2: Fire and Iron

The longship lay upon the strand, surrounded by busily working figures. Inghen could see that in places the hull had been staved in, but the crew had patched the resulting holes and now even the mast was in the last stages of repair. Once the rigging was replaced they would be able to set sail again. The dark waters crashed upon the rocks beyond the little cove where her men had dragged the longship, and Inghen's heart burned with an impatience to return to the Viking way. But that would have to wait.

Bjorn turned as Inghen and Thorir scrambled down the slippery rocks towards the shingle; he saw them, and started heading up towards them. He was a bear of a man, almost as heavily-built as the berserkers, and equally tall. He met them at the edge of the shingle.

'Inghen!' he cried. 'You're better!'

Inghen scowled. 'I'm back in the land of the living,' she admitted. 'But I'm not sure I wasn't happier asleep.'

Thorir stepped forward.

'There's a gang of berserkers on this isle,' he said. 'Shipwrecked, like we were. They're terrorising the nuns...'

'Their leader is Varg,' Inghen interrupted. Bjorn's ruddy face paled.

'Varg the Black?' he gasped.

'Aye,' replied Inghen coolly. 'I intend to kill him.'

'But he's invincible,' Bjorn said, his heavy brows furrowed with concern. 'How can you kill him? Thrond couldn't.'

'My brother is a coward,' Inghen declared. 'That's why we threw him out of the fleet, remember?' Bjorn had been Inghen's right-hand man during the coup. 'But I am the Red Daughter. I will find a way - I always do.'

Bjorn shook his head uncertainly.

'Where is Gunnholm?' Inghen said suddenly.

'Our own berserker?' Bjorn asked. 'He's down with his brothers, by the stern. Do you expect him to help you?'

'Of course,' said Inghen arrogantly. 'Why not? He's one of my men.'

She strode over to the stern, where five men were busy working. There was a family resemblance on all their faces, but one of them stood out from the rest as a battle-axe would in a pile of handaxes. These were the Sons of Fin.

'Gunnholm Finsson?' Inghen called.

The men left their work and turned to their leader.

'Inghen!' called one of the brothers, a man with a long mane of hair down to his ornately worked belt. 'You've recovered, then?'

Inghen nodded quietly;

'Aye, Brodir,' she said, and she turned to the largest brother. 'Gunnholm - I need your help.'

It took a while before Gunnholm would answer. When he did, he pushed his black hair out of his eyes and looked at her long and hard.

'What kind of help?' he asked shortly. He was a warrior of few words.

Inghen folded her arms, and seemed about to speak. But then she broke away, and called out to the rest of her men.

'Down tools, men, and listen to me.'

Quickly, they obeyed, and poured down to meet her on the shingle.

'When are we leaving this rock, Inghen?' called one of the men. 'We've nearly completed the repairs,' added another.

'We're not going, not yet,' Inghen told them, to groans of disapproval. 'We've got business to conclude here, first.'

'What, with the nuns?' asked one Viking. 'Are we going to loot their church?'

Inghen scowled. 'No!' she snapped. 'Nothing so dishonourable. They helped us, remember?' She looked around at them. 'How many of you were with me in the old fleet, before Hvirvil Einhandi sank it?'

About a third of the Vikings had been, and they reminded her vociferously. She paused, and ran her fingers through her hair.

'Then you will remember how I came to be leader of the fleet? My brother Thrond refused to avenge my father's death at the hand of Varg the Black, so I threw him out and took his place. For many years I have hoped to get my hands on that berserker and kill him - apart from anything, it would bring home to my coward of a brother how much better I am suited to the command of a fleet.

'As it happens, Varg and a number of other berserkers are here, on this island. They came to the nunnery while I was there, and dragged off one of the nuns for their own sordid uses. I tried to fight Varg, but he was in his berserk frenzy and my weapon wouldn't bite on his smelly skin. But after Gunnholm here has told me how I can defeat a berserker, I will kill Varg, and wipe from my family's name the blot that is my father's unavenged death. I swear by Thor that this is what I will do.'

Then she turned to Gunnholm.

'Gunnholm,' she said. 'Tell me. How can I defeat a berserker? Is there a way?'

Aware of the eyes of all upon him, Gunnholm looked at his feet.

'There is a way,' he muttered sullenly. 'But I can't tell you.'

Inghen took a step closer, her eyes flashing dangerously.

'What do you mean?' she demanded. 'Why can't you tell me?'

Gunnholm shrugged. 'I swore an oath, too,' he replied. '"Never to flee from fire or iron; never to speak of the secrets of our craft."'

'Secrets?' snapped Thorir. 'What secrets?'

'Aye,' rumbled Bjorn, puzzled. 'All you berserkers do is go mad in battle and kill everyone in your path.' He shrugged. 'I do that myself, sometimes. I've never been able to see what's so special about it.'

'No,' said Gunnholm inarticulately. 'No,' he repeated.

'What are you talking about?' demanded Inghen. 'What do you mean, no?'

The berserker scowled.

'Going berserk isn't just battle-madness,' he muttered in irritation. 'Not everyone can do it. There's an art to it. It's magic.'

'But isn't there a way of countering the magic?' Inghen asked.

'I heard a story once where a hero went against a berserker,' Bjorn said thoughtfully. 'And he covered his sword up until he got in the duel with him - no, that was it, he had two swords, and the berserker blunted the first one with his evil eyes, just blunted it by looking at it. But then the hero whipped out this other sword and killed him. You could do that, Inghen.'

'Would that work?' Inghen asked, gazing intently at Gunnholm. 'Is that the way?'

Gunnholm shrugged impatiently. 'It's not like that,' he grunted. 'Not like that at all. The storytellers made that up because they don't know the truth. It's something else. But I can't tell you.'