Read Online Berserker (Omnibus) by Robert Holdstock - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Robert Holdstock
Tags: Historical, Fantasy
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… Odin had possessed them, drawn from Asgard by the sudden stench of human blood, drawn from his idle games by the thought of slaughter, directing his beast-men in their whirling dance of destruction.
Was he laughing?
Thunder rolled across the northern sky; Thor groaning, perhaps, at the indulgence of the other war god. Lightning prefaced a storm, out across the black mountains of the eastern lands; Odin strode the heavens, his tears of laughter drenching the autumn soil, driving the panicking beasts before them.
At the door of the hall, the noise of the screaming and the stench of slaughter still strong in his senses, Harald paused.
There were less dead than he had imagined, most of the farmers having fled and escaped the blind fury of the Berserks.
But as he watched, so the six foul creatures turned to regard him, ceasing their frenzy, stifling their death cries, shaking and tensing as their blood-stained bodies froze, a momentary image of horror …
Each had the face of a bear, dripping jowls, pointed snout, opening and growling, red tongues licking forwards, tasting the air for the flesh drops that filled the hall; gleaming eyes, coal black; brown fur, smeared and clogged with the blood of their victims; all the features of the great brown bear that prowled and haunted these northlands and was best left well alone.
At once the bears were laughing, swaying as they stood and watched Harald, leaning back and laughing through the sticky muzzles, roaring with humour at something that Harald failed to understand.
He stood in the night and slowly became aware that he was alone in the yard. Turning quickly he saw the halls and huts tightly closed, their occupants already barricaded inside. Not for anything would they open up now.
But something else caught his attention. A sound – like the scything of wind on a summer’s day, the way it sounds as it blows across an empty field. And cries, as of pain, or dying … outside the wall.
He ran across to the palisade and climbed the narrow steps until he could peer over into the earth ditch, and beyond that to the gentle slopes leading down to the fjord.
Approaching through the darkness, wailing their grief, were the stained and mutilated corpses of the dead of Unsthof.
Appalled by what he saw, Harald’s first instinct was to run and hide his eyes, to cower in some dark and private corner of the hold until the horrendous manifestation of Odin’s displeasure had passed away into the cloudy dawn. But his hands gripped the palisade, his body tensed, and he found himself staring at the white faces of the farmers and hunters and their wives and children that he had known; men and women whom he had loved in his youthful enthusiasm for what they could teach him of snaring rabbits or netting the great fish that played in the shallows of the fjord.
‘Let them in peace!’ he screamed, as if in some way his puny voice would rise above the god wind, the howling, thundering scream from the sky that blew around and across the hold, carrying with it the stench of death.
Truly there was great displeasure in the heart of the one-eyed god whom Harald had so recently thought merciful!
He looked again at the shuffling dead, as they neared the hold gates, gathering together and uniting in their fish-eyed scrutiny of Harald’s tense shape above them.
There was brave Ingredd, left hand on the gaping wound in her chest, tattered robe blowing wildly in the strange wind. There was young Niel, a boy like Harald in so many ways, impetuous, hungry for adventure … he still clutched, in death, a short wooden sword that Harald had fashioned for the lad himself, days before he had departed for the great crossing. Headless, a woman’s body stretched its arms towards him. All the people of Unsthof, unbothered by their terrible wounds, approached Harald and from some of their dead mouths emerged the laughing sound of the wind, the howling pleasure of Odin … wind on a summer afternoon, waving
Was he laughing?
Thunder rolled across the northern sky; Thor groaning, perhaps, at the indulgence of the other war god. Lightning prefaced a storm, out across the black mountains of the eastern lands; Odin strode the heavens, his tears of laughter drenching the autumn soil, driving the panicking beasts before them.
At the door of the hall, the noise of the screaming and the stench of slaughter still strong in his senses, Harald paused.
There were less dead than he had imagined, most of the farmers having fled and escaped the blind fury of the Berserks.
But as he watched, so the six foul creatures turned to regard him, ceasing their frenzy, stifling their death cries, shaking and tensing as their blood-stained bodies froze, a momentary image of horror …
Each had the face of a bear, dripping jowls, pointed snout, opening and growling, red tongues licking forwards, tasting the air for the flesh drops that filled the hall; gleaming eyes, coal black; brown fur, smeared and clogged with the blood of their victims; all the features of the great brown bear that prowled and haunted these northlands and was best left well alone.
At once the bears were laughing, swaying as they stood and watched Harald, leaning back and laughing through the sticky muzzles, roaring with humour at something that Harald failed to understand.
He stood in the night and slowly became aware that he was alone in the yard. Turning quickly he saw the halls and huts tightly closed, their occupants already barricaded inside. Not for anything would they open up now.
But something else caught his attention. A sound – like the scything of wind on a summer’s day, the way it sounds as it blows across an empty field. And cries, as of pain, or dying … outside the wall.
He ran across to the palisade and climbed the narrow steps until he could peer over into the earth ditch, and beyond that to the gentle slopes leading down to the fjord.
Approaching through the darkness, wailing their grief, were the stained and mutilated corpses of the dead of Unsthof.
Appalled by what he saw, Harald’s first instinct was to run and hide his eyes, to cower in some dark and private corner of the hold until the horrendous manifestation of Odin’s displeasure had passed away into the cloudy dawn. But his hands gripped the palisade, his body tensed, and he found himself staring at the white faces of the farmers and hunters and their wives and children that he had known; men and women whom he had loved in his youthful enthusiasm for what they could teach him of snaring rabbits or netting the great fish that played in the shallows of the fjord.
‘Let them in peace!’ he screamed, as if in some way his puny voice would rise above the god wind, the howling, thundering scream from the sky that blew around and across the hold, carrying with it the stench of death.
Truly there was great displeasure in the heart of the one-eyed god whom Harald had so recently thought merciful!
He looked again at the shuffling dead, as they neared the hold gates, gathering together and uniting in their fish-eyed scrutiny of Harald’s tense shape above them.
There was brave Ingredd, left hand on the gaping wound in her chest, tattered robe blowing wildly in the strange wind. There was young Niel, a boy like Harald in so many ways, impetuous, hungry for adventure … he still clutched, in death, a short wooden sword that Harald had fashioned for the lad himself, days before he had departed for the great crossing. Headless, a woman’s body stretched its arms towards him. All the people of Unsthof, unbothered by their terrible wounds, approached Harald and from some of their dead mouths emerged the laughing sound of the wind, the howling pleasure of Odin … wind on a summer afternoon, waving
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