6. SIX #2
Asger smirks. “You’ve had a quiet life if you think that.”
Some of the others chuckle, but it’s clear they’re trying to mask their fear.
Then a tortured squeal followed by shouts of terror causes them to whisper prayers and curses as they pull their weapons from their belts.
Bjarmar reaches for his own blade, holding back tears of rage as he imagines his granddaughter in the clutches of whatever thing is out there shrieking in the fog.
Another scream rings through the forest, this time accompanied by a shrill horn blast. Asger sounds his horn in return and Bjarmar and his men move out.
His heart is fluttering with the familiar thrill and terror of battle.
Asger and the other huskarls are huffing and jingling as they run on foot alongside his galloping horse, dressed head to toe in heavy mail.
Behind them, archers nock arrows to their bowstrings in midstride; thralls with spears and shields hurry along with braying hounds on leashes, others with nets, and some carrying jars of pitch and oil.
At last Bjarmar glimpses the scarlet glow of torches through the shroud of grey. An unearthly wail sends a chill up his spine. Then comes another drawn-out scream.
Through the thick swirls of mist, he makes out the shadow of a man sitting down away from the struggle.
As he comes nearer he sees it’s Frodmar.
His helm and shield are lying on the ground beside him, his sword still in his belt.
He’s staring at nothing, stuck in a shattered daze like a broken man.
Bjamar calls out his name, but he only stares and shakes his head.
Bjarmar swallows dryly and focuses his attention on the skirmish ahead.
He hears that wild shriek again and from so close the sound of it grips him with fear.
He exchanges a suspicious glance with Asger and directs his trotting mount closer to the fray where his men are all grouped together in a shield wall.
He can’t see past them, but over their heads his eye catches the white flash of steel.
A huskarl from Frodmar’s group is fighting with a woman.
The others have formed a ring around them.
This woman is splashed with so much blood she’s unrecognizable—drenched in red from head to toe, like the idols of the temple gods at the Yule Sacrifice.
Her blue eyes are glossed with frenzy. Her clothes are torn.
Her hair is full of twigs and leaves, tangled and clotted with mud.
A string of drool dangles from her mouth; she’s snarling like a sick wolf, exiled from the pack to hunt alone.
Wielding an axe in one hand and a sax knife in the other, she pelts the man’s shield with stiff blows.
He’s unable to get around his own guard to swing at her with his axe and keeps taking steps back.
Bjarmar sees what he means to do. This huskarl in his heavy armour means to tire her out until all her energy is spent battering his shield.
But it’s as if each time her weapons bite into his shield she’s driven into a greater fury, and she keeps up her vicious onslaught, yelping and snarling and pushing him back.
Bjarmar can sense by his movements the huskarl is getting frustrated.
He’s impatient to make his counterattack.
The woman strikes horizontally with a powerful swing.
The man ducks low and her axe sweeps over his head.
He makes his move, swinging his shield aside to lash out with an upward thrust. But the woman’s anticipated this.
She’s already stepped inside his attack.
The knife flashes in her hand and she sticks the blade into his eyeball.
Howling terribly, the man drops to his knees, but his scream is cut short as she brings down her axe and splits his helm.
She keeps hacking him apart even as he falls, roaring like an angry she-bear, splattering men’s shields with globs of gore and flying bits of mail.
Then, as she moves her mad, blue eyes over the surrounding men, searching out her next victim, he meets her gaze.
She stares at him like some starving beast, her eyes full of primitive lust. She doesn’t know who he is; she’s blood-drunk and out her mind.
But he recognizes her, and it’s all he can do not to swoon off his horse.
Asger’s made the connection too, and as another man steps forward, he claps his hand on his shoulder and squeezes past him into the ring.
“Hervor,” he says, “you better settle down, or I’ll give you the thrashing of your life.”
Someone chuckles, but Asger doesn’t dare look away from her wild gaze.
The woman before him now is not Jarl Bjarmar’s wayward granddaughter.
A dark power’s seized her—Berserkergang.
He’s seen this unsettling sickness take men before, and he’s not surprised it’s taken Hervor, considering the girl’s father.
He circles around her cautiously, studying her form.
Even in her mindless state, Hervor’s stance and footwork are flawless, and it isn’t any wonder that she’s already slain a few—this irritable, headstrong girl with too much energy, constantly picking fights and pestering him to spar with her and train her on every type of weapon.
From an early age, he’s watched her practice with obsessive dedication; always shrugging off her chores to be out in some field swinging her axe, or punching the teeth out of some poor lad for simply being twice her size.
On a normal day, Hervor would be a match for all but the best warriors in H?logaland; gone berserk, she’ll be truly dangerous.
He’ll have to watch his step or he’ll be drinking mead in Odin’s hall.
She strikes. Narrowly, he slips aside and her knife hisses by his ear.
He circles around her, quickly, but not in any panic, keeping all his weight on his front foot.
He holds his shield out at full arm’s length, turning it lightly from side to side to mesmerize her with the painted swirls.
She strikes again. He pivots and pulls his shield back, causing her to miss completely.
She’s shivering, chattering her teeth, hissing like a steaming kettle.
If he can keep this up, her frenzy will soon wear off and she’ll be in a weakened state.
Asger lures her on with his shield, keeping close enough to make it seem like he’s in range of her whirring blades.
But each time she comes at him, her weapons swipe the air, stoking her into an even hotter rage.
His heart is pulsing quickly and sweat trickles down his nose.
His plan is working. Hervor’s getting reckless, swinging wildly and missing by even greater distances.
He’s seeing more openings in her guard, but he still doesn’t strike.
Not yet. He keeps watching her mad glare, hissing short breaths as he ducks and darts around her.
At last her movements start to slow, and her arms fall to her sides. Her weapons slip to the ground; there’s a transformation in her eyes. Where in her place was something wild and evil, she is once again a confused and frightened girl.
“Hervor?” he asks cautiously.
“Asger?” she huffs. She looks around in bewilderment at the blood-splattered shields of the men surrounding her. She stares down at her crimson hands. “Oh … Oh no …”
She starts to panic. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry! Grandfather—”
But the jarl shakes his head. “Asger.”
Hervor backs away as he steps toward her. “Wait—”
His hand moves in a blur, and there’s a burst of light as she plunges into the freezing fjord.