Chapter Forty-Three: Varg

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

VARG

Varg followed Svik and the others down the tree-shadowed slope. The ground levelled as he caught up with them. He could hear his heart pounding in his head, beating time like a drum, and everything around seemed to become brighter, sharper, louder. He saw Glornir striding down the centre of the glade, his eyes dark pools in his socketed helm, his long-axe held across his body. Edel was with him, her wolfhounds either side of her, and a handful of other Bloodsworn. Skalk, Olvir and Yrsa were behind them, hovering at the treeline. All around the glade other groups of the Bloodsworn emerged, each one led by one of Glornir’s captains: Røkia, Sulich and Vol.

The thralls in the glade were staring open-mouthed, the warriors there shouting, some frozen, staring, others moving together. The skraelings were unnaturally still, heads twitching like predatory birds as they looked at the various groups of the Bloodsworn emerging from the trees. As Varg drew closer to them he saw they bore the rough features of a man or woman, with small dark eyes, mouth and nose, but they were uneven, like a melted candle, and small tusks grew from their lower jaws.

A woman in mail raised a horn to her lips and blew it, long and loud.

The thralls screamed, many of them breaking away from their carts and running in all directions, chains clinking.

One of the skraelings drew a short, wide-bladed weapon from its belt, looking like something between a sword and a cleaver, and hacked at a thrall. She gave a scream as she collapsed, blood spurting from a gaping wound between her shoulder and neck. Others tried to steer the fleeing thralls back into the tunnel, grouping together, facing out at the Bloodsworn.

It looked like the glade had burst into madness.

“On me,” Svik grunted, and Varg shuffled to Svik’s left, the group forming a loose line, shields raised but not locked together. Mud sucked at Varg’s shoes. All of the Bloodsworn were moving into the glade, a net drawing tight upon the tunnel entrance. They outnumbered their enemy, maybe a score of warriors milling in the glade, and ten or twelve of the skraelings.

Spears hissed, hurled by warriors among the Bloodsworn. There were screams as warriors fell, blood spurting. One of the skraelings let out an inhuman screech and staggered, pierced through the torso. It plucked at the spear, blood blooming around the wound, soaking into its hide tunic. It gripped the shaft with a long-fingered fist and ripped the spear free; looked at the Bloodsworn and opened its jaws wide, shrieking.

They are hard to kill.

“WALL!” the woman who had blown the horn yelled, the warriors about her drawing tight, shields rising together.

The warriors moved into a curved line, shields coming together with a snap as the last of the thralls disappeared. The skraelings erupted into motion, charging at the Bloodsworn. Two came at Svik’s group.

“SHIELDS!” Svik yelled.

Varg shuffled tight to Svik as Røkia had taught him, shoulders touching, and their shields came together with a crack, Varg’s overlapping Svik’s, the rim tight to Svik’s iron boss. Torvik was on Varg’s left and his shield did the same, the seven of them forming a solid wall of linden wood and iron. The two skraelings were charging at them, screeching and grunting in inhuman voices, faster than Varg would have thought possible, moving in a loping, four-limbed run with their knuckled fists.

“Ready,” Svik yelled and he set his feet, his left arm and shoulder braced into his shield. Varg did the same, looking over the rim, holding his spear high in a reverse grip.

The first skraeling slammed into their small shield wall, Svik, Halja and Vali taking the brunt of it. The full weight of the skraeling crashed into them with a dull thud and the shields rippled and bucked, soaking up and spreading the force of the impact. The skraeling fell backwards, rebounding from the shields to fall sprawling into the mud. Spears stabbed downwards.

And then the second skraeling was upon them, crashing into Varg and Torvik. There was an ear-shattering crack, an explosive pain in Varg’s shoulder and he was weightless, flying through the air. He crashed to the ground, all the air driven from his lungs, and he rolled, tangled in his shield and losing his spear. He came to a halt, flopping in the mud and gasping for breath, pushed himself on to hands and knees.

Torvik was yelling, thrown twenty paces away from Varg but scrambling back to his feet and brandishing his spear. The skraeling was stood between them, crouched, snarling, saliva dripping from its tusks. It reached to its belt and drew a thick-bladed weapon, shorter than a sword but longer than a seax, and wide as a cleaver. It hissed at them both, head snapping between Torvik and Varg like a hawk, and then it was leaping at Torvik, emitting a high-pitched screech.

A spark of rage bloomed in Varg’s belly, pure and white-hot, like when he was in the pugil-ring and had been floored, like when Einar had knocked him down. An instinctive response to losing. Most people would not get back up.

The red mist, Frøya had called it. Whatever it was, it surged through Varg now, flooding his veins, his body, his mind. The pain in his shoulder evaporated. He pushed himself upright and ran at the skraeling, snarling incoherent threats.

Torvik took a blow from the skraeling’s weapon on his shield, wood splintering, and stumbled back a few steps. He stabbed out with his spear and scored a red line across the skraeling’s shoulder, but it shrugged it off, screeched again and swung its blade. Torvik brought his shield around and the skraeling’s blade crunched into it with an explosion of splinters.

Varg ploughed into the skraeling’s back, the creature grunting, and both of them crashed to the ground. The skraeling bucked and twisted beneath Varg, who slammed the boss of his shield into its head and shoulder. Long arms flailed and punched him in the head and he fell away, then he saw the skraeling stumble upright, blood sheeting one side of its melted face, and raise its weapon.

Varg tried to rise and slipped in the mud.

The skraeling loomed over him.

A spear point burst through its belly and it screamed, arching its back, Torvik’s snarling face behind it. The skraeling grabbed the spear and wrenched it through its own body, turning on Torvik, who stared at it, open-mouthed.

There was a tremor in the ground, a shadow, and an axe hacked into the skraeling, opening it up from shoulder to ribs. An explosion of blood and bone. It collapsed with a gurgled sigh.

Einar stood over them, put his boot on the dead skraeling and ripped his axe free.

“On your feet,” he said to Varg.

“Take my hand, brother,” Torvik said and pulled Varg up, both of them breathing hard, eyes wild and faces blood-spattered.

The din of battle was overwhelming. Varg saw Svik and the others were pressing forwards against a shield wall of warriors, six or seven strong, shields clashing, steel stabbing. Elsewhere Glornir was stood swinging his axe two-handed, a skraeling falling away in a spray of blood. Røkia was yelling a battle-cry and leading her band of Bloodsworn as they broke through another shield wall of mail-clad warriors, Røkia thrusting her spear into a man’s belly. Everywhere was death, the air thick with the iron tang of blood and faeces. And everywhere the Bloodsworn went, their enemies looked to be falling.

“Not the time for a rest,” Einar grunted at them as he strode towards Svik.

Varg shared a look with Torvik, who grinned at him, and then they were following Einar, Varg hefting his shield and drawing his seax, the two of them rejoining Svik’s line and pushing into the wall of shields. Varg locked his shield with Vali’s, Torvik moving to the far end of the line.

There were seven warriors facing them, men and women spitting and shoving, snarling and stabbing from behind their wall of shields. Varg dipped his shoulder and put his weight behind his shield and shoved, glimpsing a blond beard and the glint of a spearhead. He jerked his head to the side, felt the iron blade grate against his helmet, magnified and deafening inside the helm, and stabbed his seax low, under his shield rim, felt the blade bite, heard a grunt and the pressure on his shield lessened. He pulled his seax back, blood-slick, and shoved forwards, stabbed high and it grated across the riveted rings of a brynja.

A shouted command rang out and the warriors they were facing took a step back. Varg’s limbs heavy, muscles burning, sweat dripping in his eyes.

This shield work is harder than a bout of fists between the hazel rods.

“AT THEM,” Svik yelled and he took a step forward, closing the gap, the rest of the line following. Beside Varg, Vali hissed like an enraged serpent at their enemies, his face twisted in snarling fury. He had left his spear in the body of a skraeling and was wielding a bearded axe. Hooking the blade over the shield rim opposite him he tugged, the warrior holding the shield stumbling forwards a step. It was a man, dark-haired with a wrong-set broken nose and spitting insults at Vali. Jökul slammed his hammer on to the warrior’s helm, putting a fist-sized dent into it. The distinct sound of bone cracking could be heard and the man collapsed.

Svik stepped over the fallen man’s body, stabbing down with his spear, and pushed into the gap in their wall of shields, Vali, Halja and Jökul close behind and the enemy shield wall split apart like a cracked egg. One fought on, Einar making short work of him, and the others broke and ran.

Varg stood there, blinking, exhaustion and fury fighting within him, still feeling the anger pulsing through him like cold fire, like a distant drumbeat, his body twitching with the need to fight.

A bellowing, louder than a tree falling, echoed out from the tunnel entrance and filled the glade. Varg winced with the noise of it.

A shape lumbered from the tunnel, almost as tall and wide as the entrance: the troll they had seen at the waterfall. Varg had not realised how big it was. Tall as two men, wide as three, it thundered into the clearing, mud squelching and flying between its thick-clawed toes. It was naked and muscled as a bull, its hide scaled, patches of moss upon it, testicles swinging like two boulders between its legs. It gripped an iron-banded club in its fists. Yellowed tusks jutted from its lower jaw and small, pinprick eyes glared out from beneath thick-slabbed brows.

Figures moved behind it: a dozen warriors led by a grey-haired man in an oil-dark brynja. He wore an iron helm with a mail neck-guard, his grey beard bound into a thick braid and a dark cloak billowing out behind him like wings. Arm rings of silver and gold were thick upon him. He had no shield, but held in his hands a long, two-handed curved sword. Not a sword of iron or steel, it was yellowed with veins of grey, like old bone. And it seemed to shimmer in the man’s hands, waves of power rippling out from it like a heat haze. The tingling in Varg’s blood grew, louder and wilder, calling to him, giving him life and energy and at the same time suppressing and squeezing him, as if he had dived deep into a mountain pool and the weight of water above was crushing him.

The man strode to stand in front of the troll, a dozen warriors spread behind him, all mailed with sharp steel in their fists. He raised the bone sword over his head. Red eyes flickered like embers within the shadows of his helm as he glowered at the Bloodsworn.

“You should not have come here,” he said, and marched forwards.

Glornir stepped out to meet him, Bloodsworn spreading wide behind their chief.

The troll bellowed and lumbered forwards.

Spears hissed through the air, Bloodsworn hurling them at the troll. Some pierced its thick hide, blood welling; others skittered away. The troll roared, swiping at the spears, snapping shafts.

Glornir swung his long-axe around his head and aimed a great, looping blow at the red-eyed man, who stepped forwards to meet Glornir, the bone sword slicing down. The weapons connected and there was a concussive crash, Glornir hurled through the air. The red-eyed man paused a moment, then strode after him.

Svik yelled a war cry and ran at the red-eyed man, his whole crew following: Halja and Vali, Einar, Jökul and Torvik. Varg stood there a moment, battling with the pulsing waves of pain that emanated from the bone sword, and then he was running, too.

There were little more than forty paces between Svik and Glornir, who was back on his feet, shaking his head, blood running from his nose. He still gripped his long-axe, and he stood and faced the red-eyed man, hefted the axe. The stranger strode at him, the bone sword rising.

Svik screamed, Varg and the others echoing him, other Bloodsworn running. Varg heard Røkia shout a war cry and glimpsed her hurling her spear at the red-eyed man. It was a powerful throw and it flew true and fast, straight at the old man’s chest.

He cut the spear from the air with his bone sword, the two halves falling splintered at his feet.

Svik and his crew sped across the mud and blood-spattered glade.

A shadow loomed over them, a roar, and Vali was abruptly gone, flying through the air in an explosion of blood. Halja screamed. The troll lurched in front of them, filling Varg’s vision, cutting Glornir from sight, his iron-banded club swinging at Svik. The red-haired warrior leaped forwards into a diving roll, passing beneath the pendulous arc of the club and back on to his feet, mud-spattered, still running, and hurled his spear at the troll, drawing his sword before the spear landed. There was a bellow of pain as the spear sank deep into the troll’s thigh. Svik swerved, avoiding a stamping kick and slashing at the troll’s leg. Einar and Jökul swept wide around the enraged creature, both hacking and hammering. Torvik ran straight at it, and threw his spear, the blade piercing the troll’s shoulder, sinking deep. Another bellow of pain and the troll’s club was swinging, all of them leaping away, even Einar, the club clipping Svik and sending him flying, rolling in the mud.

Varg bounced on his toes, then ran in, behind the swing of the club, swaying out of the way of a punch that hammered into the ground, mud spraying, and rammed his shield rim down on to the troll’s foot. It was like punching stone, the impact juddering up through his arm. He lost his grip on the shield and leaped, grabbed Svik’s spear shaft, still buried in the troll’s thigh, and heaved himself up the troll’s body, slashing with his seax across the creature’s belly. The blade sliced through a few layers of tough, hide-like skin, blood welling, but not deeply enough to spill its guts. The troll roared at Varg and grabbed him around the throat in a boulder-sized fist, lifted him into the air and squeezed.

Pain, bones close to cracking, no air even to scream. His vision blurred, bright spots erupting, darkness. A bubbling fear merged with his rage, flooding him, and he snarled and struggled and spat, stabbing his seax into the troll’s fist.

Then he was weightless, falling, losing his grip on his seax, crunching to the ground, rolling. Still. He inhaled a mouthful of mud. Spitting, he took ragged gasps as he tried to rise, air rushing into his lungs. He pushed himself up in the mud and saw Svik was on the troll’s back, stabbing furiously with his seax into the meat of the muscle between neck and shoulder. Einar was swinging his axe, opening a great red wound down the troll’s thigh, and Jökul had stepped in close and was hammering the creature’s toes. The troll screamed, enraged.

Varg pushed himself up and shook his head. It hurt to swallow, but that was far better than being dead.

The troll let out a thundering howl and dropped its club, spinning and slapping at its back, trying to dislodge Svik. Dark blood was spurting in fountains. One of its flailing limbs caught Jökul and sent him spinning through the air, crunching to the ground, limbs twisted.

A scream came from behind Varg and he spun round and froze for a moment at what he saw.

Glornir was on one knee, blood flowing from a wound across his shoulder and chest, his brynja rent and hanging in tatters. The red-eyed man was standing over Glornir, bodies heaped around him, raising his pale sword.

Varg realised where the scream had come from.

Vol stepped forwards, one hand raised. She moved in front of Glornir, drawing a seax and slicing it across her hand, shouting words Varg did not understand.

“Bein af því gamla, þú munt ekki fara framhjá,” she screamed, spittle flying from her mouth, at the same time her bloodied hand tracing shapes in the air. Glowing fire flickered and rippled into life, sharp, straight lines appearing in the air, a Seiðr-rune forming in blood and flame above Glornir, glowing red and orange as the bone sword sliced towards his head. The bone blade met the rune and there was a burst of incandescent light, blinding Varg for a moment. He blinked, his vision returning to see that the bone sword had slowed, as if moving through water, then stopped, stuck halfway through the flaming Seiðr-rune, as if the red-eyed man had chopped his blade deep into timber and could not wrench it free. His body strained with the blade, muscles in his arms bunching, and Varg saw him grunting and hissing words that Varg could not hear.

Vol snarled back at him, leaning into the Seiðr-rune as if it were her shield in a shield wall, her hand up, palm pressed flat to it, her face twisted in a grimace of pain, lips moving, words pouring from her in a constant flow.

All around them Bloodsworn were trying to reach them, fighting furiously with the handful of warriors who had followed the red-eyed man.

The bone sword shifted, ripples of power washing out from it. The Seiðr-rune flickered and flared, like a stuttering torch as the bone sword began to move again, cutting through the flames.

“Guðir bein brjóta þig, kló tæta þig,” the red-eyed man bellowed, spittle flying from his mouth, muscles in his face twitching and writhing, veins bulging, and the Seiðr-rune exploded. Vol was hurled backwards, crashing into Glornir, both of them thrown to the ground, and the red-eyed man stepped over them and raised his sword again.

The rage that had pulsed in Varg’s belly flared bright, fuelled by his fear, white and blinding in his head. He snarled and ran, hands grasping at his weapons belt, drawing his axe and cleaver. Leaped.

The red-eyed man paused, sword held high, and looked back over his shoulder. Saw Varg hurtling towards him, twisted.

Varg slammed into him, chopping and hacking with axe and cleaver, the two of them falling, rolling. Varg came to a stop, scrabbling for purchase, the fire in his blood sweeping him, burning in his veins. The red-eyed man bellowed, heaved Varg away and stumbled to his feet.

Varg rolled to a halt, the red mist in his head pulsing with his every heartbeat, urging him to kill and rend. When he fought in the pugil-ring the red mist had energised him, given him a rush of adrenalin-fuelled strength and speed, a clarity of thought and an instinctive knowledge that he would never give in. But he had always restrained it, known that to surrender to it would mean the death of his opponent. It was as if he kept a pit-hound on a leash. But here, now, this was to death, everything that mattered in his life coming down to this moment, to the next few heartbeats. Without conscious thought he released the pit-hound in his soul.

He half stood, realising he had lost his axe but still held the cleaver. He looked at the red-eyed man, seeing him with too-sharp clarity, all around them faded to blurred shapes that fought and screamed and bled. The red-eyed man fixed Varg with his glare that turned to a look of surprise.

His helm had been knocked loose by Varg. He was old, his grey beard braided, his head shaved. Blood flowed down one side of his face from a gash along the side of his head, skin flapping. He had lost a grip on the bone sword, red eyes searching for it, then he found it and lunged, sweeping it up as Varg scrambled to his feet and threw himself at the old man again, his cleaver raised high in a downwards slash, his teeth bared in a rictus snarl. Dimly, he thought he heard a wolf growling.

The red-eyed man swung his sword in a horizontal slash.

Varg’s cleaver crunched into the red-eyed man’s head, deep, wedged, blood and bone spraying, his body jerking and spasming, his strength vanishing in a heartbeat, but the momentum of his sword swing kept the bone sword moving. It connected with Varg’s waist.

A searing pain, white light and Varg howled. Then darkness.