Ragnarok 03 - Resonance (19 page)

‘Bloody right it is,' she told him. ‘There's no escape for you.'

They clasped each other hard.

TWENTY-EIGHT

EARTH, 793 AD

Chill wolf of the willow
was the storm-wind's name, and Fenrisulfr snarled in the face of it from his place on the prow-beast: the longboat which was leading the raiding squadron across the grey, chopping seas; and it had not escaped the grim-humoured warriors on board that their leader's name meant he was a hell-wolf. His lieutenant, Brökkr, rode the second long-boat, and that was good. For a while after Byzantium, Brökkr had commanded his own fighters; now he had rejoined Fenrisulfr along with his men, on the promise of blood and gold and danger.

Sometimes Fenrisulfr wished he could employ rhetoric and magic as that bastard poet Stígr had so long ago, using words to control men's minds. But Fenrisulfr's actions and decisions, and his ability to control
berserkergangr
, would have to suffice, as they had since he slew the reaver chief Magnús, fifteen summers before.

‘Do they have good warriors over there?' Thollákr shouted against the wind.

‘There are people who can fight. There always are.'

‘Good, then.'

Fenrisulfr half-smiled against hard wind and spume. ‘You know why we have so many water kennings for blood? Battle sea, sea of spears, current of the sword? Spears' torrent?'

Thóllakr's hair whipped in the wind as he shook his head.

‘No, Chief.'

‘Because we swim in it or drown!'

A grin was Thóllakr's answer, along with: ‘And it makes you puke if you drink it.'

Fenrisulfr laughed, sea air deep in his lungs.

It was a heady pleasure to be alive and the bringer of death, never the recipient – until the Norns betrayed you, as they would in the end.

Finally, the shadow of land grew amid the grey blend of sea and sky, a promontory atop which stood a stone fort-like structure; except that if they had been told the truth, it was occupied by holy men, not warriors. Something other than the icy wind caused Fenrisulfr's innards to chill, and by the time they beached the prow-beast on shingle, the recognition was strong, despite the gloom enveloping the world.

I was here before.

That other day, long past, when he had been transported by troll magic: bright sky and summer sun had shone as he slew the imprisoned troll-spirit. It had glowed blue, and was comrade to the red spirit that had carried Fenrisulfr – then simply Ulfr – across a great distance in the space be tween heartbeats. Somehow Stígr had been making use of the imprisoned troll's magic, using it to transport himself at will.

Ulfr had removed that power by killing the captive, using the crystal-headed spear; but had failed to destroy his real enemy, that bastard Stígr, before the ‘good' troll-spirit snatched Ulfr home.

‘They call it Holy Island,' Thóllakr told Ivarr.

‘I know.'

‘Ári says they pray to a trinity, meaning Óthinn, Baldr and Loki, except they use different names.'

‘They'll be praying while they shit themselves, soon as they catch sight of us.'

Several warriors walked downwind to piss, or squat down shielded by their cloaks, while they waited for the other long-boats to beach. Finally, when the whole band was gathered,
Egil Blood-Sword and Bjartr Red-Tooth called them to order.

The two chiefs were more important than Fenrisulfr, if not as feared.

‘We take only tribute here, remember,' said Egil. ‘And a small one at that. Keep your weapons sheathed, men. And not inside the local maidens, Davith.'

‘Or the sheep,' said someone. ‘Or pigs.'

‘Why, did your mother sail with us?'

Chuckles and jeers were almost drowned by storm-wind.

‘The nicer we are to the locals,' said Bjartr, ‘the fewer fighters need to remain here on guard, while we make a little incursion on foot.'

Later they would hug the coast until they found a suitable river inlet, and make use of the prow-beasts' shallow draughts. Riverside settlements were rarely prepared for the sight of sea-going vessels suddenly appearing beside them: normal ships would smash their keels if they attempted to sail inland; but when raiders went a-Viking, they slipped deep into the country at will.

‘Don't worry,' added Bjartr. ‘We'll all see Axe-Time soon enough.'

‘And Shrieking when Davith gets his cock out.'

There was laughter at the punning, for Axe-Time and Shrieking were two of the All-Father's Death Choosers who might swoop down to take their spirits back to Valhöll, where they would train and fight among the Einherjar, and never die again before the final battle that was Ragnarökkr.

Orange flame-light showed at the holy men's tower.

‘They've seen us,' said Fenrisulfr.

‘I thought I smelled someone shitting themselves,' said Ivarr.

‘That was me,' Fenrisulfr told him. ‘Thinking about Davith getting his weapon ready.'

Chuckles accompanied the loosening of blades, the hitching of hammers and axes, the hefting of spears by their balance
points, the rolling of shoulders and jogging on the spot, shingles crunching, to get ready.

The way to negotiate was to be ready for slaughter.

*

There was a tonsured holy man – chief of the holy men – and a village leader who began by saying they wanted peace, and were prepared to pay tribute to such mighty men of the sword. Ivarr and Thóllakr looked at Davith and smirked, while others tried to keep a straight face. Chief Egil and Bjartr glanced at each other and nodded, then turned to Fenrisulfr who did likewise.

‘Your terms are well offered,' he said to the holy man, who spoke the Tongue. ‘We accept them warmly.'

Many of the raiders possessed a smattering of languages, but in matters like this it was best for someone fluent to translate. Fenrisulfr knew enough of the local tongue to understand that the holy man translated correctly, while the relief on the village leader's face was answer enough.

As the tribute arrived, Egil directed some of his men to take it to the longboats, rather than make the locals carry it all the way. Fenrisulfr understood the reasoning: allowing the locals to see the vessels up close would lessen their fear; best that the prow-beasts remain like waiting dragons, redolent with danger.

All went well until Thóllakr cut himself on an unsheathed blade: a gift, part of the tribute that he should have known how to handle properly. Fenrisulfr felt like killing him on the spot, for showing such ineptitude; but dissent within a force is also a sign of weakness. Fenrisulfr forced his fury down.

‘We have healers,' said the holy man. ‘Let us help.'

‘I should hamstring the whelp,' muttered Brökkr, behind Fenrisulfr's shoulder. But for the locals, those words were drowned out by Bjartr's loud acknowledgement of their kindness.

Fenrisulfr hoped that the healers' ministrations, whatever
they were, would burn like the flames of Surt, the Fire Giant who ruled hot Múspellheim.

Ivarr and Knótr helped Thóllakr – at least he had the sense not to whimper – follow the holy man back to the village by the sacred tower, or whatever it was.

In broken Tongue, the villager said: ‘We feast. Now. You join?'

They would need to keep watchful and go easy on the mead or ale, but eating well would be a good thing after the voyage.

‘We will feast with you,' said Bjartr Red-Tooth.

And so they did.

When he had eaten enough of the local fowl, and drunk a horn of watery mead, Fenrisulfr clapped several of his men on the shoulder, then went outside. In the wake of the storm, the night smelled fresh beneath a white full moon, strong enough to cast shadows.

He felt good, and knew there was a small task left undone: telling Thóllakr what an idiot he was. Fenrisulfr grinned, since the young warrior's clumsiness seemed to have done no harm; but he would use harsh words nonetheless.

Someone was throwing up in the stinking middens. On the way back, he would check that it was not one of his own band, whom he expected to maintain discipline. The locals seemed cowed, but there was always an element of doubt in an unknown country, the possibility of allies secretly summoned and moving through the night – it was bright enough to travel by – for a dawn attack.

Possible, not likely.

And then he heard it.

Dah, dah-dum, dah-dah-dah-dum, dah-dah.

The nine-note sequence was faint, not as if the darkness were distant, but as if it had grown weak. And what of that? A weakened enemy was easier to kill, that was all.

It's been fifteen years.

So it was possible the tainted spirit belonged to someone
other than Stígr; but as the
berserkergangr
roiled within Fenrisulfr, begging to take over, he knew it did not matter: whoever this was, they were going to die.

He hefted his twin war-axes, lately his weapons of choice – he wore his sword as status symbol and back-up weapon, along with a dagger, while the crystal-tipped spear remained at the longboat, guarded – and set off at a jog, following a flattened path through moonlit silver grass, towards a large roundhouse inside which an orange fire burned. If his quarry was warm and relaxed, so much the better, for cold wind and chaos would enter along with him, the hell-wolf, and destruction would follow.

Ready.

His foot smashed the door in, and he was inside.

Stígr!

The one-eyed man was there, mouth opening—

NOW!

—as twin axe-blades cut down through his collar bones and into his chest, cutting his heart so that unconsciousness came instantly, but that was not enough because the spirit might yet feel agony before it left the body, and this one deserved to suffer, so in his
berserkr
rage Fenrisulfr continued to cut and smash, to kick and hew, smashing the dead thing into butchered parts, over and over—

Done.

—and then it clicked off, the
berserkergangr
, as only he could manage, and Fenrisulfr was a man once more, only a man.

The inside of the roundhouse was wet, all dripping red, painted by Stígr's blood. A warrior knew, as a non-warrior could not, just how much blood might spray and gush from a human body; but even so, it was spectacular, the scarlet decoration of the interior: ceiling, curved walls, the table and cots, and the spattered clothing and faces of the people staring at him, shocked.

Thóllakr, his wound bandaged and wrapped with a poultice, was the first to speak.

‘Chief? Why, uh . . .?'

Fenrisulfr answered: ‘He was possessed of the darkness.'

A holy man was there, not their chief but a relative youth, along with a young woman who looked to have been holding Thóllakr's hand: under other circumstances, Fenrisulfr would have thought
Good for you
. But there was the aftermath of destroying his enemy to deal with.

‘He prayed,' said the young holy man in passable Tongue. ‘For many years, he prayed to weaken the demons that tortured his spirit. And the darkness is weak, he said. It can only touch men's spirits, and that barely, and makes do with that because it cannot move worldly objects directly, so it really is not mighty but very, very weak . . .'

He seemed to realise he was babbling, but could not help spilling more words: ‘Stígr said the dark powers needed a bridge that was not Bifröst. That everyone forgets Múspellheim in their schemes. And he said only you would understand that.'

‘You've never seen me before.' Fenrisulfr shrugged, spilling blood from his axe-heads. ‘You cannot know me.'

The holy man wiped his face, then looked startled at the sight of his hand, as if he had thought he was wiping off sweat instead of dead man's blood.

‘Stígr said a wolf from hell would come for him.'

There was more the young holy man wanted to say, but though his mouth worked, his throat seized up; and then he turned away, making a mystic gesture – hand to forehead, stomach, then either side of his chest. Fenrisulfr had seen it before, as far east as Byzantium, and now here in the west.

The scrape of blades withdrawing from scabbards came from outside.

Fenrisulfr crouched and growled, ready to strike. Then he heard: ‘Chief? Fenrisulfr?'

‘Come inside, good Brökkr.'

Behind Brökkr came Egil Blood-Sword, then his warrior
Davith, and Ári from Fenrisulfr's band, along with the chief holy man, whose face was pale.

‘Y-you killed Stígr. He was under our protection.'

Fenrisulfr felt himself tremble.

‘Don't think much of your protection,' said Davith, while Egil frowned.

‘This was a creature of darkness,' said Fenrisulfr. ‘A
seithr
adept. An abomination, holy man, that
you
sheltered.'

‘You had no—'

But the holy man reached out to grab Fenrisulfr, and that was a mistake.

‘Agh!'

Blood gushed again as Fenrisulfr's axe severed the arm.

‘Shit,' said Egil.

He punched the howling holy man in the back of the neck, and the holy man dropped face-first and silent, blood spurting from the glistening stump.

Then Egil looked at Fenrisulfr and grinned.

‘Guess we just changed our plans.'

Behind Fenrisulfr, Thóllakr groaned as he swung himself up from the cot, and put one arm around the young woman, who had not spoken and who looked in shock. It was a wordless claim of ownership or at least protection, which his fellow warriors would not break. The remaining young holy man shrank back, as if hoping no one would notice him.

‘Blood and death,' said Fenrisulfr quietly.

‘Blood and death,' agreed Egil Blood-Sword.

And Brökkr laughed.

‘The Hell-Wolf is with us again.'

Fenrisulfr growled once more as
berserkergangr
came upon him. Egil dropped to one side and Brökkr to the other, understanding the danger, and allowed Fenrisulfr to rush outside first, before following with weapons ready. Fenrisulfr, sprinting hard, gave vent to his wolf-warrior's roar, and everywhere the raiders responded, heartbeat-fast, drawing and swinging
weapons, instantly transformed in a way soft villagers and holy men could never understand or cope with.