Berserker Series, Book 1 Page 5

  Ketil, on the other hand, was a distinctly handsome man and young. He stood over six feet tall, with a mustache and blond hair he kept slicked back with pomade. He wore a well-cut suit from Oslo, and was forever fiddling with a gold pocket watch the Baron had given him. He walked with a long-limbed jangle that spoke of confidence.

  Dismounting his horse, Ketil winked at several young peasant girls. They tittered in response.

  Rolf sighed as he brushed off his suit. He very much wished Ketil had not been assigned to accompany him on this investigation.

  News of the massacre had reached the Baron’s estate at Gamlehaugen by telegraph. The Baron Fjelstad was well connected with the local authorities and paid for tips such as this one—a vicious murder with multiple victims.

  Awake before Fjelstad or any of his business associates or secretaries, Rolf had been downing some smoked herring and brown bread for breakfast. He had hoped to retreat to the library before being interrupted.

  Only the day before, Rolf had received the rubbings from a rune-stone grave marker discovered near the Lofoten Islands. The runes praised the man buried beneath, describing him as a warrior able to rip apart churches in his search for gold. This could well be a description of the rarest type of Nytteson, a Ransacker. Any new information about them was a valuable boon.

  Rolf was impatient to begin building a framework for interpretation of the runes; his mind had been on the work ahead of him when a footman entered, his livery askew in the rush of being summoned so early in the morning. He told Rolf he was needed in the Baron’s drawing room.

  Rolf had stifled the groan he felt building. Fjelstad frequently sent Rolf afield to investigate people who might be Nytteson. Rolf had crossed Europe dozens of time in the past twenty years, searching out people rumored to be exceptionally good with wood or investigating reports of odd weather patterns that might be the work of a Storm-Rend. Fjelstad even sent him to carnivals, hoping to spot Oar-Breakers performing as strongmen.

  Over those twenty years, Rolf had found only two dozen of the Nytteson. Of those, only three females. The gift was dying out. This was why the Baron Fjelstad offered every Nytteson Rolf was able to locate a good job at the estate at Gamlehaugen. In a way, Fjelstad collected Nytteson, that they might be protected.

  Fjelstad had been waiting in his study with several of his assistants, including Ketil. Fjelstad informed Rolf that there had been a triple murder in the small town of Øystese, and that the man who’d done the killing was said to be a carpenter of local renown, who had been shot dead during the fight.

  “I’d like you to go today,” Fjelstad had said. “Right away. If you hurry, you might get there before they remove the bodies.”

  “I will go, of course,” Rolf had said.

  The Baron must have heard some resignation in his voice because he’d looked up, a twinkle in his eye. “Yes, old friend, I know you’re eager to hide away with your new pressings.

  “I realize that you view the recruitment of Nytteson as a chore. And that is why you will take with you young Ketil here! He’s been working at my estate in Greenland, and I feel this would be a suitable assignment for him.”

  Ketil had given Rolf a wink, which Rolf had done his best to ignore.

  Rolf’s first impression had been that Ketil was too cocky and impatient for the assignment. It was a job that required not only detective work but humility and empathy. Finding a Nytteson was one thing; persuading him to meet the Baron was another. Rolf knew the teenagers he recruited were scared. He offered them reassurance and the promise of knowledge and training.

  Ketil was a showy man, a vain man, and as far as Rolf could tell, did not respect the importance of the job. But Rolf had taken him along to appease Fjelstad. If nothing else, Rolf could teach Ketil more about the different kinds of Nytte they might encounter. All who served the Baron needed this knowledge.

  * * *

  “GOOD MORNING,” Rolf said as he and Ketil approached one of the constables clearly charged with keeping an eye on the crowd. “We have been sent by the Baron Fjelstad. He was concerned about the news. May we speak to the chief constable?”

  The young officer crossed his arms. “No one may pass through. I have orders.”

  “Ah yes,” Rolf said, and Ketil tried to jump in, but Rolf continued on. “But perhaps you would let us in. The Baron has an interest in seeing peace observed in the towns near his estate.”

  The officer shook his head. Ketil reached forward to straighten the lapels of the man’s uniform, and flashed him sight of the fifty-kroner note he had concealed in his palm. Ketil gave the man a small, conspiratorial nod.

  “You can arrange it, can’t you?” Ketil asked. “A man of your standing? The truth is, we don’t need to speak to the constable, only to get a quick peek at the bodies.”

  The young officer gulped. Fifty kroner was more than a month’s salary for him. Nearly double a month’s salary.

  “The Baron wants to make sure it’s no one he knows,” Ketil whispered. Then again he winked.

  “Hmmm. Very well,” the officer said loudly, for the benefit of the townsfolk. “I understand the Baron’s concerns. Especially due to the nature of these murders. You may proceed.”

  Ketil shook the officer’s hand and pressed the folded bill into it. The officer motioned inside, to two colleagues taking notes and measurements, and summoned them out so Rolf and Ketil had the barn, and its sad, dead inhabitants, to themselves.

  Taking in the scene of the slaughter, a fragment of a poem Rolf had been working on translating came to mind. He spoke the words aloud, first in Old Norse, then in Norwegian: “Fields drink blood / Crops are slaughtered / But in Valhalla souls feast.”

  Rolf had meant it to be a solemn observation, but Ketil nodded and laughed. “I like it.”

  Ketil leaned over the body of a large man, who’d been beheaded, the ax stuck fast into the packed earth. “It’s a Berserker who did this. No doubt at all. We’ve got a Berserker here!”

  Rolf agreed, though he did not care to comment. He had seen the killing work of a Berserker before, but that did not make him any less queasy seeing it now.

  “Ax work,” Ketil went on. “Not very tidy, but an effective blow. I put our boy at twenty if not older.”

  Rolf paced the distance between the ax-murdered corpse and the next one, who lay curled on his side. From what Rolf could see, he’d been cut at the throat.

  “What?” Ketil said. “What do you see?”

  “I just wondered why the Berserker wouldn’t have pulled the ax out to kill this man,” Rolf said. “I think he’s younger. Lacking in strength.”

  The third body lay close to the back wall.

  “He broke this one’s neck very cleanly,” Ketil said. “I’d say he’s plenty strong.”

  Rolf looked at the way the straw had been kicked at on the ground. The rake handle had gouged and scraped the walls and in one place, poked clean through. There had been at least a moment of struggle.

  But Rolf kept his tongue. He hardly needed to win an argument with Ketil. The young man seemed to hate being wrong.

  “You’re right,” Rolf said. “At least twenty. And strong.”

  “The Baron will be pleased. A new Berserker, right here in Southern Bergenhus County.” Ketil looked around the barn with a satisfied grin. Rolf had never met a man so comfortable with the results of slaughter.

  Rolf stopped to examine the last corpse. He was badly gut-shot.

  “He might not be so happy to learn there was a Shipwright here all this time,” Rolf said, taking in the sight of the man’s fingerless hand pressed into the gore at his belly. “Poor soul. If we had heard of him earlier, we could have helped him.”

  Ketil looked down at the dead Shipwright.

  “I’ve never seen one so old,” Ketil said. “He must be near forty. Look at how he’s rotted away. Didn’t have a finger to scratch his ass. And those idiots outside believe he killed these men?” Ketil indicated the corpses with his chin. “
How stupid.”

  “Who knows what they will figure out,” Rolf said. “We know it was a Berserker who killed these men. And we must find him.”

  * * *

  OUT IN THE COURTYARD, Ketil nodded to the young officer, who then began issuing orders to the other men to finish their measurements so the bodies could be carted away.

  Ketil made a move toward their horses, but Rolf walked toward the villagers.

  “We should get back and report the news,” Ketil said.

  “I’d like to see if I can find out any more information,” Rolf said.

  “Good idea,” Ketil admitted. Rolf rolled his eyes, but out of Ketil’s view.

  Rolf walked near a small group of women but then turned out to face the courtyard, as if he’d decided to watch the proceedings. Ketil came to stand near his side.

  Ketil started to speak, but Rolf held up his hand unobtrusively—Wait. The townswomen had seen him and Ketil arrive. Their natural curiosity would bring them to ask the men what they’d seen.

  But Ketil did not wait.

  “Good afternoon, my lady,” he said, addressing the tallest of the three, a woman with an expression like she’d smelled bad cheese. “And what a lovely apron you are wearing. Who did the embroidery?”

  The woman boggled at him.

  “I say, I did it myself! Who else would do it?” She was nearly indignant from having been complimented. She looked to her friends, and the three of them frowned in the same way, deciding whether or not to move away.

  A little boy sat on the fence next to the women, clearly interested in the men.

  “Ah, so sad,” Rolf said. “What we saw inside…”

  The tall woman could not withstand the bait. “They say it’s three bodies in there. Is that so?”

  Rolf shook his head and sighed. “I’m afraid it was four.”

  “Not counting Amund, I meant,” said the woman.

  “Do you know who they are? The others?” asked another of the women. She was pregnant and had a lazy eye, which was looking so far back into her head it showed all white. “We know Nils Paulsen never came home last night. Was he one of them? And he was out with Little Black Berg, a crook from Oslo.”

  “They’d all been drinking,” added the third woman, who was young and plump. She smiled shyly at Ketil.

  He grinned back. He was obnoxiously good looking, Rolf decided.

  “We don’t know the men,” Ketil said. “But we’re from Baron Fjelstad’s household, so we don’t know all the townspeople in these parts.”

  The women’s eyes widened. They were impressed. Now Ketil was in his element.

  “How did the Baron come to hear about the murders?” one of them asked.

  “He takes an interest in all the goings-on in his county,” Ketil said.

  “Did the farmer Amund have children?” Rolf asked, but was ignored.

  “Oh, what is the world coming to, that we should suffer such crimes here, in Øystese,” moaned the woman with the lazy eye.

  “It is a terrible shame.” Ketil sighed. The plump woman sighed, too. She was watching Ketil’s mouth with a hungry air.

  “Amund had children, I suppose?” Rolf asked.

  Ketil and the women ignored his question.

  “What’s he like, the Baron?” the young girl asked.

  “I’ll tell you, he throws great, grand parties,” Ketil said. He leaned against the railing, and the women drew closer.

  Rolf walked away, trying to hide his displeasure. He would find out the information they needed so that they could get back to Gamlehaugen.

  Rolf closed his eyes and placed his hand on the rune stone he kept in his pocket. A small, round stone, inscribed with the rune for Odin. The stone had changed the course of his life.

  “There’s four of them,” piped up a small voice. A hand tugged at the hem of Rolf’s coat. “Amund had four children.”

  It was the boy who had been listening in on the conversation at the fence. He was barefoot and kept placing one foot up on his thin calf, to warm it, then hopping to the other. Rolf dug into his pocket and brought out a krone. “This is for you if you can tell me their names and ages.”

  And Rolf learned that Stieg was the oldest at eighteen; then came Hanne, Knut, and Sissel, all spaced neatly, two years apart.

  Rolf tossed the coin to the child. He caught it handily. The boy’s grin nearly cracked his little, dirty face in two.

  “I’ve got another if you have any idea where they might have gone,” Rolf said.

  The boy’s face fell. “I couldn’t imagine,” he said.

  Rolf smiled at the boy. He tousled his hair.

  Rolf’s mind began to play out what might happen next. He would report his findings to Fjelstad. He would want to send Rolf after the Berserker, especially since the Berserker had sisters. Girls with the Nytte—Nyttesdotters—were more rare and thus more important than boys. The Baron would want to ascertain if any of the girls had the Nytte.

  But he thought of the rubbing of the rune stone waiting at Gamlehaugen. Perhaps Rolf could bow out and let Ketil take the trip. The children would probably head to the home of their nearest relative.

  Rolf was lost in thoughts about how Fjelstad might take the news of the Berserker in their midst when the boy interrupted him again.

  “Oh, sir,” the child said, tugging on Rolf’s coat. “I was thinking … Stieg was leaving tomorrow for America. So maybe he took them all with him.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Owen had been in a saloon before, but this was his first time drinking. When they’d walked in, Owen hadn’t wanted to partake, but Mandry had insisted they all have a drink together to celebrate a successful drive. Mandry had kept his gaze leveled at Owen, and it felt almost like a dare. Then Owen had a shot of whiskey in his hand and that was that.

  The Bennett ranch was run bone dry. There was not a bottle of spirits to be found on the place, even for medicinal purposes. Mrs. Bennett liked to claim the victory for this, but it was the cook, Lucy, who made it clear drinking would not be tolerated. If Lucy smelled whiskey on the breath of a ranch hand come mealtime, he would not get fed. It was as simple as that.

  The whiskey, Owen discovered, burned like blazes going down, but once the fire of it hit his gut, he rather liked the feeling. In fact he very much enjoyed the feeling. He found himself chatty and confident, being warm and easily social—the way he’d always wanted to be.

  Mandry had given Owen his pay, thirty dollars for the month’s work. Owen slapped a dollar down on the bar. That bought him plenty more shots of the stuff.

  Owen started telling Old Eben and Billy, who was still sipping his first glass of whiskey, about his plans to breed cattle dogs. He gestured to Daisy, who they could see on the boardwalk outside the door, staying right where he’d told her to stay.

  “She’s a good dog. Oh, she’s a beauty,” Owen said loudly. “Let’s drink to Daisy, everyone! How much is it, bartender, to buy a round of drinks? ’Cause we should drink to my dog. She’s saved my life plenty of times, there’s no doubt about it!”

  “Hold your pouring arm,” Hoakes told the barkeep. “My young friend’s had enough to drink now.”

  “But, Hoakes, look at her, just lying there waiting. We gotta drink to her!”

  “Say, bud,” said a short man Owen didn’t know. He was chewing on the end of a cigar. “You in the mood for a game of cards?”

  “Mebbe,” Owen said. “I’m a pretty good hand at whist.”

  The man found that pretty funny and laughed so hard he had to excuse himself. Hoakes shooed him off.

  “Well, I know he meant poker,” Owen told Hoakes. “I was saying I’m awful good at whist so I’d probably be good at poker.”

  “You know, Owen, some cowboys blow their wages pretty quick right out of the saddle. What say you and I head back to the boardinghouse. You’ve had a good share of fun now.”

  “Aw no, Hoakes. Hey, you should sing a song! Hear the piano playing? Come on, Hoakes, sing for t
he people. They’re not as pretty as the beefs, but they likely won’t stampede.” Owen thought that was a pretty funny one. Old Eben and Billy gave a good laugh, but Hoakes tried to steer Owen out the door.

  Owen’s legs weren’t working the way he was accustomed to. His feet seemed distant and his legs pleasantly numb. The floor was covered in sawdust, set down to absorb chaw spit and spilled liquor. His feet slid on it.

  He was surprised to find Hoakes’s arm supporting him.

  Hoakes led Owen toward the door, but Owen stumbled and careened into Whistler. Whistler’s whiskey splashed down on his boots, and he straightened up, angry.

  “Bennett! You did that on purpose.”

  Whistler grabbed Owen by the front of his shirt and pulled him up to his face. Whistler’s breath stank of drink and mutton. He looked like he was going to hit Owen, but then he laughed.

  Outside the door, Daisy began to bark. She couldn’t see through the steamed-up windows, but she could sense Owen’s distress.

  “Can’t hold your drink, none, can you? Ha! Mandry, he’s half Indian, like I said!”

  “Shut up, Whistler! Don’t harry the boy!” Hoakes said. Hoakes pulled Owen away and headed him again toward the exit.

  “He ain’t half Indian, he’s half Irish,” Mandry said, and spat a stream of tobacco juice on the floor. “I heard it from his older brother. That boy’s Bennett’s bastard, got on an Irish housemaid!”

  It took a moment for Owen to parse the sentence; his brain was all fogged up by the liquor. Mandry smiled at him. Took a sip of whiskey, and then Owen swung.

  Mandry neatly ducked the first blow, and punched Owen twice in rapid succession. Then Owen got one good punch in, a heavy blow to Mandry’s kidneys, but Whistler got into the fight and Owen went down. Whistler had kicked him three times—“Dirty.” “Irish.” “Bastard.”—before Hoakes and the bartender could pull him off.

  * * *

  WHEN OWEN OPENED his eyes, the first thing he saw was Daisy’s pink tongue. It was broad daylight, and he was laid out on the wooden walkway, close to a building. Daisy wriggled with joy, seeing Owen responsive. She licked him all over his face.