CHAPTER FOUR

 

BLACK SMOKE

 

Swiftly, silently, they moved on the village. Finn and Godwin's companies took each flank, and, as they approached the knot of buildings, the two bands began to disperse, pairs of men splitting off and bursting into each dwelling, while Bjólf and the others headed straight for the heart of the village, weapons raised, eyes alert.

The men moved swiftly from house to house, their passing accompanied by the sounds of crashing from within as beds and chests were overturned. "Nothing," called one, emerging back into daylight. They moved on to the next.

"Nor here..." called another.

"Try the barn," called Gunnar.

"Empty."

"The chests have been broken open..." spat Finn, striding out of the nearest house.

"There must be someone here," said Gunnar. "I smell cooking." So did Bjólf. But there was something about it, different from the honest smells of stew and woodsmoke.

"Keep looking!" barked Bjólf. But his sense of unease was growing.

"Blood," said Kjötvi. Bjólf followed his gaze and saw a trail of fresh gore, and signs that something had been dragged. An animal?

"Rich pickings, you said..." hissed Gunnar, as more men emerged empty handed.

"It was a reliable source," Bjólf shot back. "He's never failed us before."

"Bjólf!" came a voice. It was Finn, emerging from one of the farthest dwellings. In his outstretched hand he held his sword. From it, hooked over the blade, hung a small iron scythe. And, still gripping the scythe's crude wooden handle, a severed hand.

Gunnar scanned the empty village and sniffed the air again in agitation. "There's something very wrong here."

Up ahead, Bjólf suddenly became aware of a single figure, right in the middle of the muddy track. A big man, ragged, staggering slightly, eyes and nose streaming, a mixture of blood and soot smeared across his forehead. He stopped dead when he saw them.

Without hesitation, Bjólf marched up to him, sword raised. But before he could do or say anything, the man collapsed to his knees, sobbing.

Bjólf stared at him. "Get up!" he shouted. "Get up!" Slinging his shield on his back, he grabbed the man's torn tunic and hauled him to his feet, his sword blade against his throat. "Answer me quickly. Where are your valuables? Your food? Your animals? Don't think you can hide them from us. We know all the tricks - and trust me, you will give them up."

Inexplicably, the man began to laugh.

"We have nothing!"

"They all say that," growled Gunnar.

"No, you don't understand..." He choked out the words between bouts of sobbing laughter. "There's nothing left! They took it all!"

Bjólf's blood ran cold.

"'They'?"

The man frowned and looked from one to the other. "Moments ago. Vikingr like you." He pointed a shaky hand towards the far end of the village. "You just missed them."

Bjólf and Gunnar stared at each other in disbelief.

"Regroup!" shouted Bjólf, a note of unease in his voice. "And stay close." He grabbed the man roughly by the shoulder, spun him round and shoved him onward.

As the party of men followed the curve of the wide track, adrenaline still pumping, a group of ragged women and children came into view. Several of the women were on their knees. One pulled at her own clothes and wailed hysterically at the sky. Beyond them, a great fire raged. At first, Bjólf could not make out what it was about it that brought back buried memories. Then the wind gusted, carrying a smell of burnt meat and tallow. And he realised. What he had first thought to be thick branches in the huge pile of wood were the twisted limbs of men. Bodies were heaped one upon the other, crackling, spitting, bubbling. Sizzling fat dripped into the earth, bones cracked, body parts popped and spat and sent jets of steam into the smoky air.

"Gods!" breathed Gunnar. "What happened here?" But it was plain to see. Whoever had raided the village had hit them hard and fast. Efficient. Seasoned. Merciless.

On the pyre, something moved - still alive. Bjólf shuddered.

"Is this how you treat your dead here?" said Godwin, barely able to hide the revulsion in his voice. "You should show more respect, give them the proper rites, or they will surely come back to haunt you."

"No! We have to burn them." said the big man. He gesticulated wildly as he spoke and clawed pathetically at Bjólf's sleeve, a hysterical tone to his voice. "We must send them up quickly. To stop them coming back. It can happen. I've heard of it! It's the only way to be sure..."

Some of Bjólf's crew - battle-hardened though they were - were visibly unsettled by the man's words and the weird, grisly scene. But Bjólf knew it was not fear of death or physical threat that got to them. It was something much worse. Something harder to fight.

"This is a bad omen," said Finn.

"Ah, he's lost his wits," said Bjólf dismissively, and spat in the mud. "Do you blame him?" He was well aware there were superstitious men among his crew - warriors and sailors were the worst for that. But he needed to keep them focused. He turned to Gunnar, speaking now so the others could not overhear. "Can you believe this? No raids for years - no one even knowing it was here - then two at once! This is not turning out to be a good day."

Gunnar sighed heavily, surveying the chaos. He could tell by the damage to the bodies that those who hit this place knew exactly what they were doing. And that was not all. "Could've been worse," he said wistfully. Then, after a thoughtful pause, added: "We might've run into him ourselves."

Bjólf eyed him for a moment. "Then you're thinking what I'm thinking..."

Gunnar nodded.

"Grimmsson." Even uttering the name made Bjólf's teeth clench.

"Looks like his work."

"It couldn't be anyone else." Bjólf waved his sword in frustration at the bodies heaped on the crude funeral pyre. "Look at this mess! These peasants are not the sort to resist. But killing five or six straight off as an example... That's his way." Gunnar nudged the big man with his axe. "You! How many were there?"

"More than I've ever seen. Seventy or eighty at least."

"And the sail of their ship - what colour?"

"Red!" wailed the big man, a bubble of snot bursting beneath his nose as he whimpered at the memory. He flung a wild arm past the fire and smoke, where the village broadened out and dipped down to the bank of the northern river, whose waters were clearly visible. "That's where they came... Took everything. Then off upriver. Just like that. They've ruined us!" He fell quivering to his knees.

There was no doubting it, then. For Bjólf, it was yet another reason to detest his rival. Not that he needed one. He hated everything about him. His brutality, his arrogance, his massively inflated ego. And, most of all, that fucking red sail... Only Helgi Grimmsson was possessed of the kind of vanity - not to mention bad taste - to have an entire ship's sail dyed red. The man had too much money and no honour. Unfortunately, he seemed to attract an exceptionally large number of men - all of whom were as dishonourable, foolhardy and dangerous as him. And with the opportunities for freelance operations dwindling as more regions came under the sway of kings, it was becoming increasingly likely that they would run into Grimmsson's sadly far larger vessel. And that, Bjólf knew, was a confrontation that he could not win.

"Got the same tip as us, I reckon," muttered Gunnar.

"And got to it first..."

"Payback for Roskilde..."

Bjólf stared dejectedly. But, in spite of everything, he was counting his blessings.

 

 

As the vikingr launched their attack, Atli had crept cautiously from his hiding place at the edge of the trees and made his way into the village. Everything that had been so familiar for so long - for his whole life - suddenly seemed strange. A kind of panic gripped him. There was no sign of Yngvar's pig, nor of his fowls. Tools lay here and there, as if suddenly abandoned. He had seen the warriors advance ahead of him, and heard their shouts to one another, seen the disarray as he passed dwellings with their doors swinging open. But nothing had prepared him for the sight that finally greeted him: the spitting flames, the acrid smoke, and the stunned looks on the faces of all gathered there. What had happened here? As he approached, a pair of cowed figures appeared on the track. Bera, her face set in a grim expression, and a younger woman who Atli knew as Úlfrún, her features deathly pale and weirdly blank, as if suddenly deprived of the ability to show emotion. They were dragging something between them on a blanket. A body. As they struggled past dejectedly, the head flopped out from its wrappings, its lifeless eyes seeming to gape at Atli. It was a horrific sight: the right cheek purple and swollen almost beyond recognition from some massive blow, and the lower jaw hanging completely off, swinging horribly as they plodded along.

It was Yngvar.

Atli watched as the women shuffled on towards the fire, Bera's gaze catching his. It seemed to cut through him. He felt sick and confused, not understanding what had happened. As he drew closer to the pyre, through the wafting, bitter smoke, he saw, near to the captain and his big companion, a pitiful figure crouched upon the floor. The man had his head in his hands, but Atli recognised him immediately.

 

 

Bjólf watched Bera and Úlfrún heave the limp body onto the fire, sending a shower of sparks into the air, their faces red from its fierce heat. A blackened skull rolled out of the heap, smoke billowing from its eye sockets.

"Old woman," said Bjólf, a note of pleading in his voice, "why are you doing this? It's madness."

Bera stared back at him and shrugged. "What else can we do?"

He regarded his men, then the villagers. "Well, we'll take some firewood at least. It's better keeping the living warm than the dead."

The big man on the ground looked up, a slightly crazed expression upon his face. "Oh yes, why not?" He laughed, and stood up. "Take it all! Take our homes!" And with that he rushed to the nearest house, trying to pull pieces of wood off it in a frenzy. "Take this! We've no need of it now! Yes! Burn it! Burn it all!" Clawing hopelessly at the solid door and frame, sweat flying off his fevered brow, he succeeded only in tearing off a few meagre strips and several of his fingernails before finally collapsing once again in a sobbing heap. Bjólf and Gunnar watched with a mixture of pity and contempt.

"You can have mine."

Bjólf turned to find the farm boy, standing, arms outstretched, holding his bundle of sticks towards him. The big man on the ground gawped up at the boy in shock, struck dumb. He returned his father's gaze in silence. As boy and man faced each other, the resemblance was suddenly clear. Both Gunnar and Bjólf noted the look that passed between them, and understood.

Bjólf nodded slowly, a flicker of a smile creeping across his face. "Take it back to the ship," he said, packing the boy off with a slap on the shoulder. He looked back once, then ran headlong towards the forest, the bundle under his arm. The boy's father raised his head slowly, tears welling up in his reddened eyes, and held Bjólf's gaze. "A curse on you and all your kind," he said in a hoarse whisper. "May all you've killed return to claim you." And with that, his head fell again.

Bjólf watched him in silence for a moment, then turned to his men, determined to make the best of the dismal situation. "Let's see what we can salvage from this mess and get out of here..." Then he muttered to Gunnar, with a nod towards the father: "... before we all end up as crazy as him..."

Gunnar shrugged. "Maybe he's not so crazy."

Bjólf stopped in his tracks. It seemed Gunnar, for all his old-fashioned ways, still had the capacity to surprise him. "He's throwing his neighbours on a bonfire to prevent them rising from the grave. These are hardly the actions of a sane man. Someone of your religious convictions should at least deplore the lack of ceremony."

"Maybe there's something in his stories."

"Or maybe," said Bjólf dismissively, "he's suffered brain sickness as a result of a serious blow to the head." He turned away once more.

"I'm just saying I've heard of such things, that's all. The dead coming back, I mean."

Bjólf stared back at his friend.

"It was from a merchant..." began Gunnar defensively, his face reddening. "Last time in Hedeby." He raised his hands in an apologetic gesture. "I'm only telling you what he said." Bjólf looked from Gunnar's face to those of his men in amazement. One or two gruffly acknowledged Gunnar's words.

"I met a man last month who said he'd seen it with his own eyes," said Godwin. "South of here. Dead men walking. Refused to put ashore, even though his crew was parched. Face was white as a swan's back when he told me."

"Everyone's heard tales of draugr," added Úlf. "And more often, of late."

"Tell me you don't believe all this," said Bjólf. "Stories to scare children!"

"The people there told of fire-drakes flying in the air, and the sea boiling - terrible portents." Godwin added.

Magnus stared at the pyre, its flames glinting in his eye. "The gospels tell of such things." A few men murmured in agreement. "They say that when the dead return, it is a sign of the coming Apocalypse. The end of all things."

Gunnar nodded solemnly. "Ragnarók."

Bjólf looked from face to face in silence. "Horseshit! Will you listen to yourselves? The dead coming back! You sound like old women! One bad raid and suddenly you're doubting everything." They stood, heads hanging, like chastised infants. He pointed at them with his sword, sweeping it slowly from one side to the other. "We've seen more death than most. Never yet has someone I've put down with my sword got up again." He fixed his steely eyes on each one of them in turn. "So, tell me, has any one of you, ever, in your whole life, and with your own eyes, seen a dead man walk?"

Magnus shuffled his feet uncomfortably. "I know it's in your bible-book, Brother Magnus..." said Bjólf irritably, not looking at him. "But actually seen..."

None spoke, their eyes cast down. Bjólf turned on Gunnar.

"And you, of all people, should know better than to listen to merchants' tales. They spend half their time going to places that are just like everywhere else, and the other half inventing things designed to make them sound more exotic."

"Like 'rich pickings' you mean?" grumbled Gunnar.

Under normal circumstances, Bjólf - rarely at a loss for words - would have countered Gunnar's comment with an even more withering reply. It was the kind of exchange upon which their relationship was largely based - a relationship only made possible by an underlying, mutual respect. But just now, he seemed not to have registered Gunnar's words. His mind was elsewhere, his expression changed, distant. Beneath his helm, a frown creased his brow. "Coming back..." he muttered to himself. Gunnar looked at him, puzzled.

"You say the raiders who came before us went upriver? What is upriver?" Bjólf shook Atli's father roughly by his shoulders. The man just stared at him, vacantly. "They went upriver to see if there was anything more worth having. Is there? What is upriver?"

"Nothing." Bera stepped forward, her head raised, her gaze unwavering. "Water. A bend in the river. Then rocks."

"Rocks?"

"A ford. Beyond the fells." She waved her hand vaguely at the eastern horizon.

"Deep enough for a ship?"

"Only if you have a crew happy to drag it."

Bjólf and Gunnar looked at each other.

"It's fully-laden," said Bjólf. "They won't be dragging that ship over any rocks."

Gunnar's expression became one of slow realisation. "They're coming back..."

"We have to get out of here."

In haste, they turned to leave, Bjólf rallying his men to him. As they did so, Gunnar glanced back towards the river. His face fell.

"Too late."