CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

 

THE LAST BATTLE

 

Trani stood hunched in the rickety lookout post, shivering in the cold night air. He hated this watch. It was always cold out over the water, but at night it really got into your bones. No amount of moving around, it seemed, could keep the chill out. Not that there was exactly much room for movement, and he wasn't sure the structure would take it even if there were. No matter how many times Skalla impressed upon them that it was one of the most important jobs on the island, it still felt like a punishment.

He cursed Skalla's name under his breath, then began humming a tune his fellows had made up in honour of their leader. The words mostly focused on the fact that Skalla ate babies for breakfast and had no testicles. Trani sniggered to himself, trying to warm his hands on the flame of the torch. At least he had that. Trouble was, even if you stood up close your face ended up roasted on one side and still frozen on the other. Why could they not simply have put another bracket for the torch on the other side, so it was possible to swap it over every once in a while? As it was, the only way around the problem was to turn and face the island, which defeated the object of him being there. He could not allow himself to do it - though, in truth, he was more afraid of Skalla finding out than of any potential intruder sneaking up behind. There had never been any intruder. Why would there be? No one would want to come here.

True, there had been talk of a crew of vikingr being seen somewhere. That, supposedly, was the reason for having the watch extended through the night. But the word was they were all dead now. And even if they weren't, they would be soon. No one could survive out there without the masters' protection. He shivered at the thought.

Never mind. The sun would be up soon and the boat back to relieve him. Then breakfast. He stared into the darkness. A weird mist had rolled in from the north over the past few hours, with the salt tang and the chill of the sea. Now great whisps of it were being whipped towards him on the wind like wraiths. As he looked, he thought for a moment he saw an orange glow somewhere out there in the impenetrable gloom. He wiped his eyes and yawned. He'd been out here too long.

But no, there it was again. A dim light, directly ahead.

He thought, at first, it must be a fire out on the promontory, where the fjord turned northwards. But surely it couldn't be. Who could possibly be out there? Something Reim had said when Trani had arrived to relieve him at the watch suddenly came back to him. "There's a boat due back," he'd said. "Keep an eye out for it." Trani had forgotten all about that. To be honest, he had assumed Reim must have been mistaken. But now...

The glow was growing in intensity, seeming to flicker. A trick of the fog, thought Trani. He looked back to the island, then forward again. It couldn't be from the shore. It was too far out. For a moment he pictured that lost boat, still inexpicably out there, only now returning. He kept his eyes fixed on it, watching it get bigger. Without warning, the fog thickened and the glow disappeared completely. Maybe his mind really had been playing tricks. Ghost stories told by his fellows started to play on his mind - of strange lights that guarded tombs or hovered where treasure lay. In vain, he tried to banish them; he didn't want to think about that sort of thing. It was bad enough being out over this dark water, knowing what lurked below. Anyway, it was gone now. He kept staring at the spot ahead of him, where it had been, just to be sure. But there was nothing.

With a shiver - not from the cold this time - he looked back to the island. "Come on," he muttered to himself, looking longingly for the relief boat. "I'm going to catch my death out here..." When he turned back, his eyes were met by a vision from Hel.

Emerging from the swirling, wind-blown fog at terrifying speed, as if from nowhere, was the towering, spiked dragon-prow of a great death-ship - its grinning figurehead bearing down upon him, silhouetted against a blood-red sail, its whole length lit up by leaping, roaring flames. As Trani stared, open-mouthed, unable to comprehend the impossibility of the sight, the ship ploughed straight into the watchtower, sending it crashing into the dark, icy water with a horrible groaning and cracking of splintering wood, before forging on over it. The final shock - the final unthinkable revelation - was the sound that reached his ears in the moments before the heavy, barnacled hull crushed him down into the haunted, freezing black depths. It was the hoarse, otherworldly baying of wolves.

 

 

The burning ship did not stop. The wind from the north pushed it on, its flames reddening the sky. The gates fell; the second tower collapsed, dragging with it a whole section of the barrier. One by one, all along its great length, the stakes began to topple. In the harbour itself, a cry went up, but the scurrying guards were utterly powerless to halt its inexorable advance. They could only watch in terror and disbelief as the great ship, flames now leaping the full height of the mast, smashed past the moored black ships, igniting their ropes and sails, rammed into the jetty, splintering it to kindling, and finally, carving the first decisive battle scar into the stronghold of the masters, drove its bows high up onto the island's wrecked shore. As it shuddered to a halt, those within sight - to their horror - saw leaping from its deck crazed, red-eyed, ravening wolves, their bodies aflame, their limbs convulsing, their hideous jaws snapping and tearing at anything that moved.

From the rampart, Skalla watched as the beasts - half consumed by fire, their restraining ropes burned through - took his men apart. Flames leapt, lighting up the whole of the harbour. He did not know where the ship had come from, nor who was behind the attack, but it did not matter now. Somehow, he had always known this day would come. If the fire-ship was meant as a diversion from a main attack, then it had more than done its job. The barrier was in a state of collapse, and all knew only too well what that would mean. He must leave those outside to their fate. They would provide his diversion.

He turned to the panic-stricken lackeys who cowered nearby. "Seal the main gate," he said. "Muster my personal guards. And prepare the berserkers."

 

 

While the western shore had erupted into fiery chaos, upon the eastern side of the island, all was quiet. Guards stood at intervals upon the stockade, nervous for news of the assault upon the other side of the island, their numbers depleted by the emergency, until now, they barely had sight of each other in the early morning gloom. There was a hiss, and a muffled cry, and one fell out of view. Then another. A third black-clad figure jerked suddenly at the sound of a dull impact, choked, then toppled over the rampart. By the time the iron hooks were thrown over the edge of the stockade, there were no guards left alive to witness them. Moments later, a force of warriors - eighteen in number - stood battle-ready upon the rampart, helms, blades and armour glinting in the light of its torches. The time for vengeance had come.

The bold strategy had unfolded exactly as planned. But it had not been without obstacles. Kjötvi, against all the odds, had showed no further ill effects from the raven attack (although he now sported an eye patch, fashioned for him by Úlf from a black guard's leather armour). But Folki had fallen without warning into a shivering sickness, his skin pale, a cold sweat upon his brow. Investigation revealed a bite upon his calf, from the night at Erling's farm. Whether Folki had known and chosen to keep it quiet, or had simply been unaware of the wound in the heat of battle, Bjólf did not know or care to ask. All were aware what it would mean. Folki had insisted on staying behind in the grove of death, knowing he was now a liability. Eybjörn, the last survivor of Frodi's men, had volunteered to stay with him. He had said he was too old to make the climb over the stockade wall, but Bjólf knew the real, unspoken, reason he was staying was so he could give Folki peace after he passed. What future it left for Eybjörn himself, none could say. Of all the deeds Bjólf had seen these past few days, this was perhaps the bravest.

The black boat, packed to capacity, heavy with weapons and mail, sat low in the water. Once the Fire-Raven had been set on its course, aimed at the distant torches of the harbour, Úlf and Thorvald - the last men aboard - had dropped into the black boat with the others, and thrown a torch into the great pyre upon the ship's deck. With all enemy eyes on the fire ship, they had rowed in darkness to the far side of the island, cut through the rope netting of the barrier and slid the vessel between the stakes entirely unobserved.

Now, from the ramparts, Bjólf surveyed the challenge that lay ahead. Inside the wooden stockade lay a wide open space, dotted with untidy huts and dwellings of all kinds. Here and there, an isolated figure hurried past, responding to the distant emergency. Beyond stood the formidable inner wall of the fortress. Blank and grey, constructed from the same blocks as the squat building upon the mainland, the square, featureless edifice loomed around the hidden heart of the castle, obscuring everything but the strange, spiky tower that sprang from within, its uppermost spire just beginning to catch the first rays of the sun as dawn broke over the distant mountains. This wall was a very different matter from the first; too high for their grappling hooks, with no guarantee of what lay on the other side. They would have to fight their way in.

Slowly, cautiously, they worked their way around the parapet, keeping low, those with bows and crossbows keeping an eye out for any who might raise the alarm. With all attention focused on the disaster in the harbour, none below even thought to look up. As they neared the western end of the island, the clamour of activity ahead intensified. Soon, the harbour itself was in view. Down beneath them, in the fortresses outer ward, Bjólf could now see black-clad men beetling about, barring the stockade's main gate - some hurrying back towards the western end of the grey edifice. There must be a second gate there; and from the way the men were moving, it must also be open. They had to move quickly.

Bjólf gestured ahead to a wide stairway leading down to ground level. But before they could move, Fjölvar nudged him and pointed past the rampart to the glow of the harbour. At first, it seemed that Skalla's men had barred the gate while a large number of their own were still outside it - a curious fact, to be sure. Then he saw that most of those outside the gate were not black guards. Surrounding them - swamping them - was a host of ragged, grey figures, their appearance gaunt and cadaverous, their movements hideously familiar. Some of the guards were fighting, some fleeing desperately back towards the gates that now shut them out. Others had already been overwhelmed, their screams carried on the wind. And, as Bjólf watched, the ranks of the death-walkers were growing, a seemingly endless, swaying army of wet, beslimed figures emerging slowly from the water.

At last, the significance of the barrier became clear.

But there was no time to waste. The sun was rising. Soon, they would no longer be able to rely on darkness to hide them. Waving his warband on, Bjólf hurried down the gloomy staircase, where they mustered in a tight group between a stable and a forge, its hot smell filling their nostrils. A passing black guard - who carried with him an air of authority - stopped at the sight of them, and opened his mouth as if to issue an order. Then a frown crossed his brow. Before he could raise the alarm, Gunnar put a bolt through his neck.

The time had come. At Bjólf's signal, they surged forward silently, weapons raised, shields together.

The guards they encountered had little idea what hit them. Almost immediately, the first three unfortunate enough to be in their path were struck down, before the warband turned the corner, heading for the inner gate, and smashed into the main group of guards, splitting them apart and sending them flying, faces and bodies bloodied. From the heart of the raiding party, those with bows and crossbows scanned the parapet, picking off their counterparts before any of them could ready their own weapons. Now and again a bolt would slam into a thickened shield - one glanced off Thorvald's helm - but once the archers' positions were revealed, Bjólf's bowmen were soon on them.

As the guards panicked and dispersed, the warband split apart to take them down one by one. Resistance from the ill-prepared enemy was weak. Revenge was exacted upon them with ruthless and bloody efficiency.

 

 

From the grey battlement Skalla looked down upon the slaughter coolly. Finally, his enemies had announced themselves. "Get more crossbowmen on them," he said. "And lower the inner gate."

The guard hesitated. "But our men will be trapped out there, with the invaders. Shouldn't we...?"

"Do it," snapped Skalla.

He knew the outer gate would not hold the advancing host of death-walkers forever. Eventually, the wooden gates would give out and they would flood the outer ward. Well, let them have it. The inner gate was stronger. Once it was closed, neither the death-walkers nor the invaders would breach it. They would be trapped together. What would happen afterwards, with the undead pressing in on every side, he neither knew nor cared. Let the masters puzzle that one out. He wondered, vaguely, if they were watching from their sanctuary within, hatching plans of their own.

 

 

"Regroup!" cried Bjólf.

The warband drew back into a tight formation, the last of the uninjured guards fleeing, another limping desperately after them. All around, black figures lay crumpled, some still moving or crying out, others rent apart by terrible blows. Ahead of them now, with no obstacle in their way but the dead, was the open mouth of the inner gate. Beyond that, a walled courtyard, and within, just visible, a group of perhaps a dozen men facing them, weapons drawn and faces set. They did not move or flinch. Behind them, other figures were moving heavy objects into place. These men were of a different order from those they had thus far encountered, but there was to be no going back.

As Bjólf watched, a heavy portcullis of iron began to descend over the mouth of the inner gate. He immediately began the charge forward. The moment he did so, a rain of crossbow bolts hit them from the battlements of the grey wall. Ingolf and Aki fell immediately. The rest were pinned down, crouched beneath shields.

"Knock them out! Knock them out!" cried Bjólf, trying to spot the crossbowmen.

But he knew what had to be done: they must press forward, whatever the cost. Without hesitation, he ordered the charge. Halfdan caught a bolt in the arm and fell as the rest surged forward. In moments, his body was shot through with bolts.

But the tactic paid off. In a few steps they were almost up against the descending gate, too close for the crossbowmen to fire upon them. The black guards within began to move forward, while above them, they could hear the crossbowmen hastily repositioning themselves, their commander barking orders urgently. But it was the turn of Bjólf's crossbowmen and archers now. They fired into the courtyard, felling four men and scattering the rest out of their line of sight.

The way was momentarily clear, but the portcullis was already barely at head height. Without stopping to think, Gunnar threw down his shield and shoved his shoulder beneath the great gate. Had he applied more consideration to the matter, he might have questioned whether he could hold such a huge weight of iron, but it was too late for that.

"Some help here?" he called gruffly.

Úlf and Odo added their great shoulders to his. Their bodies strained, their faces reddened - the gate slowed, but did not halt. Gunnar, the tallest, could feel his shoulder being crushed, his legs about to give way. "Can't hold it for long..." he said.

"Cover me!" said Bjólf, and dived under the gate, shield held high. Fjölvar and Finn followed, their bows ready. The moment he was through, bolts thudded into his shield from above, but Bjólf was too fast. To the left of him, close by, stood two astonished men struggling at a great wheel, the thick shaft at its centre wound around with the great chain that raised and lowered the gate. He was on them so fast that one of the black guards' own crossbow bolts hit the nearest gatekeeper in the leg. Finn's and Fjölvar's arrows flew, and from the inner parapet of the courtyard, two crossbowmen fell. Others scurried out of the line of fire.

Gunnar and the others were crushed to their knees now. Bjólf battered the remaining gatekeeper with his shield and hauled on the wheel with his whole weight. The gate stopped dead - but from the archways around the courtyard, members of the elite bodyguard now emerged from their defensive positions. Filippus and Arnulf, both armed with crossbows, squeezed under the gate and fired off two shots, taking one down and injuring another. Finn leaped forward and added his weight to the wheel. It turned. The gate rose. Gunnar, Úlf and Odo were freed, and the rest of the warband flooded in. Bjólf locked the winch, took up his shield, and drew his sword. All armed themselves, throwing down anything that was now a hindrance to combat: ropes, hooks, cloaks, food.

There followed a savage eruption of hand-to-hand fighting as the two sides tore into each other. It was impossible, now, for the remaining crossbowmen to fire without risk of hitting their own men, and they abandoned their posts on the parapet to join the fray. Freed from threat, several of Bjólf's men discarded their shields in favour of their preferred method of fighting: an axe in each hand for Thorvald, a combination of axe and sword for Gunnar, and for Godwin, the familiar, single, long battle-axe.

Fearless as they were, the inner guard of the black castle lacked the experience of the vikingr crew, their slave heritage soon becoming apparent. They fought hard, but wildly - angrily; Bjólf's men, seasoned by many a battle, kept cool heads and conserved their energy whenever they could, watching, waiting for the moment to strike. When they did, rarely did a blade fail to strike its mark. Four fell within moments of the first violent clash, each taken down by single blows. Godwin's axe swept in a wide arc, destroying anything that crossed its path. Gunnar and Thorvald looked unstoppable, striking fear into even the bravest of the black guards. Odo's heavy two-handed sword did not allow his opponents to even get close, cleaving through mail and leather as it struck. By contrast, the sword of Filippus - long, curved, and lighter than its Norse counterpart - flashed at ferocious speed, inflicting terrible wounds upon the unprepared enemy. Atli and Kjötvi followed close behind, finishing them off where they could.

In the very centre, forcing their way forward, keeping steady pressure on the foe, Bjólf, Halldís and Frodi fought side by side, battering with their shields and hacking at those that challenged them. Blood and sweat flew. Teeth and bones cracked. The enemy's shields splintered; their black helms were cleaved in two. Within moments, it seemed, this hammerblow - which had left Bjólf's warband without a single serious injury - had reduced the defending army to a bloodied, disordered handful of men.

Just as victory seemed assured, there came the blast of a horn, and the last few defenders suddenly retreated towards the far wall of the courtyard, leaving Bjólf and his fellow fighters standing. As the black guards fled, they revealed a single figure in the open space before the warband. He stood alone before them, without fear. Skalla, the horn still at his lips. At his waist, hanging from a cord across his shoulder, the lacquered container of white powder, and at his feet, seven huge, black boxes.

 

 

For a moment, Bjólf and Skalla regarded each other in uneasy silence. Then, Skalla spoke.

"Who are you?"

"I am your death," said Bjólf.

Skalla stared, then chuckled quietly to himself. "You and your men are admirable fighters, to be sure. But am I permitted to know the reason for my death?"

"You are not," said Bjólf. "Let your death be as meaningless as your life."

Skalla glowered at him. "Why you?"

Bjólf shrugged. "Because I can."

"You think so? I do not."

"Then I will!" cried out Halldís, pulling off her helm, her hair flying free. An expression of genuine shock crossed his face.

"Now it becomes clearer." he said. "But still I have my doubts. You see, your will is weak. You could have killed me ten times over as we stood here, but you did not."

"Your crossbowmen could have taken us down as we stood," countered Bjólf. "But they did not. Why? Because they do not act except under orders. They have no thought, no loyalty, no will. And you were distracted by your need to find reasons. By the vain belief that your life has meaning, even though whatever meaning it once had you have long since squandered. You are the weaker."

Skalla did not smile this time. "I think you underestimate the seriousness of your situation," he said. His good eye flicked above the heads of the warband, past the portcullis to the distant outer gate. In the silence, Bjólf became suddenly aware of the distant groans of death-walkers - hundreds of them, risen from the depths of the fjord. The outer gate creaked as their decayed bodies pressed mindlessly against it. "Surely you know this was a suicide mission? The draugr are at the gates. Its timbers will not hold them."

"What do I care?" said Bjólf. He pointed his sword at Skalla's heart. "We do not go back. We keep moving forward until we are stopped."

Skalla shrugged, turned to the side, and drew a small flask from inside his hauberk.

"Which brings me to the other reason for my skepticism..." And before they knew what was happening he had flung the clear liquid into two of the great, coffin-like boxes. "If this is to be Ragnarók, in which both sides are destroyed," he said, annointing another three in rapid succession, "then so be it." He tossed the fluid across the last two faces, then retreated hurriedly to a heavy wooden door at the far end of the courtyard.

The first of the boxes twitched. Then the second. A thump came from the third. Involuntarily, Bjólf and his warband found themselves taking steps back.

Skalla watched long enough to see the first grey, gruesomely sutured hand rise from its coffin, then disappeared through the door, slamming and locking it behind him. The remaining five guards - two with terrible injuries to their arms and face - realised suddenly that they, too, had been left to the mercy of the undead berserkers, and began to hammer desperately upon the now locked exit. Within moments, the first of the berserkers - Hammer-Fist, one of the ones they had seen destroy Grimmsson at Björnheim - was on its feet. It swivelled slowly, unsteadily, sniffing the air, attracted by the sounds of the guards, the smell of their blood. A second rose. Iron-Claw. As a third revived, clawing at the side of its box, a spiked ball and chain where its left forearm should be, the first two flew into a frenzied attack upon the guards. As Bjólf and the others watched, the two injured men were torn limb from limb as the rest scattered, the courtyard echoing to the horrible sounds. Blood splashed everywhere. From behind them, it seemed the hollow cries at the outer gate suddenly increased in volume. The gates bulged and groaned.

"This will be a hard fight," said Bjólf. Five of the ghoulish creatures were on their feet now. "But they are not invincible. Bring them down. Go for the head."

As he finished, one of the berserkers - Axe-Holder - fixed its red eyes upon Bjólf, and thundered towards him.

Bjólf knew that panic would be their undoing. He stood firm, braced and ready. "Get ready to jump..." he muttered to his comrades.

With the huge figure almost upon him, he dropped suddenly to the floor, behind his shield. The creature stumbled, began to topple, came crashing down like a great tree as the other warriors leapt back. Godwin surged forward again with a bloodthirsty cry, bringing his axe down full force upon the thing's neck. It jarred horribly, flying out of his hands, bouncing off hard metal. The full helm had saved the creature. They were suddenly - disastrously - reminded that these were no ordinary death-walkers. Behind these, buried somewhere deep within this ghastly place, were twisted minds.

The creature tried to struggle to its feet, its mouth gnashing and wailing, its arms and axe flailing madly. Bjólf hacked at its leg with all his strength and it collapsed again. Atli, hardly thinking about the danger, leapt upon its back. It reared up, reaching blindly for him, and he grasped the edges of its battered helm, heaving at it, and was thrown to the floor. But the helm was still in his hands. Godwin, hefting his retrieved axe, his eyes burning with anger, swung again. This time, it did not fail him; Axe-Holder's head flew from its body. He shuddered and lay still, twice dead.

Now, they had a strategy. Two more came at them, one with a length of chain swinging from its arm, the other with a trident in place of its right hand.

"I'll take the one on the right," said Gunnar.

Almost before he had uttered it, Fork-Hand was upon him. He dodged and swung around, catching it on the back of the legs with both axe and sword. It fell, but its weapon slashed Filippus in the throat as it went down. Filippus collapsed, gore pouring from him. The creature grasped at the bleeding body ravenously. Thorvald hacked off its arm with one of his axes, and the creature slumped to the ground, face down in Filippus's blood. A horrific slurping sound issued from the fallen creature. Úlf stepped onto its back, hooked the spike of his cavalry axe under the edge of its helm, and heaved it up as Gunnar brought his axe crashing down upon its neck.

Meanwhile, Chain-Wrist had come lumbering towards the remaining warriors. With a cry of "Mine!" Arnulf jumped forward and dropped to the ground at its feet, emulating Bjólf's tactic. But the huge figure, defying expectation, came to a sudden stop, and before Arnulf could move, brought its fists crashing down upon him. There was a terrible cracking sound, and with a roar Arnulf's body - for he was dead immediately - was hoisted above its head, its hands literally tearing him in half as blood and gore cascaded over its open mouth. Halldís leapt forward, and with all the power she could muster thrust her sword point in the small of the creature's back. The blade went deep and the berserker crumpled from the waist down. With its arms and chains whipping ever more wildly and the shock of Arnulf's death still fresh in their minds, the others rained down blows upon its armoured head until its helm was beaten shapeless and all movement had ceased.

There was a moment's respite. Across the courtyard, the remaining guards had managed to bring down Iron-Claw, but Hammer-Fist had smashed one of their number to a pulp and had the forearm of another between its teeth. The man half struggled, half dangled from its jaw, screaming in torment as his fellow guard scrabbled desperately at the door.

The remaining two berserkers - Mace-Arm and Sword-Wielder - had turned their attention to the warband, and now came smashing into them. In the desperate struggle for survival that followed, with the warriors still reeling from previous assaults, strategies were momentarily forgotten. Sword-Wielder ploughed into a knot of men, sending bodies flying as it struck. By some miracle, all avoided its notched, rusty sword blade, but before any could act, it had grabbed Thorvald and sunk its teeth into his shoulder. He gave a great cry, but did not fall. Others leapt upon the creature, hacking and stabbing at it, but to no avail. Thorvald staggered backwards, taking the creature with him, its teeth clamped around his collarbone, crashing against the wall. Njáll and Finn chopped the creature's legs from under it, bringing it crashing to the ground with Thorvald on top, its sword blade sweeping past the dodging feet of his desperate defenders, its free hand clawing at the flesh of Thorvald's flank, ripping out a great chunk. Somehow, even in his agony, Thorvald managed to draw his seax from his belt. He forced it between his chest and the neck of the berserker, gripped the end of the blade with his other hand, and with all his strength drove the edge of the blade forward against the creature's throat, sawing from side to side. Putrid, oily ichor flowed from the wound, and the creature slumped, inert. The grip was relinquished. Thorvald rolled onto his back, blood pouring from his shoulder and side.

Mace-Arm's assault, meanwhile, had been no less devastating. With the spiked ball-and-chain swinging, it had charged at Odo, who had tried to defend himself with his sword. The chain had wrapped around the blade, the barbed head just clearing his face, but Mace-Arm had then pulled back its arm violently, yanking Odo's sword from his grip and sending it spinning off into the far wall with a ringing of metal. It swung wildly again as swords and axes struck at it, its second pass smashing Odo across the jaw, sending blood splashing across the three men flanking him. He fell, the side of his face a mass of wrecked flesh and bone. Surrounded on all sides now, it swung around in circles, undecided where to strike, keeping all at bay as the deadly spiked weapon hummed through the air in front of their faces.

Their only hope was to disarm it.

Bjólf stepped forward, then, thrusting his shield into its path. The ball struck, the impact almost knocking him off his feet, but the strengthened wood of the shield held, the spikes embedded firmly in its boards. He hauled on the chain, trying to drag the creature off balance. Instead, it lunged for him. He side-stepped, hauling on the chain again, spinning it around, and the shield came loose, its boards split, but Bjólf wound the chain around his forearm, gripping it with both hands, still dragging the creature in a circle as it tried to launch itself awkwardly towards him. He spun it around again and again, pulling with all his strength on the chain, hoping to fling the creature off its feet.

Then, something unexpected happened. Bjólf saw, at the creature's shoulder where there was a crude row of stitching, that the flesh was starting to pull apart. The stitches stretched, snapped, unravelled; the wound widened, and with a great ripping and popping of joints, the creature's body and arm separated, sending it staggering awkwardly towards the gate. It stumbled over a crumpled body and crashed to the ground. The other warriors were upon it immediately, exacting revenge for Odo, for all the losses they had suffered. Its helm was ripped off, its head destroyed.

At the far end of the courtyard, Bjólf now saw that the single surviving guard had somehow succeeded in opening the heavy door - how, he could not guess. It opened further, and he had his answer: within were two of his fellows, gesturing eagerly for the desperate man to enter. But he seemed unwilling to abandon one of his fallen comrades, and was pulling at his collapsed body, even though it was clear to all that he was utterly dead. As the guard dithered, Bjólf shouted to his men. "The door!" he said. "We must get to it before it closes again."

But between them and it stood the last remaining berserker, his attention turned from the guard and focused fully on the warriors.

Hammer-Fist.

For a moment it stood in that bloody, corpse-filled arena, head low, eyes burning at Bjólf, a steady, snorting breath coming from its nostrils like a bull making ready to charge. Behind it, the guard - still not having been persuaded to leave his friend - was being physically hauled through the gap in the door.

"Keep it busy," said Gunnar. And before Hammer-Fist could make a move, he charged at it with a mighty roar. Almost equal to the berserker in size, he slammed into it, sending it spinning, and thundered on past, jamming himself in the door as it shut against him. A struggle immediately ensued between him and the retreating guards, as they heaved on the door from the far side, and he lashed at them through the gap with his sword. The thing, meanwhile, bellowed horribly, almost as if angered, and flew into a frenzy, pounding towards its attacker.

They had to distract the creature long enough for Gunnar to secure the door.

"Hey!" called Bjólf.

The thing did not react. He ran after it, shouting - then hurled a throwing axe, embedding it in its back. That got its attention. It swung around and, without hesitation, lowered its head and charged at him full tilt, arms and hammer flying as it came. Bjólf stood in the path of the oncoming giant, no trace of a plan in his head. He backed away, made ready to leap, vividly recalling the fate of Arnulf, knowing it would have to be at the very last moment.

Suddenly, the creature jerked and fell forward, its face ploughing into the ground, and came to a standstill at Bjólf's feet. He looked around in shock, and saw Halldís standing behind him, a crossbow in her hand. Then he turned back to the felled berserker. Her crossbow bolt stuck in its forehead, piercing its thick helm.

Bjólf allowed himself a smile. They had done it. They had defeated the masters' most powerful fighters.

His sense of victory was short-lived. They heard Gunnar suddenly cry out. Finn, Fjölvar and Frodi were already racing to his aid, but as they hurried towards the door, they saw him knocked to the ground, limp and bloodied, his helm rolling away in the dirt. His body was dragged roughly through the dark gap, which slammed shut, its bolts shot on the far side. Bjólf pushed past the others and hammered his fists against the door in rage and frustration, but it would take more than fists to get them past the barrier.

Exhausted, but knowing they must fight on, he stalked back to take up sword and shield again, and as he did so happened to glance at Halldís. She looked past him, up high towards the parapet, and her expression darkened. He followed her gaze and there, upon the inner rampart, lurking upon the upper level, was Skalla, his cold eye watching.

Bjólf, his eyes ablaze, pointed his sword at Skalla's heart once again - surrounded, this time, by the masters' ruined army. A renewal of his warning, his pledge. Skalla stared back without expression. In fury, Bjólf snatched up the huge head of Fork-Hand by its hair, its face smeared with Filippus's blood, and with a defiant roar hurled it at Skalla. He dodged as it bounced against the wall, leaving a dark stain, and backed away slowly.

"Your ruin is coming," called Bjólf, his thoughts now only of vengeance, his whole being, spurred by Gunnar's fall, like some primal force of doom.

"Why wait?" said a voice at his side, and Halldís let fly a second bolt from her crossbow. It struck Skalla in the left shoulder, spinning him around. He cried out and staggered, disappearing back through another doorway, into the shadows.

Bjólf lowered his gaze and glared at the thick door ahead of them, somewhere beyond which - dead or alive - he knew his friend Gunnar lay. He turned to the others. "Chop it to splinters."

Godwin, Úlf and Njáll set about the door with their axes, chips flying, its heavy bolts rattling as their blades battered against it in a persistent rhythm, echoing about the space within.

 

 

Atli, meanwhile, stood in a kind of daze, staring at the torn and twisted bodies that lay on every side, at the reddened blade in his hand. His feelings surprised him. He did not feel sickened; he did not feel afraid. He felt only gladness at being alive. Here, surrounded by so much death, perhaps only moments from his own, being alive had never meant so much. Then a sharp cracking sound made him glance back past the open portcullis towards the outer gate. It bulged inward, the great bar across it now half broken, showing pale wood where it had split, bending as the pressure from the massed death-walkers increased.

"We have a problem..." he said. Bjólf saw it and, urging the others on as they cleared the way ahead, he dropped his weapons and turned his attention to securing the way behind, heading back towards the winch and the half-open portcullis. But as he stepped past the crumpled bodies, something caught his foot. Bjólf stumbled and fell to his knees, cursing his clumsiness. When he looked up, he saw Hammer-Fist rising, staggering to his feet once more, the crossbow bolt still embedded in his skull, his red eyes half rolled back in his head, but the semblance of life not quite gone out.

Bjólf scrambled to his feet, the thing lumbering unsteadily after him, close on his heels. Its hammer caught him on his shoulder, sending him flying. Something snapped. In moments he was back on his feet, searching desperately for a weapon, when the creature's hand gripped his arm. He struggled, pulling in all directions - the grip tightened...

Atli snatched a grappling hook up from the ground and swung it at the towering figure's head, a length of rope trailing behind. Hammer-Fist shuddered and staggered to one side, relinquishing his grip on the vikingr captain. It gave Bjólf a second chance at life, but the creature was not stopped for long. Now, in fury, it turned towards Atli.

 

 

The boy would not last a moment in the hands of the creature. Bjólf looked around desperately, grabbed Odo's great sword and swiped at the thing's head; the sharp pain in his left shoulder barely registered. Metal clanged against metal. It staggered, its anger growing, and turned back to Bjólf. He hit it again, backing towards the winch, luring it on, one eye on the outer gate, just moments from bursting open. Half blind, it lumbered forward.

"Come on!" he cried, suddenly aware as he spoke that he was echoing Grimmsson's last words. As it kept on towards him he battered it around the head again and again, each blow more desperate than the last, but doing no more than slowing its relentless advance.

Behind him, a sudden great crack, and groan and crash of wood, told him that the outer gate had finally given way. A chorus of chilling moans - hundreds of voices merged together into a single ghastly sound - filled his ears. He did not dare turn. In the next moment he stumbled against the winch, almost fell, scrambled back past it. Beyond the inner gate he could see the host of death-walkers advancing, just moments from surging into the courtyard where the warband stood, watching in horror.

Hammer-Fist, sensing weakness, lurched at him, crashing over the spindle of the winch, its arms flailing past the taut portcullis chain. Bjólf saw his chance. He looped the trailing rope around the creature's neck, around the portcullis chain, and pulled it tight. It thrashed and struggled, unable to right itself, blind to what was happening. He looped the rope again, twisting it around the chain, then kicked away the lock on the winch.

The portcullis came crashing down, cutting the first of the death-walkers in two, the rattling chain hauling the writhing Hammer-Fist up high into the air, smashing its head into the great stone lintel that spanned the gate. It dangled, swinging, revolving slowly, lifeless at last, the crossbow bolt driven deep into its poisoned brain.

Bjólf heaved himself to his feet, walked past the clawing hands of the death-walkers that now filled the outer ward, their bodies pressing against the iron gate in their futile quest for flesh. He said nothing, but merely slapped Atli upon the arm in gratitude as he passed, wincing at the pain shooting through his own shoulder. He took up his sword and shield.

As he did so, the wooden door at the far end of the courtyard caved in, reduced to firewood.

Bjólf turned then to Thorvald, who lay slumped against the side wall, his face pale and sweaty, his mail and tunic soaked with his blood. Kjötvi was tending to him, but stood back as Bjólf crouched by Thorvald's side.

"I'm done," said Thorvald weakly. Bjólf nodded solemnly, his jaw clenched. They had known each other far too long to dress it up. "I never thought it would end like this," he added. "To be honest, I didn't think it would be this interesting." Both laughed, Thorvald blanching in pain as he did so.

"We can't leave you," said Bjólf.

Thorvald nodded. "I know what you're saying. You're asking whether I want someone to finish me off, so I don't get up again, like one of them." He gestured towards the gate. He shook his head. "I wouldn't wish that task on any of you. Just leave me one of those." He pointed at the crossbow in Halldís's hands. She nodded at him, began drawing it back ready to take a bolt, fighting back tears as she did so.

"Make sure you don't miss," joked Njáll. "You're shit with a bow."

Thorvald smiled. "Go!" he said, waving them away like a parent shooing children. Then his face darkened, a look of pleading mingling with the pain in his face. "Go..."

Bjólf turned his back on Thorvald for the last time, passing through the silent company until he stood before the dark entrance - the goal that had been so hard won.

"Now we finish it," he said, and walked inside.