Night of the Berserkers

2. Tristan

2

Tristan

I rose, sword in hand, swiping it overhead to drive off the cawing ravens. An endless battlefield stretched from where I stood, stinking of death and blood. My warrior brothers lay around me, faces dirty, armor smeared red, weapons clasped in still hands. I walked through the field of the fallen, pausing when a desperate gasping rose from one at my feet. A warrior lay in the mud, his guts spilling from the gaping wound in his stomach. He was dying, choking on his own blood. Wide, pain-filled eyes pleaded with me. My lips moving in a forgotten prayer, I thrust my sword downward and ended his struggle. I stood there for a moment, keeping the crows off him. His face, young and bloodied and framed with light blond hair, was familiar, but try as I might, I could not remember his name.

In my dreams, I marched on, until I could bear the sight of the dead no more. I ran, seeking the dark forest on the edge of the field. I entered a thicket, hacking with my sword as briars tore at my face. When I broke from the bracken, a silvery light beckoned me through the trees. A woman’s voice was calling my name.

Tristan, Tristan. The high, sweet tone was so familiar.

The shadows parted, moonlight glimmering off a woodland pool. A woman turned, white gold hair crackling around her face, and I had an answer to my prayers.

I woke hard, the woman’s voice echoing in my head. I kept my eyes closed, trying to conjure her face, but, like the dream, the scene with the woodland pool and still, silvery moonlight, she had slipped away.

Men’s voices murmured in the barracks. Someone was telling a story. Lars probably. He finished, and the others laughed.

I sat up, reaching for my weapon and my helm, feeling relief. I was alive, along with many of my warrior brothers. But as I moved from my bunk to join them in breaking our fast, I still smelled the sick scent from my dreams and heard the buzz of flies, feasting on the dead.