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 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
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