Vali nodded, aware that soon he would be killing his first enemy, or being killed himself. He wished he’d unpacked his sword already. He felt the need to piss and stood to do so. He wasn’t the only one. It was almost a comical sight, ten men weeing over the side in one go, a like number on both accompanying knarrs, as if it was some sort of ritual.
Vali scanned for land. All he could see was open sea. No, there was something, a flat dark patch in the hazy distance. ‘This is it,’ he told himself. ‘This is it.’
The men pulled in their oars and laid them flat in the bottom of the longship. The berserks’ leader, the man with the strange staff, piled up ballast stones. Then he took out some twigs and kindling, and got a fire going on top of them. When it was established, he hung a cooking pot above it from a tripod and added water from a skin. Then he began throwing in things from a pouch.
Vali went to the back of the ship and took his weapon from a barrel, along with his helmet. He was intensely nervous and every movement felt unnatural, scrutinised by the men around him and found wanting. Other men were breaking open barrels and strapping on their war gear. There was no conversation. None of the berserks spoke to each other but just mumbled into their beards, cursing and issuing threats to non-existent opponents.
The contents of the fire pot were poured into a large bowl, which was passed around, drained dry and refreshed. It came to Vali and he looked inside to see a gritty soup. In it floated shrivelled, spotty mushrooms that looked to him like human ears. He passed the bowl on to the berserk next to him without drinking and watched as the man gulped at the brew.
When each of the berserks had taken the soup, they took up their oars again.
The war band leader made his way to the front of the ship, carrying the staff with the iron rings. He steadied himself by the prow as his men rowed and began to bang the staff on the boards of the ship, thumping out a clanging beat. The berserks responded to the rhythm by stamping their feet as they worked the oars.
‘Odin!’ shouted the leader.
As one, the berserks replied, ‘That means fury!’
‘Odin!’
‘That means war!’
‘All Father!’ screamed the leader.
‘Mighty in battle!’ came the reply.
‘All Father!’
‘Make red our swords!’
‘Odin!’
‘That means frenzy!’
‘Odin!’
‘That means death!’
The berserks howled and smashed their heads into their oars, spat and swore as they powered the boat towards the shore. The war band leader beat the rail of the ship with his rattle, screaming and shrieking out his words.
‘Odin’s men!’ he shouted.
‘We are men of Odin!’ the berserks screamed back at him.
‘Men of Odin!’
‘We are Odin’s men!’
The chanting seemed to go on for ever, and the berserks seemed to have an endless supply of words spilling out in chants as fast as a fighter’s heartbeat. They went wild, punching at the oars as they rowed, slapping themselves and screaming the words into each other’s faces. The beat became faster.
‘Odin!’ shouted the leader, hammering his rattle into the rail.
‘Man maddener, all hater, war screamer!’
‘Odin!’
‘Wolf fighter, spear shaker, corpse maker!’
‘Odin!’
‘Great wrecker, down thrower, foe slayer!’
‘Odin!’
‘Berserker, berserker, berserker!’
Now some of the men stood, punching their chests and arms. The ship lurched as one man in his frenzy forgot his oar, and the blade caught in the water.
‘Odin!’
‘Berserker, berserker, berserker!’
‘So they call me!’ shouted the man with the rattle.
‘Odin!’ howled the oarsmen.
‘So they call me!’
‘Odin!’
In his fear and excitement the words came to Vali as impressions. They seemed more than names. It was as if the wild chanting gave them a life, as if he could see the images they conjured — Odin fighting the Fenris Wolf, a spear flying through a clear blue sky, gallows and slaughter, fire and blood. The beat of the oars never slackened, though Vali was sure the men could not sustain the pace for much longer. Instead they got faster, hardly missing a stroke, despite many of them swigging from drinking horns which were regularly refilled from a huge jug carried by a boy. Vali wondered that anyone could even lift such a pitcher, never mind pour it without spilling it on a longship as it crashed through the surf.
As the jug passed, Bragi shouted across to him, though panting with exertion, ‘I’d have a drink if I were you. Ale waters the courage inside you and makes it grow!’
Vali did as Bragi suggested, taking his horn off his belt to have it filled and swigging down a couple of mouthfuls. He could drink no more, beginning to feel sick with the anticipation of what was to come rather than the movement of the ship. The berserks were baying now, screaming obscenities and promises to their god.
He glanced over his shoulder again and got the impression of the blue giving way to green behind him. Then white joined the blue and green. A beach. There was a judder and Vali was thrown back off his chest to sprawl onto the ballast.
Propelled by the frenzied rowing, the boat grounded on the beach far harder than it needed to. Vali thought they’d been lucky not to tear out the hull. He had to roll aside as a stampede swept over him, the berserks howling in their mania to get off the boat. Not one bore a shield, none even armour or a helmet, just spears, axes and, in the case of the leader, a sword in one hand and the huge rattle in the other.
Vali turned to see who they were charging at but saw nothing, just a pleasant broad beach of light sand, the sunny day, birds over the meadows and deep green grass. There was no enemy there at all.
The berserks were off and running across the island, the more conventional warriors disembarking from the other two boats behind them.
‘Come on,’ said Bragi. ‘We’ve attacked from the rear of the island for surprise. You go ahead of me; I’m too old to run all the way. Remember, pretty women, fit men, they’re the slaves you’re looking for. The rest, kill ’em for the fear it’ll bring next time.’
Vali stepped from the boat and had the strange sensation of setting foot on foreign soil for the first time in his life. He was inclined to stop and look around him, to see how the place differed from his home, but he knew he couldn’t.
He pressed on in the throng of helmeted warriors from the knarrs, all of them carrying shields, chasing the fast-moving unarmoured berserks inland. The island was flat and not too long, but he could see no buildings on it. They moved quickly and, as they crested a small ridge, found the first bodies, four old men dead in a furrowed field. He could tell they were old by their white hair; their features gave no clue to their age. The men had been mutilated, their heads cut and cut again, stamped on and kicked.
Vali took them for slaves, as they were dressed very plainly and the two heads that were still anything like intact were shaved completely at the front, the hair left long behind, which he thought must be the sign of the lowest rank, a mark of their subjugation. There were farm implements lying discarded around them, rakes and hoes, but more than could be used by just four. Vali wondered why they hadn’t simply sat down and been taken prisoner. Why should a slave fight for his owner? Then he realised what had happened. He thought of the chanting of the men
