flew free suddenly, sending Atli sprawling back onto broken glass.