The Berserkers

by Roger Elwood

  THE BERSERKERS is one of the most bizarre and shocking collections of occult fantasy ever published— • A band of mad monks in bearskins comes out of the Mojave Desert to conquer hedonistic twenty-first-century America.

  • Traffic snarls on the Los Angeles freeway when all the cars are driven by werewolves and Draculas.

  • Odin and a horde of Viking berserkers ride down on a Canadian monastery—in 1900 a.d.1

  In fifteen stories written especially for this book, such award-winning authors as R. A. Lafferty, James Blish, William F. Nolan and Barry N. Malzberg explore the shadowy world where mortal men come under the influence of vast and unknowable forces more powerful than anything on earth.

  THE BERSERKERS

  was originally published by Trident Press.

  THE

  BERSERKERS

  Edited by

  Roger Elwood

  PUBLISHED BY POCKET BOOKS NEW YORK

  Contents

  INTRODUCTION

  The Berserks - Arthur Tofte

  Trial of the Blood - K. M. O’Donnell

  The Horseman from Hel - Gail Kimberly

  The Price of a Drink - James Blish

  As In a Vision Apprehended - Barry N. Malzberg

  And Mad Undancing Bears - R. A. Lafferty

  Thaumaturge - Raylyn Moore

  Coincidence - William F. Nolan

  The Patent Medicine Man - Daphne Castell

  A Freeway for Draculas - Richard A. Lupoff

  Night and Morning of the Idiot Child - Virginia Kidd

  Skinflowers - David Gerrold

  Form in Remission - Robin Schaeffer

  Echo - James Sallis

  The Genuine Article - Adrian Cole

  THE BERSERKERS

  Trident Press edition published 1974

  POCKET BOOK edition published June, 1974

  .

  This POCKET BOOK edition includes every word contained in the original, higher-priced edition. It is printed from brand-new plates made from completely reset, clear, easy-to-read type. POCKET BOOK editions are published by POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc., 630 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10020. Trademarks registered in the United States and other countries.

  Standard Book Number: 671-77769-6.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 73-82873. This POCKET BOOK edition is published by arrangement with Simon & Schuster, Inc. Copyright, ©, 1973, by Roger Elwood. All rights reserved. This book, or portions thereof, may not be reproduced by any means without permission of the original publisher: Simon & Schuster, Inc., 630 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10020.

  Front cover illustration by Mike Gross.

  Printed in the U.SA.

  INTRODUCTION

  This anthology is built upon what may be considered a unique premise: an actual historical reality. The berserkers were indeed groups of men whose behavior manifested either psychotic or occultic tendencies or, more often than not, both in combination. They caused widespread panic through the Scandinavian countries from the ninth to the twelfth centuries. From time to time berserkers were hired by royalty—for example, the Danish king Rolf Krake—because in battle they howled like wild beasts, foamed at the mouth and often bit through the iron rim of their shields. During such fits they were well-nigh invincible and possessed of incredible strength that caused terrible havoc among their foes.

  The first story in The Berserkers delves into the era of the original berserkers; Arthur Tofte is Norwegian by descent and knowledge of the berserkers goes back far into his family history.

  K. M. O’Donnell’s “Trial of the Blood” could be dubbed “Dracula’s Diary,” as it is about that infamous vampire of history and horrordom. A grisly story, this one is strong meat indeed.

  Gail Kimberly’s “The Horseman from Hel” likewise is a period story; a newer author, Miss Kimberly has nevertheless been selling a number of her stories lately. (I have, in fact, bought six from her myself over the past 18 months.)

  James Blish’s “The Price of a Drink” is brief but effective; and Jim is considered one of the top science fiction authors. His Star Trek book series continues to sell well years after the cancellation of the television series.

  Barry N. Malzberg’s “As in a Vision Apprehended” tells of another form of demonic possession—and does so powerfully.

  These are the period stories in this anthology. They are arranged more or less chronologically. For what this compendium of nightmares seeks to present is a progression in time from the original berserkers up to the present day and show people who. have exhibited berserk-like behavior at one time or another, especially if the supernatural is in some way involved.

  The other stories are modern in setting. Several are deadly serious: David Gerrold’s “Skinflowers,” a real bloodcurdler; William F. Nolan’s “Coincidence”; and Adrian Cole’s “The Genuine Article.” (It might be added that both Gerrold and Nolan are occasional television scripters, with Gerrold responsible for one of the better episodes of Star Trek, and Nolan having done a return-from-the-dead spooker called “The Norliss Tapes” as an ABC-TV movie which may become a series.) Two others are modernistic in style (as well as setting); Richard A. Lupoffs “A Freeway for Draculas”; R. A. Lafferty’s “And Mad Undancing Bears.” One is a gentle story of madness entitled “Echo” and written by James Sallis, a brilliant young author who should be doing more writing than he is. Another is satirical: “Form in Remission” by Robin Schaeffer. There is even a poem by noted agent-author Virginia Kidd. And a definite noncategory story is “Thaumaturge” by Raylyn Moore. Daphne Castell’s “The Patent Medicine Man” is a combination of types: quiet-horror, fantasy and so on.

  This anthology has been prepared on an all-original basis; the stories are appearing here for the first time, all written with this book in mind.

  Hope you find The Berserkers a worthwhile reading experience!

  Roger Elwood

  Margate, N.J.

  THE

  BERSERKERS

  The Berserks

  Arthur Tofte

  You think life is wild today; we live in a garden of

  Eden compared to what people in Scandinavia had

  to face in centuries gone by.

  I

  “It’s like a snake,” Asleik Audmundsson said in awe as he watched his heavily muscled father work at the sword he was making.

  “Aye, son, the wavy pattern does look snakelike.” He held up the long, heavy warrior blade, examining it with critical pride. “And it should strike swiftly like a snake.”

  He turned to glance at his now fully grown, broad-shouldered, flaxen-haired son.

  “The making of a warrior sword,” he said, “is as good as being a warrior. It is not easy to pack the thin bars of iron just right in charcoal so they can absorb carbon. You know how many times I take out the bars, cut them up, twist them, heat them and pound them again and again.

  “It’s the same with men,” he added. “It takes a certain amount of pounding to make a good warrior.”

  Asleik looked up eagerly at his father. “That is what I came to talk to you about.”

  Suddenly the words that had been a torture to hold back all summer came tumbling out.

  “Each growing season I have gone to our shieling in the uplands to care for our farm. Now that vatrarblot, the harvest festival, is over, I want to see what it is like to be a sea warrior.”

  Audmund peered at his son with surprise. “I have forgotten that even the youngest of my sons would one day grow up as tall as myself. I have always hoped you would take over the smithy when I become too old to swing a hammer.”

  He paused. “Being a Viking is a hard life, Asleik. And a dangerous one.”

  “Yes, I know. If it is my fey-doom, to
die as a Viking, that is how I shall die.”

  “Have you a plan?”

  Excitedly Asleik paced up and down before his father. “I have just heard that Gorm, the jarl’s son, is organizing a crew. I would talk with him.”

  Audmund put down the sword he had been working on. “This sword is being made for him. I wish you were going with anyone else.”

  “Why? He is the jarl’s son. In all Vestfold he is hailed as the greatest of warriors. It is said no one can stand against him in a sword fight, or with battle ax.”

  Audmund smiled ruefully. “I like him not. He is a berserk!”

  The young man nodded his head. “Then I would be a berserk’ too.”

  “You don’t know what you say, lad. Berserks are brutal bullies. They are cruel and heartless. They kill for the sport of killing. They rage into an unarmed farm village, rape the women and kill the men. And children too. This is not the Nordmann way.”

  “It is Odin’s way,” Asleik answered.

  Audmund shrugged his muscle-corded shoulders. “Aye, it is Odin’s way. But Odin is a god. We are not. I have heard that the White Christ god the Danes worship is a merciful god.”

  “I have heard of him too,” Asleik admitted. “He sounds like a weak god. I would have a strong god. I would be an Odin-man.”

  A roar came from the open doorway. “I like the sound of it when I hear a strong lad say he is an Odin-man.”

  The smith and his son turned to look at the two men who had entered the workshop. Both were in their midtwenties, at the peak of their physical powers. Taller by half a head than the average Vestfolder, with bulging biceps, massive thighs and huge hands, they were the kind of warriors that had made the name of Viking a dread word to peaceloving people everywhere.

  “Gorm Grettirsson and Torvald Torvaldsson,” the swordmaker said, “this is my son, Asleik.”

  Gorm, the great jarl’s son, grinned as he looked him over. “Big enough!” he grunted in reluctant respect. “Big enough to be an Odin-man.”

  He turned back to Audmund. “Is my new sword ready?”

  The older man nodded. “For a month I have been working on it. It ’is the best sword I have ever made. Now it is ready—except for the final quenching and sharpening.”

  Gorm’s eyes were wild with eager excitement as he peered at the blade resting in the hot charcoal. “Quick!” he cried. “Plunge it in that tub of water. I would take it home with me now.”

  The swordsmith shook his head. “Not in water. It must lose its heat quickly. In water, steam forms a barrier. I’ll plunge it in this barrel of oil.”

  “No, wait!” Gorm held up his hand. He turned to Torvald, his glowering companion. “Your Lapp slave, isn’t he outside?”

  Torvald nodded.

  “Get him!” Gorm ordered.

  A moment later, ‘’Torvald dragged in a cowering old man, wizened and thin.

  Gorm pointed at the Lapp. “There,” he shouted, “is your oil. Quench the blade in him! What better way for a Viking sword than to have its final quenching in blood?”

  Asleik glanced quickly at his father. For a brief second he thought he was going to object. It was a custom that had long been out of style. No blood quench had been heard of for a hundred years or more.

  Slowly Audmund took tongs and lifted the red hot blade from the fire. As though suddenly making up his mind, he lifted the glowing sword blade and with a mighty surge plunged it lengthwise down the old man’s body.

  There was only one shrill cry and then all they heard was a faint sizzling as the flesh and blood took away the heat from the metal.

  It had all been so quick, so surprising, Asleik could only stand and stare.

  Gorm’s expression was one of ecstasy. What had been done was so exactly right.

  “I shall call it Death-bringer. Is that not a good name?”

  He turned to Asleik. “I like your looks, Asleik Audmundsson. You didn’t flinch when your father plunged the blade into the Lapp.”

  He paused. “Tomorrow I take my own band of Vikings to avenge the murder of a blood kinsman. Some Danes—they call themselves Christians—have landed on the Stafnirfjord. They have killed my kinsman, raped his wife and daughters, and burned his skaalen. Will you join us?”

  Asleik peered over at his father, but the swordmaker’s back was turned.

  He nodded eagerly. “Yes, I would come with you.”

  Gorm punched Torvald on the arm in high spirits. “Another berserker for us! We’ll see that he gets the right training, won’t we, Torvald Torvaldsson! And now, Audmund, hand me my sword.”

  The swordsmith smiled. “It is still too hot. And I must still sharpen the edge and attach the hilt guard. Come early tomorrow…yes, and bring the agreed-upon purchase price.” /

  “You shall have it!” Gorm laughed. “I’ll pay you out of the silver we get on our first raid. Come, Torvald.”

  The latter, slow and dull witted, paused for only a moment to look down at the blood-drenched body of his dead Lapp slave. Then he stepped over the corpse and followed his companion outside.

  “That,” Audmund said bitterly after the men had left, “is what you call Odin’s way.”

  Asleik, his eyes aglow with excitement, put his hand on his father’s shoulder. “Yes, it is Odin’s way. It is Odin’s way to avenge the death of a kinsman. It is the mandebod—the ancient law of retribution. You cannot deny that.”

  Audmund began to pull the body of the Lapp out of the room. He turned and glared angrily at his son.

  “I have killed men in battle, but never like this. The Lapp is better off dead. He gave me a sign to carry out Gorm’s order. So I did what I had to do. As for what Gorm said about his need for vengeance—it may be true or it may be a lie. I have heard of no Danes on Stafnirfjord. But I suppose I cannot keep you from your fey-doom.”

  II

  For three days Gorm steered his langskip along the rugged coastline. At night they crept into the safety of sheltered coves. Altogether there were thirty men on the craft—twenty at the oars, eight others for relief, and Gorm and Torvald in command.

  Gorm’s ship was hardly to be classed as a dragon ship, a knorr, an ocean-going vessel. Its prow bore a proud beak. But the ship was old and creaky, far past its prime. The wool sail was much patched. Even the lypting, the small platform on the starboard side where Gorm stood to handle the rudder, was forever breaking under the giant’s heavy weight.

  But all this Asleik did not notice. He was filled with the excitement of the adventure even though his muscles ached from the frequent need, when wind died down, to handle one of the ship’s twenty oars.

  Now, for the first time in his life, he felt himself a man among men. His days of tending the family farm in the uplands were over. He was a warrior at last.

  He touched with pride the sword his father had given him and the slender sax, his carving knife, at his waist. He looked down at the spjot, his thrusting spear, and his round shield with its tight-fitting iron rim.

  He glanced at the others. They were rough men. They had long, uncropped fair hair that flowed over their shoulders. Hair, too, grew thick on their upper lips and chins. Their eyes were steel-blue and bold. The shaggy animal skins they wore when not at the oars were unkempt and they stank badly.

  But they were real men! Asleik felt a glow of intense pride that he was one of them. This was what he had dreamed of during the long summer in the highlands. To sail in a langskip. To fight Danes. To avenge wrongs. To win gold and silver. What more could life offer than this—to be a part of a Viking crew!

  In a way, Asleik was surprised at his thoughts. He had never fought anyone except in the game of knattle-leiker, and then it was all in fun. He had never killed anyone. And yet now his heart pounded at the thought of what lay ahead.

  It could be that he too was a born Viking, a berserker. What would happen when he really faced a Dane with his naked blade for the first time? He had heard how the berserks went mad with blood lust. How they threw away thei
r shields in utter defiance of death. How they hurled themselves at the enemy with sword or battle ax slashing, hacking. Nothing short of a mortal blow could stop them. Could he become like that?

  It was late afternoon of the third day when Gorm turned the ship into what he said was Stafnirfjord. The langskip slid quietly into the narrow gut of the fjord with only an hour or two of daylight remaining.

  For a time they rowed as silently as they could. Finally Gorm steered the craft to a rocky ledge at the side.

  Before going ashore, Gorm poured beakers of ale for the men. It was strong ale and some of the men began to be noisy. Their huge leader cuffed two or three of them on the side of the head and they became quiet.

  “The skaalen” he said, “is up the small valley that goes back here from the fjord waters. It is not far. When we get to the hall, you know what to do.”

  Asleik went ashore with the others. He was troubled at what Gorm had said. The men were supposed to know what they were to do. He did not know. How was he to help Gorm in satisfying his need for mandebod, blood revenge? How many men would they be facing? Were these Danes good fighters?

  Slowly, with missteps and barely suppressed oaths by the men in the increasing dusk of early evening, the band made its way up the valley. Once a huge dog came bounding up to them. Before it could bark an alarm, one of the men cut off its head with one vicious sweep of his sword.

  At the top of the valley, just before they were to break out into the open, Gorm hissed for the men to stop. “It’s just ahead, past these bushes.”

  Asleik could hear several of the men swallowing noisily from the leather flasks they had brought with them. More ale.

  The young son of the swordsmith held his weapon rigidly in his right hand, his left hand holding his round shield close to his side. The spjot, of little use at night, was back in the langskip.