CHAPTER THIRTY

 

KING ÓFLÁR

 

As they had trudged up the hill and on through the village, thoughts of the day's events had begun to consolidate in Bjólf's mind. He had not remained defeated for long. Despair had turned to melancholy, melancholy to bitterness, and, by the time they reached the great hall, to a murderous rage.

"We were betrayed," he snapped as he strode back and forth before the mead benches, his sword still in his hand. Its blade swept through the air as he spoke. Even his friends were keeping a respectful distance from him now.

"But who?" said Halldís, exchanging a look of deep unease with Frodi. He turned and stared into the hearth, his face dark and brooding.

"I know on whom I would place my wager," he muttered.

"But, more to the point, how did they pass the message?" added Gunnar. "No one here would go by land, and we know none went by boat."

"Their information was scant," said Godwin, "or many of us would doubtless be dead by now, torn apart by their berserkers."

"They had the chance," nodded Frodi.

"But they did not take it," frowned Bjólf. "They did not know everything. Grimmsson was able to mislead them. They were warned - about us, about the ship - but did not know what else might have passed." He rubbed his chin, and looked up to the rafters as if somehow seeking inspiration there. Come on, Thor... Odin... anyone... he thought. I've neglected you all these years, I know, but I'll take any help I can get, whether you exist or not.

A vivid childhood memory came to him, then, quite unbidden: of his uncle's hall - a far more modest affair than this - and of the sparrows that used to nest among the beams. During feasts, they would swoop down and steal scraps from the tables. In time, they became so tame they would even take food from Olaf's huge hand. He smiled at that ridiculous image. The old man loved those birds. Such a thing could not happen here, in this lifeless realm. He had not seen a single bird since they had arrived.

Then he turned, fixing Finn with a look of frightening intensity and pointing at him with the tip of his blade.

"This bird that you saw Óflár feed," he said, his voice like thunder. "He let it fly free?"

"Yes," said Finn, shrugging.

"What kind of bird? A hawk? A hunting bird?" He did not think Óflár the kind to have a pet.

"No... Eating bird. What do you call it?" He flapped his arms and imitated its sound. "Coo-coo-coo!"

"A pigeon!" exclaimed Gunnar. The men looked at each other in sudden comprehension.

Bjólf turned, brow furrowed in fury, fingers clenched so tight around his sword grip his knuckles were white, and stormed out of the hall, leaving the great door swinging behind him. Moments later, he was back again. He strode up to Halldís and grabbed her by the hand. "Show me where Óflár lives!" he demanded, and charged out once again, dragging Halldís behind him.

"This should be interesting..." said Gunnar. All hurried after them.

Óflár took his time answering the irate pounding at his door. When he did so, he opened it the merest crack and peered out, suspiciously. "What is the...?"

That was all he had the opportunity to say before Bjólf kicked the door in, smashing Óflár's face and sending him flying back against a wooden pillar. As the pale man lay whimpering pathetically, snorting like a pig through his crushed, bleeding nose, Bjólf strode into the house, grabbed Óflár by his greasy hair, and dragged him out into the courtyard. He did not stop, but passed by his waiting crew and continued on towards the stockade gate, the snivelling screams of his writhing baggage drawing more and more people from their homes.

"Nothing to worry about," Gunnar reassured them. "Just sorting out a little rat infestation."

Bjólf, his anger growing, tugged harder, causing Óflár - bumping along the ground on his skinny rump, his hair almost wrenched from his head - to shriek all the more.

At the gate, the one-armed blacksmith, who was boiling nettles in a pot over a small fire, saw him coming, Halldís hurrying behind him, and the best part of Bjólf's crew behind her. Bjólf did not look like he was going to stop. Jumping to his feet, uncertain what to do, the blacksmith looked from Bjólf to Halldís and back again.

"Open the gates!" she called. The blacksmith and his fellow gatekeeper - a stout older man with no front teeth - fumbled with the heavy bar. Bjólf dumped Óflár on the ground and strode over to the blacksmith's bubbling pot.

"What is this?" he barked.

"Er... s-stingers," stuttered the blacksmith as they heaved the beam from the gates. "An infusion for my... Wha - ?"

But before he could say any more, Bjólf snatched up the pot, strode back to the wriggling form of Óflár and emptied the boiling contents into his lap. Óflár howled, pungent steam rising from his groin. Bjólf looped his arm through the pot's handle, took hold of Óflár's thin locks once more, and, with an expression of fury and disgust, marched out of the gates, dragging his screaming captive down the path to the harbour, where flames still licked at the jagged, sunken carcass of his ship.

 

 

Halldís stopped at the gates. None stepped past where she stood. Gunnar looked at her, questioningly. "Do you want us to..." The sentence ended in a kind of half nod towards the receding figures.

Halldís shook her head. "Let him deal with this in his own way."

"I don't understand," whispered Atli, embarrassed by his own ignorance. "What did Óflár do?"

Gunnar gave a grim laugh. "Pigeons are not only for eating," he said.

Atli, still confused, looked from one face to another.

"Messages, boy," said Godwin. "They also carry messages."

 

 

Almost at the water's edge, Bjólf hauled Óflár into the very centre of the circle of gore and released his grip. Óflár fell face first into human blood and offal, then recoiled and cried out in shock and revulsion, slipping in the slime, covering himself in it.

'This is your anointing," said Bjólf, a manic look in his eye, and strode about him. "Now prepare to ascend your throne!"

Grabbing him by the scruff of the neck, he dragged the wailing, writhing Óflár towards the stake, sat him roughly against it, and trussed him up with the ragged, blood-caked rope that had once bound Grimmsson.

"This is your mantle!" he bawled in Óflár's ear, pulling the bonds tight.

Óflár screamed in torment, his returning senses finally beginning to grasp the full horror of his situation. He struggled feebly and looked about in panic. At the edge of the forest, upon the northern side, close to the water, could now be seen three death-walkers, their gait jerky and uneven, drawn from the forest by the sounds of death, the smell of blood.

Bjólf held the pot aloft and hammered hard upon it with the hilt of his sword. It rang out loudly like a crude, muffled bell.

"Come one, come all!" he cried. "Attend the court of King Óflár the Great!"

On the south side, now, another death-walker was visible. Bjólf turned and bowed to the whimpering, pleading creature at his feet. "Your majesty," he said, and jammed the nettle-pot roughly upon Óflár's head. A strange, humourless smile crossed his face. "You wished for a kingdom of your own. Well, now you have it. This is your kingdom." He gestured wildly with his sword blade. "And these your subjects!"

Óflár stared wild-eyed at the flames, the blood, the empty-eyed creatures that now stumbled towards him, sobbing and kicking ineffectually, like an infant. Bjólf straightened, staring down at Óflár with contempt. "I leave you to their wise counsel." With that he turned, and walked away, back to the stockade, where the distant screams were finally lost in the wind.

So ended the brief reign of Óflár, son of Hallthor.