CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

 

NIGHT GUESTS

 

For some time they ran, past the clearing and on into the scattering of tall pines beyond. They had just started to slow when Halldís finally called out for them to stop. She was supporting one of the old men from the village; he was sweating profusely, panting in hoarse, gasping breaths. It had been many years since he had been called upon to run while kitted out for combat.

"Rest!" called Bjólf.

The party halted; the old man slumped gratefully to the floor. Few of the rest seemed keen to do the same. Many of them poked about in the loose carpet of pine needles with their sword points, reluctant to sit upon it, or swiped at their clothes nervously and scratched at themselves. They could hardly be blamed. Every step, it seemed, brought some new terror, some undreamt-of threat. Atli sat on his baggage - which he was finally now able to drop - and looked up as Bjólf wandered over to him.

"Good thinking, little man," the captain said, clapping him on the shoulder.

Atli smiled at the acknowledgement. Then, after a moment of thought, he said: "So, when do I stop being 'little'?"

Bjólf looked back in surprise. Some of those within earshot laughed aloud. Atli held his gaze unflinchingly, and for the first time, perhaps, seemed not a boy, but a man.

A smile creased Bjólf's face. "Maybe today. Good thinking, Atli, son of Ivarr..." Then he pinched Atli's arm. "Though you could always do with a bit more muscle."

Gunnar laughed. "Atli the Strong!"

Some of the men chortled at the irony. It seemed to be the way these nicknames worked, either describing the one distinguishing attribute of the individual - Two-Axe, Long-Beard - or stating something that was the complete opposite of the truth - Kjötvi the Lucky, Atli the Strong. Atli didn't mind. He knew how it was meant. To give a name, even in jest, was their way of showing him respect - of showing he was one of them. He was happy to laugh along with his comrades.

It served another purpose, too. To help him put from his mind an image that he had carried with him from the clearing. As they ran, he had looked back. On the ground, collapsed just short of the stream, was Arngrimm - or, at least, the shape of Arngrimm, still writhing and twitching beneath the shifting, devouring shroud of black. Behind him, in a disordered heap, lay what remained of Eyvind. Now mostly abandoned by the insect horde, he had been reduced to a lifeless skeleton, the low sun that, moments before, had shone upon his smiling face now glancing through the gaps between his stripped bones. And then - somehow, the most horrific sight of all - there had been the lone death-walker. Now bereft of its covering of frantically milling legions of ants, the ghastly state of its flesh was now fully revealed. The skin had been entirely removed, and beneath the body had been bored and reamed by a million tiny mouths, leaving some parts barely covered, and others, that had not pleased them, almost untouched. The head was stripped of features - the nose eaten away, the ears gone, only dark, dry pits for eyes. Its teeth and ribs shone white in the sun, and along its limbs, exposed tendons were visible, stretched like wires. And yet - and it was this that made Atli shudder - it still stood, swaying gently, waiting for its now destroyed and useless senses to pick up the scent or sound of prey.

 

 

As they gathered themselves and continued through the towering pines, Gunnar again caught up with Bjólf, who was walking with Halldís ahead of the main group. She look pale and distraught at what she had witnessed. Although Gunnar and Bjólf and the others were no less appalled, they at least had developed their own ways, over the years, of dealing with such hideous events. Gunnar looked at Bjólf, uncertain whether to speak. Bjólf encouraged him with a nod.

"Have you ever seen ants attack the living like that?" said Gunnar.

"No," said Bjólf.

"Poor Eyvind..." Gunnar shook his head, then cast a glance at Halldís. "You might have warned us you had such pests in your forest."

Halldís shot him a fearsome look. "Do you really think I would have kept silent about such a thing? There are no such creatures... and we also lost a man, every bit as fine as your 'poor Eyvind'!" With that she stalked off ahead, leaving Gunnar irritated and bemused.

"They had feasted upon the flesh of a death-walker," said Bjólf, "and so had become of its kind. That is why they so hungered for human flesh."

Gunnar took a moment to absorb the implications.

"It is spreading to the beasts, Gunnar. We must be more vigilant than ever - and thank our luck that no larger creatures remain here."

Gunnar fell into silent, gloomy reflection as they trudged on their way.

As they went, Bjólf began to notice decaying stumps where trees had once been felled, and even occasional indications of well-worn paths. There were signs of habitation here, though how recent, he could not tell.

They did not have to wait long. Quite suddenly, the way before them opened into a broad, grassy glade, its earthy colours glowing in the low, early evening sun. Worn trackways led through it, and at its heart, casting a long, deep shadow, stood a small, solid farmhouse built of pine logs and, opposite, a great old barn. An abandoned cart stood to one side. It was an uncanny feeling, happening upon signs of such ordinary life in the middle of so forbidding a forest; a haven of normality in the midst of a nightmare. Bjólf hoped it was yet another sign that they were near their goal.

Clearly there was no life here now. No smoke rose from the house. There was neither sight nor sound of any animal. Tall weeds grew through the wheels of the cart, and the hay in the exposed loft of the barn was honeycombed with long-deserted rat-runs. Nevertheless, Bjólf felt comforted by the familiarity of the scene.

When he looked at Halldís, however, her expression was downcast.

"What is it?"

She frowned, digging deep into her memories. "I know this place - from my childhood. It is Erling's farm."

"A fiercely independent old man," added Frodi. "He built all this himself. How, I cannot imagine."

Bjólf smiled and looked around. "Erling. That was my father's name."

Halldís sighed. "We are further south than intended."

"Can we not correct our course?"

"Easily. But it means our progress has also been slower than I thought."

Bjólf shaded his eye with his hand and peered towards the sun, already dipping below the tops of the trees. "How far is it? Will we make it before dark?"

Halldís shook her head, gloomily. Bjólf thought to himself, and looked about, then turned back to them, his mood remaining resolutely buoyant. "Then fate has favoured our party, blessing us with a roof under which to spend the night."

"I thought you did not believe in fate," said Halldís.

Bjólf gave her a broad grin. "When it turns my way, I don't fight it."

Before the light had faded, Bjólf and his men had set about clearing and securing house and barn for the night. Both had seen better days, but to the weary travellers, they were luxurious.

The only argument had been over who took the house, and who took the barn. Those in the house would have the additional comfort of a fire - something they could not have risked in the open air - but the dwelling could accommodate no more than a dozen at most. Bjólf had insisted that Halldís and her people lodge there, and that they at least be joined by Atli, Kjötvi, Gunnar and Godwin - the former two because they had served them well that day (and, Bjölf knew, were less robust than the rest); the latter because they would provide good protection for the others. Bjólf himself would join the men in the barn.

And here the argument began. Led by Njáll and stoked by Fjölvar, the men, fighting back mischievous smiles, started to suggest that Bjólf's place was in the house, that he had things to look after there, that the house offered the warmth he needed. Bjólf, refusing to get drawn in, mortified at such comments in front of their noble host, attempted to steer the conversation back to the matter in hand. But the men, seeing him on the run, would have none of it - surely he would be needed to stoke the fire during the night, they asked?

Halldís was not slow to pick up on the innuendo. She feigned haughty offence before him, but, seeing Bjólf's embarrassment, was soon sniggering along at his expense. When he finally realised that she was colluding in the joke, he caved in and accepted his lot, to a cheer from the crew. Afterwards, much to her further amusement, several said a polite "good night" to Halldís - one or two even apologising with rather touching sincerity for their crude behaviour. She thanked them, keeping as straight a face as possible.

Huddled around the glowing hearth, leaning against the thick pillars, they talked and ate their simple rations and laughed into the night - their trials, for the moment, forgotten. One by one, as the food and the warmth of the fire worked upon them, they succumbed to sleep, until finally Bjólf realised he was the last awake. Gently drawing a thick sheepskin more snugly around the slumbering Halldís, he gazed upon her features for a moment before settling himself down for the night. As he drifted off, the last thing of which he was aware was the voice of Úlf, raised in gentle song, wafting from the barn.

 

 

Bjólf awoke to a sudden crash.

Leaping up, bleary-eyed, he whirled around, his sword already in his hand. The interior of the house was still in darkness, but for the fire's dim glow, but he could just make out Gunnar's shape at the window. The shutter was flung wide open, and, slumped through it, Gunnar's axe still in its head, was the figure of a man, his long, neat braids of hair hanging like thin ropes. Even in this gloom, Bjólf could recognise the grey, lifeless flesh of a death-walker.

"It's all right," whispered Gunnar as the others stirred. "I think it's just a stray one." He went to heave his axe from its bony cleft, but as he pulled, instead of the blade springing free, the whole head came away from its body. Gunnar stood for a moment, a blackly comical figure, staring quizzically at the head still stuck upon his axe. "I just need to deal with this," he said, and made for the door.

He had just swung the door open, and was standing with his foot upon his late victim's face, working the axe free, when a look towards the barn made him stop dead.

"Gods..."

"What is it?" whispered Bjólf, stepping up beside him. But now he could see for himself.

Filling the open space between the house and the barn was a numberless multitude of pale, ungainly figures - some mindlessly jostling each other as they crowded into the courtyard, others, in one and twos, still staggering out from the trees to join the tottering throng. Most had been men, well-dressed and powerfully built: Grimmsson's crew. Some were dragging broken or twisted limbs, listing awkwardly to one side or showing other strange contortions that spoke of terrible wounds to their bodies. Others, with no apparent mark upon them, shuffled forward like sleepwalkers. But all were relentlessly focused on the same goal - the place to which all their faces were turned, all their bodies pushed, and all their paths led: the open door of the barn.

A knot of them crushed clumsily in at the doorway, others pressing in behind. Many had evidently already made it inside. From within there were sounds of struggle. A crash. Urgent shouting. Then a scream. The sounds elicited a chorus of moans from the lifeless multitude. Some reached out. Others that had been wandering with little sense of direction now picked up their pace, and started to stagger directly for the source of the pain, the source of food. As they watched, a death-walker flew suddenly backwards out of the barn, an arrow in its neck, bowling several others over. More surged forward to take their place, their sluggish frenzy growing, their bodies funnelling doggedly, unrelentingly into the barn's dark interior, until it seemed the place would burst at the seams.

"Well, now we know what became of Grimmsson's crew." muttered Gunnar.

"We must do something," said Bjólf, the desperate plight of the two dozen trapped men ringing in the night air.

"But what?" said Gunnar in despair. "We cannot fell them all!"

Bjólf turned back into the house and began flinging things about wildly, Halldís, Atli and the others shrinking back from him in alarm. Finally he turned to Gunnar, having found what he sought: three torches, their tops soaked in pitch. "You remember how Ingjald the Ill-Ruler treated the Swedish kings who feasted in his hall?"

Gunnar nodded.

"Find your way around the back and get our men out any way you can," said Bjólf, placing his helm on his head. "Take Godwin, Atli and Kjötvi with you. I'll take care of the rest."

Gunnar and the others hastily threw their gear about them and broke from the door, heading off into the darkness far to the right. Bjólf, taking one of the torches, thrust it into the fire until the flames took hold, then stood poised at the door, sword in one hand, torch in the other.

"What of us?" said Halldís.

He turned to her, the torchlight illuminating his face, glinting off the metal. "Stay here with Frodi and his men, and make no sound. You will see soon enough whether I have succeeded."

And with his flame roaring in the wind, he was gone.