CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
THE FORGOTTEN ROAD
In spite of the forbidding presence that pressed in upon either side - or perhaps in defiance of it - the mood of the travellers was bouyant. The steady rhythm and sense of purpose, grim though it was, had lifted their spirits, and for much of the morning - walking two or three abreast, with Bjólf and Gunnar at their head - they set a brisk pace, encountering no other living creature, not a sound of movement other than the creaking and cracking of the great old trees. The only reminders of any kind of human presence were the small, grey way-stones that punctuated the route at regular intervals, half-hidden by the invading bracken. Halldís, who followed close behind with Frodi and Atli, paused to scrutinise each one as it appeared, noting the markings upon them - signs that meant nothing to Bjólf - often crouching to scrape off a coat of moss or lichen. One of these, she said, would indicate their point of departure from the path.
All had agreed that the wisest course of action was to move as silently as possible through the trees. For much of the way, the only noises to be heard were their footfalls and the clink of mail and weapons - sounds that they knew would not carry far in the dead, baffled air of the forest. After a time - with the death-walkers, for the moment, all but forgotten - they began to relax into the journey, enjoying what simple pleasures were offered: the sharp, fresh smell of foliage as it was crushed underfoot and the dappled sunlight that filtered between the gently swaying branches. Now and then, someone would gently hum a tune in time with their step. They even began to allow themselves hushed conversations.
"So," muttered Gunnar, leaning in towards Bjólf. "About this farm..."
Bjólf looked at him quizzically.
"The farm," repeated Gunnar insistently. "To retire to."
"Ah," said Bjólf with a nod. "The farm."
"I can see it in my mind's eye," said Gunnar, going off into a reverie. "Cattle and pigs. Good dark soil. Fresh green pasture. A clear stream running through it, coming down from a mountain. A big solid barn and a big solid woman at the farmhouse door."
"It has a distinct appeal."
"But where is it? That's the part that's frustrating me."
Bjólf shrugged. "Denmark?"
Gunnar wrinkled his nose and shook his head. "Full of Germans."
"Norway then? Vestfold?"
"I have a price on my head, remember?"
Bjólf sighed at the memory. A costly night's drinking that turned out to be. He returned to the problem at hand. "Obviously not Sweden."
"Obviously."
"Iceland?"
"Too far."
"You're not making this easy for yourself."
Gunnar gazed off into the distance. "I always fancied England. Good soil. Nice climate."
"You and ten thousand other Norsemen. The English are more likely to welcome you with an open grave than open arms..."
Gunnar sighed. Before he could speak again, Bjólf halted him with a hand upon his chest. Behind them, the rest of the party stopped short. Up ahead, some distance away, was a figure. Gunnar blinked hard; uncertain, at first, whether he was seeing right. But there was no doubting it. Standing in the middle of the path, staring at the ground where the ferns emerged from the left edge of the forest and turned slightly away from them, was what appeared to be a young woman; naked, pale, motionless but for a gentle swaying, as if she were just another of the trees being rocked by the wind.
"Is she one of them?" whispered Gunnar.
"If she is not," replied Bjólf, "she is a long way from home." He could not imagine what terrible circumstances - what madness - could have driven anyone here in such a state.
Bjólf turned, and, signalling to Fjölvar, motioned him forward. "Have an arrow ready," he whispered. Fjölvar nodded, and took his bow from his back. Bjólf advanced towards her in slow, creeping steps, making his footfalls as light as possible, all the while trying to maintain a clear line between the girl and Fjölvar's bow.
But for the slow swaying, she did not move as he approached. Her flesh, though pallid, appeared entirely unmarked; her long red hair hung loose down her back and over her face and breast, occasionally shifting as it was caught by the breeze. By Bjólf's reckoning she was little more than twenty summers old. He had by now convinced himself that she must indeed be the victim of some other tragedy, some other derangement of mind, and, being close, was about to speak out to her when, thanks to his own wandering attention, something snapped beneath his foot. Her head whirled around.
Now there was no doubt.
Her red-rimmed eyes, once beautiful, were as cold and colourless as a fish, her blue-lipped mouth lolling open. Around her neck, he now saw, was the blue-black mark left by a rope. She lurched towards him, her lips curling back as if about to utter some inhuman cry, when Bjólf felt Fjölvar's arrow hiss past his cheek and her head jolted suddenly back. She stood motionless for a moment, the arrow in her eye pointed skyward, then crumpled awkwardly to the ground.
It was a grim lesson to them all. The members of the party moved forward and, one by one, crept quietly past her body. Fjölvar averted his eyes as he passed, somehow more affected by this than any of the previous clashes. Halldís, too, shuddered as she looked upon her and felt the image burning into her memory. Though trying to resist the thought, she could not help but see herself in this wretched figure. Her in another life, with another fate. She did not want to believe that it was a fate that perhaps awaited her still.
"Do you suppose she did that to herself?" mused Gunnar as they walked, gesturing to his neck. Bjólf said nothing, and focused his attention on the path ahead.
After that weird encounter, all were greatly subdued - reminded of what lay ahead and wary of what still lurked nearby. It seemed the uncanny emptiness of the forest closer to the stockade - normally a source of unease, but today a cause for cheer - could no longer be relied upon. Twice afterwards they heard, from somewhere amongst the trees, the melancholy groan of some dead, wandering thing. They maintained their silence, and kept on moving.
It was not long after that Bjólf noticed Halldís, crouching at one of the way-stones with their indecipherable runes, sigh deeply and give the forest beyond a lingering, apprehensive look. It was the look he had been waiting for. She stood and turned to him, but he already knew what was coming.
"This is the place," she whispered, then indicated a spot just along from the stone, no more than a vague thinning of the dense foliage. "There was a path here, but it will be difficult to follow. We must maintain a course south-east - or we will never find our way." Bjólf signalled to his men and peered into the dark interior, where no sun, no guiding light, seemed to penetrate.
Then he drew his sword and, slicing through the clinging, tangled vines, plunged into the dank, all-enveloping darkness.