CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
INGJALD'S STRATAGEM
As he ran, his bag weighing heavily upon his back, Atli's mind flashed back to the terrible night before the stockade. But this time was different. This time, fear was no longer his enemy. Moving in a wide arc, they passed swiftly and silently behind the last of the death-walkers, that flocked mindlessly towards the sound and scent of death. Now and again a straggler appeared before them, emerging from the trees, slowed in its progress by some grievous, ugly wound. The axes of Godwin and Gunnar dealt with them.
Soon, they stood at the rear of the towering barn. Within, an arm's length away on the other side of the wooden wall, they could hear the cries of their fellows, the scrape and scratch as they fought for their lives.
Gunnar did not hesitate. "Watch our backs," he said to Atli and Kjötvi, and he and Godwin immediately set about the barn's thick planks with their axes.
Splinters flew. Inside, men heard the blows, and shouts went up. A section of plank flew free. Gunnar stopped his axe short just in time to avoid slicing through the arm that sprang though the gap.
"Stand back!" he bellowed, his cry echoed by the muffled, desperate voices inside.
They set about the planks once more as the limb was hastily withdrawn, chopping through the wall, chunks of wood flying, pulling off another length, then the piece above it, until there was a rough opening half as big as a man.
Njáll appeared through the gap, red-faced and sweating. "Took your bloody time!" he said, and dived out onto the ground.
More followed. One by one they were hauled out of that death-trap, then, as the hole was broken wider, they came bowling and wriggling out two at a time, the cries and groans of the death-walkers growing all the while, the walls creaking and shaking from the pressure of the undead host within.
All could see a moment of crisis was approaching. "Fetch the cart!" called Gunnar. Atli, Kjötvi and several of their rescued shipmates ran to the old wagon and heaved it around the corner. "When I give the word, push it against the opening."
"There's people still alive in there!" said Njáll, smashing a ghoul with his mace as it appeared suddenly in the gap, moments after Halfdan had flung himself through. Death-walkers were pressing at the ragged hole now, plugging it with their own unwieldy bodies, their arms flailing and grasping, Godwin barely holding them at bay with a broken plank. "Whenever you're ready..." he called out. The surrounding walls bulged and groaned under the pressure, threatening to give way.
"We cannot wait," said Gunnar, then muttered under his breath, "May their spirits forgive me..." At his command they rolled the cart hard against the barn, and the last means of escape was blocked for good.
Bjólf, meanwhile, had been attending to the more daring part of the plan.
As he had stood in the doorway of the farmhouse, it had been clear that stealth alone could not help him. Fire was his greatest weapon, but it also ensured that his approach could not be hidden. His attack would require speed. As he watched, death-walkers were still cramming themselves into the barn, as if desperate to fulfil their part of his plan. But at least twenty more stood between him and the barn door, scattered across his path. There would be nothing for it but to run the gauntlet of the creatures, forcing his way past them before they had time to respond.
He squinted into the darkness, trying to read the features of the barn door itself, then scanned the open hay loft high above. He had to time it exactly right. The attempt could not be allowed to fail; there would be only one chance.
Suddenly, the moment of decision was taken from his hands. When he lowered his eyes, they met the face of a straggling death-walker turning directly towards him, its attention caught by his flame. It let out a weird, urgent moan, and others turned at its cry, joining it. It was now or never. He spoke his parting words to Halldís, then charged, his torch flaming behind him.
There was no time for finesse. Head low, shoulder forward, he slammed into the first walker, his helm smashing into its teeth, sending it flying. More turned at the sound of the impact. He swung his sword around, catching the second across the side of its neck, sending its head off at an impossible angle - a killing blow. It dropped like a stone, but directly towards him, its full weight catching his legs as it fell, sending him sprawling. The torch spun out of his grip, landing at the feet of another figure; a great bearded lump of a man in a studded leather jerkin. The creature stared at it blankly, then resumed its course towards the meat, oblivious to the flames now licking up its leg. Others, closing in around him, trampled the torch, stamping it out, and Bjólf's hopes were extinguished with it.
He scrambled for his sword, grabbed it by the grip, but something gripped his ankle - the first one he had struck, but failed to finish. He kicked out at it, as the bearded, burning figure lumbered towards him from the other direction, its flesh crackling as the flames now engulfed its body. If he could only regain the torch, relight it from the death-walker's flames... as he pulled, struggling to rise, a death-walker still on his leg and the hulking inferno almost upon him, another grim-faced ghoul - its leg horribly twisted below the knee - suddenly loomed over him, one putrid hand grasping his shoulder strap, the other clawing at his face.
Then, when it seemed all was lost, the thing jerked inexplicably, its head toppling from its body. The collapsing death-walker revealed a figure behind it - torch in one hand, gore-stained blade in the other, mail shimmering in the flame's light. Halldís. Before Bjólf could respond, there was another crunching impact. The grip on his ankle was relinquished - then a rough hand reached down and hauled him to his feet, and Bjólf found himself face to face with Frodi. The old man turned suddenly, delivering a shattering blow to the burning ghoul, sending him tottering away and crashing into two more. He grinned at Bjólf, the light of his own torch flickering upon his face. "An intelligent man may moderate what fate brings, if he is prepared to seek the help of friends..." And with that he turned again and cracked another of the creeping death-walkers across the temple.
Bjólf looked about him. Alongside Halldís and Frodi stood their three volunteer companions, a youthful zeal rekindled in their eyes, all with swords drawn and ready. Halldís stepped over the twitching bodies towards Bjólf. "We know of Ingjald, even in Björnheim," she said, and thrust her torch into his hand.
Together they turned, the fighters from Björnheim forming a flank on either side of the torch-bearer, forcing their way forward through the staggering draugr. The fighting was fierce; Frodi was in his element, joyful at tasting battle again. Halldís, her expression set and grim, struck out with no less vigour, never hesitating, her sword blade biting with ruthless precision. With the way ahead clear, two of the men ran forward, slamming the great barn door shut, putting their shoulders against it as they jammed the bolt into place. Bjólf stepped forward, took aim, and hurled the torch high into the hay loft.
All stepped back, keeping in a tight defensive circle - waiting, hoping, for the fire to take hold. Bjólf took the second torch from Frodi, in case it should be needed. For an agonising moment it seemed the flame had died, but as they watched, the glow in the loft began to grow and spread.
"I pray to the gods that Gunnar has done his job," said Frodi, one eye on the barn, the other on the dim figures that still lurked about them in the gloom.
"Trust Gunnar," said Bjólf.
The flames caught rapidly, leaping out of the loft and up to the gables, swiftly spreading the length of the barn.
Bjólf turned from the fire. "More death-walkers will come. We must make for the forest. Find the others there."
Frodi nodded, and he and his men started for the far side of the clearing. Bjólf flung the torch at the last of the approaching ghouls, sending one tottering backwards, and turned to face Halldís.
"I thought I told you to stay put," he said.
"I make a point of questioning everything I'm told to do," she replied.
Bjólf grinned, his eyes glinting in the growing light of the fire, and, grasping her hand, ran with her towards the trees.