CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

HEIMDALL’S EYE

 

 

IT HEADED DIRECTLY for them; a long, thin-prowed rowing boat containing perhaps a dozen black-clad men.

“Can they have seen us?” said Njáll.

“If they’d seen us, they’d have sent a ship,” said Gunnar.

There were hurried tactical conversations, and then the men rapidly dispersed amongst the trees and beyond the edges of the nearest buildings. Atli found himself crouched in the bracken with Fjölvar and four others at the far side of the clearing, near the jetty. Directly opposite, across the clearing, were Bjólf, Gunnar, Halldís, Frodi and Finn, with two other groups positioned further ahead. They had the advantage of surprise, but they had also seen the black crossbows glinting in the low sun. They would have to hit them hard and fast.

None knew for certain what kind of man they faced. They had seen little of them, save Skalla himself, and that example made them wary. Atli sensed the tension in those around him. He gripped his seax, staring at the earth, trying to keep his breathing slow to counteract his racing heart.

The last few moments of the boat’s approach were excruciating. For what seemed like forever, they crouched, waiting, seeing and hearing nothing. Eventually, voices could be heard; the clunk of oars; the scrape of something heavy being heaved off the boat; a whine of complaint; low laughter. Atli could not get a clear view of the dock, without moving, but his ears told him that they had landed. A moment later, they walked into view – two in front, crossbows loaded and held before them. Five more followed, some with spears. Four more of the black-clad warriors carried a large, unwieldy sack between them, and two more crossbowmen brought up the rear. Only four of those deadly weapons in total. That was good.

Atli listened to them talk and joke quietly. All seemed cautious, nervous even, but their chatter showed they were trying not to appear so. They did not expect trouble. Atli counted thirteen in all. It appeared they had left their boat entirely unmanned. A fatal error.

Fjölvar pulled back his bow and drew a bead on one of the crossbowmen. Across the way, Finn would be doing the same. He did not even hear the arrow fly, just the dull thunk as it struck the lead man. Before any of them had a chance to react, the second crossbowman had been felled by Finn. The four with the sack looked around desperately, panic in their eyes, before finally gathering the presence of mind to drop it and draw their swords. One of the two remaining crossbowmen swung around suddenly, looking directly where Atli was hidden, but Fjölvar’s second arrow cut him down as he raised his weapon. The other, unexpectedly, turned and ran for the boat, leaving his fellows in a turmoil of indecision behind him. He got three steps before Finn’s arrow struck.

That was their signal.

The two groups closest to the dock, to the rear of the black guards, attacked first. Atli could not remember willing his legs to run, but somehow found himself hurtling out into the open with Fjölvar and the others. Opposite them, Bjólf’s company charged from cover, striking with terrifying ferocity. The clash of battle surrounded Atli on all sides, the black guards huddling in a state of terror as the different groups closed in around them.

For a moment, Atli had no target. The others – faster, more decisive – had taken them all. He turned, and found himself face to face with a black guard who had managed to break away from the melée, sword in hand, eyes wide. Between this man and the boat, there was now only Atli. The boy froze. He knew he had to act, that no one would come to his rescue this time. But he felt his strength drain away, his limbs turn to blubber.

But then he saw something in the other man’s face that changed everything. Fear. Paralyzed though he was, he had struck terror into this man. The realisation hit him like a lightning bolt. Atli was suddenly emboldened. In his mind, he knew he had already won. He felt his strength return. The man, in sudden panic, flailed his sword wildly and ineffectually, and Atli deflected it easily with his shield and struck. The seax’s sharp point pierced the leather armour and slid between the man’s ribs. Blood spilled in the dust. He choked, and fell. Atli stood over the body – stunned, but alive.

In moments, it was over. Not one crossbow bolt had been fired, not one sword blow or spear thrust successfully landed on the members of the warband. Without pity, without ceremony, they began picking over the bodies and hauling them into a heap. None showed any desire to investigate the large sack they had dropped.

“So much for the might of the black guards,” said Gunnar contemptuously.

 

 

AS THEY BUSIED themselves, Bjólf stood at the limit of the trees, staring out, for the first time, at the fabled fortress and its island. The dark, lumpen shape sat squatly in the water, its outer edges rough and muddy and broken – crumbling cliffs of earth from which protruded great roots and twisted lengths of metal. At its western end, facing the fjord, was a crudely constructed harbour where the black ships and other, smaller craft sat. From there, paths wound through the muddy chaos to the weird structure of the fortress itself, obscured behind an elaborate stockade of thick logs, with ramparts and watchtowers, black-painted, like the ships. At its hidden heart, it was topped by a tower of unfathomable design, from the top of which spikes and spires stretched skyward. Surrounding the whole island, some distance out in the fjord, a row of great wooden stakes stood up from the surface of the water – a continuous barrier, punctuated only by two roughly-constructed turrets ouside the harbour.

There was something horrid about the scene – something utterly out of place. Bjólf recalled Halldís’ tale about the island’s creation. He knew it was impossible, but looking at it now, he could give the bizarre story more credence.

“One still kicking here!” called out Njáll suddenly. A man – his eyes wide with terror, his hands held defensively before his face, writhed and whimpered at his feet. “Not a mark on him. Must’ve just gone down when the fighting started, pretending to be dead.”

“Bring him over,” said Bjólf.

The guard looked up at Njáll, pleading over and over, his hands shaking. Njáll looked at the creature for a moment in utter contempt, and then grabbed him by the back of his belt, dragged him to a tree near the dock and tied him to it with a length of mooring rope from the boat. He shook his head disdainfully as he strode away.

Bjólf and Gunnar spent some time questioning their jittery captive. It had not taken much persuading to get him to talk – much to the disappointment of Finn, who had volunteered to help loosen his tongue. In fact, at times, the man had seemed embarrassingly eager, as if believing that he might somehow befriend them, and thereby secure his release. They happily encouraged him in his delusion.

From him, they had learned the times of the watches, the rough layout of the lower levels, and the important fact that there were no more than fifty armed guards within the castle walls at any one time. But beyond this – more from the man himself than anything he had directly said – they had also formed a valuable impression of the fighting abilities of those men, and been encouraged by it.

There remained, however, the question of their equipment – which, in many respects, seemed greatly superior to their own. Among the objects taken from the crew of the boat were several objects that none among Bjólf’s company could identify, chief among which was a solid black container on a shoulder strap, which, when opened, contained another, largely featureless black cylinder of unfathomable purpose and baffling design.

“What do you make of this?” said Gunnar, passing it to Bjólf.

Bjólf turned it around in his hands, felt its weight, pushed and pulled at one end, which was oddly tapered. To his great surprise, when he pulled, the thing extended – a slimmer black shaft slid out from inside the first, then a yet smaller one from inside that, until the object was nearly three times its original length, as long as a sword blade.

“Clever,” said Bjólf, nodding. He held it by the slimmer end, swinging it lightly. “A weapon?”

“It’s heavy enough,” said Gunnar.

Bjólf frowned, shaking it more vigourously from side to side. “Hmm. But is it strong? I wouldn’t put my faith in it in a fight.” He turned. “Godwin?” He tossed it to the Englishman.

“Never seen anything like this,” he said. “What is this material? Not metal.” He tossed it to Fjölvar.

“Not wood either,” said Fjölvar turning it over. “Feels like bone.” He tossed it to Úlf.

Úlf scrutinised it closely, sliding the parts back into themselves. “Not bone. Not like any I’ve seen. But this is fine craftsmanship. Arab, maybe.” He tossed it back to Bjólf.

“Well, let’s ask its owner.” Bjólf turned to the tree, against which the guard still writhed fruitlessly in his bonds. He stopped as he saw Bjólf approach, a look of terror in his eyes. Bjólf presented the black object to him, holding it a finger-length from the man’s quivering nose.

“Speak,” he said.

The guard looked about him nervously, finally summoning the courage to speak. “We call it Heimdall’s Eye,” he said, his voice clipped and edgy. “It helps us see long distances.”

Gunnar guffawed. “Really? Well, I suppose more than a few weeks in this place would send anyone crazy.”

“It’s true,” said the guard pleadingly, his knees shaking. “I have no reason to lie.”

“You have every reason to lie,” said Bjólf.

“I – I cannot explain it...” stammered the guard. “I do not have the art. But I can show you...”

Bjólf drew his seax, eliciting a whimper from the guard, who closed his eyes in panic. When he opened them again, his bonds were cut, and Bjólf was holding the heavy black rod towards him. The guard let out a shaky breath and, relieved at not having been killed, looked about him for a moment, and then bolted for the trees.

Gunnar sighed and picked up the black crossbow. The bolt flew, striking the guard in the left shoulder as he was halfway across the clearing, the impact spinning him around. He began to fall forward, staggered, took a few more awkward steps, then picthed sideways and fell headlong into the yawning black mouth of the pit. The sound of snapping jaws suddenly increased in intensity, only momentarily drowned out by the guard’s final, terrified screams.

“Good shot,” said Bjólf.

“Hmm,” Gunnar grunted irritably, frowning at the crossbow. “I was aiming for his head.”

“If this is the calibre of man we’re up against, we’ve only to shout ‘boo’ at them,” said Njáll. “I thought that one was going to piss his pants.”

“Well then...” said Bjólf, his eyes seeking out Atli among the men. “Son of Ivarr, you’re the brains of this outfit. See what you can make of ‘Heimdall’s Eye’.” And he tossed him the strange black object.

 

 

FOR SOME TIME, Atli sat cross-legged, toying with the strange device, puzzling over its strange materials, its obscure purpose. There were markings on the slimmer end, which rotated, but after endless fiddling it seemed all he could make it do was extend and contract, just as the others had done. Could it perhaps be some sort of measuring device, he wondered? But that hardly seemed to fit with what the guard had said.

He had just given up on it when his own frustration provided him with the answer. As he threw it down onto the gritty soil, a black disc popped off one end and rolled away from him. He grabbed at the loose piece in mortification, hoping no one had noticed, thinking he had broken the precious treasure, but when he looked more closely, he realised that the cupped disc was merely some sort of cover for the wider end of the rod, which was now revealed as having, set a little way back within it, a circle of thick, impossibly smooth glass, its surface curved like a cow’s eye. Like an eye, thought Atli. Heimdall’s Eye. To see long distances.

At last, it was making some sense. He turned the object over hurriedly, tried the thinner end. A second, smaller cap popped off, revealing another glass disc beneath. As he held the object up now, extended its full length, he could see that it was somehow hollow, that light passed through it from one end to the other. He held it up to his eye – and got the greatest shock of his life. As clear as if they were within touching distance, he suddenly saw figures of black guards moving about before him. He jumped back, dropping the thing, and blinked ahead of him. The guards were gone. Or rather, they were there, through the trees, upon the island, but now so distant as to appear like ants upon an ant hill. He picked up the object, tentatively, and peered through it again. Immediately, the distant view was magically brought closer. For a moment he he feared that he might also appear closer to them, that they could see him. But he soon dismissed the notion as foolish. He was still sat here, upon the bank, behind the trees. But then, if they had other devices like this... He scrambled to his feet, and ran off to Bjólf with news of his discovery.

 

 

“HEIMDALL’S EYE...” SAID Bjólf, peering through the device as they crouched at the edge of the wood. “Well, it seems our captive was telling the truth after all. Now we know to stay well out of sight, and also that they may easily see us coming.” He turned to Atli. “Good work, once again. You have earned your passage, son of Ivarr.”

“But what other marvels might they have?” wondered Gunnar, squinting past the trees towards the distant, grim island.

“Whatever they may be,” said Bjólf, “they’ll be ours by sunrise.”

He scanned the uneven surface of the fortress – partly in deep shadow now, with the sun sinking low in the west – taking in its strange features, then switched his attention to the curious barrier that surrounded the island, far out in the water. He could now see that the two distinct structures on the barrier were watchtowers, and that they flanked a pair of crudely constructed gates. Clearly they could be opened from the towers to allow the black ships access to and from the fortress harbour. But what was it all for? “That endless row of stakes in the water,” he said, passing Heimdall’s Eye to Gunnar. “Tell me what you see.”

“Hmm,” Gunnar grunted. “Defences of some kind. Wooden pilings, most likely weighed down with rocks. Looks like thick rope nets strung between them, holding the thing together.”

“But not strong enough to stop a ship, travelling at speed,” said Bjólf.

Gunnar looked at him through narrowed eyes. “Not stop... no, I wouldn’t say so...”

“How long do you think we have before those men are missed – enough for them to come looking?”

Gunnar shrugged. “Hours, probably. But night is drawing in. No one is going to head out until daylight.”

Bjólf stood suddenly and looked at the boat that had brought the black guards, then back in the direction that the Fire-Raven lay. “We attack before dawn, in darkness,” he said. “Soak the sail of the ship. As wet as you can make it. Gather dry firewood and pitch. And someone bring me some rope.”

“What’s the plan?” said Gunnar.

Bjólf looked out towards the monstrous grey-brown island in the middle of the fjord and the black castle that sat perched atop it like a dark, ugly crown. He thought for a moment of the unspeakable horrors that they had witnessed here, and of the dark power in the fortress that had perpetrated them.

“We’re going to arrange a funeral,” he said.