Read Online Berserker (Omnibus) by Robert Holdstock - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert Holdstock
Tags: Historical, Fantasy
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the cornfield, sending butterflies and insects whirling into the hot air …
In the middle of the host of dead was Bjorn the Axe, white beard matted with the encrusted spill of his several times split heart. Guts and flesh hung low around his waist and his legs, themselves torn by the javelin practice he had been used for. He walked stiffly towards the wooden palisade; blind, dulled eyes stared upwards – his lips moved, but no sound emerged – like the woman’s head on the spear, trying, perhaps, to express in death some of the grief for his loss of life, to shout some warning to the young warrior who stood, filled with fear, above the corpse, unable to move, to tear himself away from the vile scene before him, unable to express his contempt for Odin’s foul joke.
But though Bjorn’s lips moved, greater forces – the teasing fingers of the Sky god – had stilled his tongue, poked a wood knot between the cords of histhroat so that no sound emerged, just the noise of wind scything across a field of corn, a singing summer wind, the fleeing of souls from the pleasant light of earth to the heaving darkness of the underworld.
‘Gotthelm!’ shrieked Harald, feeling the tears (of fear, and of grief, mixed and jumbled, expressing so many emotions as they ran from his eyes), feeling the weakness of his legs, the knotting of his stomach. ‘Gotthelm! Help me! What do I do?’
Helpless in his panic, unfamiliar with the evil ways of the angry gods, terrified of what might have been happening, and of what the gods might have in store for him, Harald could think only of Gotthelm, his companion, his sturdy helper, his guide and life-saver, the old warrior who had been more of a father to him than even Bluetooth had been …
But Gotthelm was dying, eyes closed, oblivious, no doubt, of the supernatural rage that had possessed the hold.
Out of the night, dropping from their hiding places in the dark clouds, came the Valkyries, black armour gleaming, golden eyes glowing; they swirled in the air, riding the currents of the wind, shrieking and laughing as their hands rose and fell, directing the jerky movements of the corpses below them.
They hovered above the palisade, and spat and vomited at Harald. He dodged the ejecta as best he could and ran along the thin ramp to escape their teasing wrath. The demon women followed, pulling their armour from their breasts so that the firm domes of flesh jigged and tantalised, invited his loving touch, invited tender exploration of the cold flesh below …
Shielding his eyes from the Valkyries’ taunting, tempting advances, he looked back into the hold, wondering where he could crawl and hide, wondering why it was only he who was so tormented.
Then he looked out to the horizon, to where the stark ridges cut across the lighter grey of the sky. Skeletal autumnal birch and oak reached thin and twisting arms towards the seat of Thor; the clouds seemed entangled in the twigs of the restless woods.
Among them a great shape swayed, black against the sky, growing in size as it rose slowly up the hill.
A coal-bright eye gazed across the dark and haunted land at the tiny hold, at the flimsy human figure that stood and watched.
The shape grew larger until at last it stood upon the distant ridge, among the trees, and looked about its domain – and growled.
Huge, towering above the tallest birch, ten times the height of a man, five times the breadth, arms reaching out so that light flashed and gleamed on claws the length of a Saxon sword … the Bear god, the one-eyed haunter of dreams, the Angry One from the storm skies …
Odin!
His cry, the throaty growl of a bear, echoed and boomed across thenight-scape. The scything wind died and then flourished again, as if even the dead souls, oblivious of the mortal whims of gods, bowed for a moment before the wrathful one.
The great bear swayed for a moment, crushing trees like twigs as it stepped towards the hold, an enormous black shape advancing
In the middle of the host of dead was Bjorn the Axe, white beard matted with the encrusted spill of his several times split heart. Guts and flesh hung low around his waist and his legs, themselves torn by the javelin practice he had been used for. He walked stiffly towards the wooden palisade; blind, dulled eyes stared upwards – his lips moved, but no sound emerged – like the woman’s head on the spear, trying, perhaps, to express in death some of the grief for his loss of life, to shout some warning to the young warrior who stood, filled with fear, above the corpse, unable to move, to tear himself away from the vile scene before him, unable to express his contempt for Odin’s foul joke.
But though Bjorn’s lips moved, greater forces – the teasing fingers of the Sky god – had stilled his tongue, poked a wood knot between the cords of histhroat so that no sound emerged, just the noise of wind scything across a field of corn, a singing summer wind, the fleeing of souls from the pleasant light of earth to the heaving darkness of the underworld.
‘Gotthelm!’ shrieked Harald, feeling the tears (of fear, and of grief, mixed and jumbled, expressing so many emotions as they ran from his eyes), feeling the weakness of his legs, the knotting of his stomach. ‘Gotthelm! Help me! What do I do?’
Helpless in his panic, unfamiliar with the evil ways of the angry gods, terrified of what might have been happening, and of what the gods might have in store for him, Harald could think only of Gotthelm, his companion, his sturdy helper, his guide and life-saver, the old warrior who had been more of a father to him than even Bluetooth had been …
But Gotthelm was dying, eyes closed, oblivious, no doubt, of the supernatural rage that had possessed the hold.
Out of the night, dropping from their hiding places in the dark clouds, came the Valkyries, black armour gleaming, golden eyes glowing; they swirled in the air, riding the currents of the wind, shrieking and laughing as their hands rose and fell, directing the jerky movements of the corpses below them.
They hovered above the palisade, and spat and vomited at Harald. He dodged the ejecta as best he could and ran along the thin ramp to escape their teasing wrath. The demon women followed, pulling their armour from their breasts so that the firm domes of flesh jigged and tantalised, invited his loving touch, invited tender exploration of the cold flesh below …
Shielding his eyes from the Valkyries’ taunting, tempting advances, he looked back into the hold, wondering where he could crawl and hide, wondering why it was only he who was so tormented.
Then he looked out to the horizon, to where the stark ridges cut across the lighter grey of the sky. Skeletal autumnal birch and oak reached thin and twisting arms towards the seat of Thor; the clouds seemed entangled in the twigs of the restless woods.
Among them a great shape swayed, black against the sky, growing in size as it rose slowly up the hill.
A coal-bright eye gazed across the dark and haunted land at the tiny hold, at the flimsy human figure that stood and watched.
The shape grew larger until at last it stood upon the distant ridge, among the trees, and looked about its domain – and growled.
Huge, towering above the tallest birch, ten times the height of a man, five times the breadth, arms reaching out so that light flashed and gleamed on claws the length of a Saxon sword … the Bear god, the one-eyed haunter of dreams, the Angry One from the storm skies …
Odin!
His cry, the throaty growl of a bear, echoed and boomed across thenight-scape. The scything wind died and then flourished again, as if even the dead souls, oblivious of the mortal whims of gods, bowed for a moment before the wrathful one.
The great bear swayed for a moment, crushing trees like twigs as it stepped towards the hold, an enormous black shape advancing
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