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calculate how much the odds favored the muties.
The first wave of attackers had taken a dreadful toll among the Norsemen.
Other than Jorund, fewer than ten warriors including Erik Stonebiter and
Sigurd
Harefoot gathered in the bow of the long ship to stand against at least thirty
muties, who were mostly toward the stern. The muties controlled all the deck
area around the mainmast.
Ryan wished he'd been able to snatch up his rifle as well as the pistol. The
cache of their blasters had been his first target when the boats came ramming
in. He would have put the Heckler & Koch on full-auto and sprayed the living
hell out of
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the cluster of attackers.
But Ryan had never found spilled milk much worth thinking about. Let alone
crying over.
The muties started to edge toward them, grinning confidently, when Sigurd
Harefoot, crooning a wordless chant to himself, began to remove his clothes.
"Fireblast!" Ryan exclaimed. "What the "
"He goes baresark," Erik said at his side. "The frenzy of battle takes over
the spirit of a warrior and he fights naked against the foe."
"Berserk," J.B. echoed. "Heard of it. Best stop him, or they'll cut him down."
The young Viking turned to grin through the blood that masked his face. "He
would cut down any man who tried to stop him. He does what he must."
Mildred had dropped agilely to the deck once more. "He ain't just talking,"
she said.
Sigurd had built himself into a frothing anger, and he whirled his ax above
his head. He had cast aside the horned helmet he'd been wearing and began to
shuffle toward the muties, wearing only his high, laced boots. His chant had
become a wild shriek of surging rage. Ryan saw one of the muties at the back
of the crowd frantically trying to cock an antiquated crossbow. He leveled the
pistol, but Erik gently pushed it down with the tip of his sword. "No. No man
must aid a baresarker."
Nobody told Jak that. Invisible to the muties, the boy had suddenly come
creeping up over the side of the ship, his lank hair dripping lake water. He
saw the man readying the crossbow and reached for one of his own slim
throwing-knives.
Gripping it underhanded by the hilt, he aimed it with a lightning flick of the
wrist.
It parted the misty air and struck the mutie in the side of the throat, its
blood spurting like crimson steam from the wound. The creature slid wordlessly
to the
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deck, the weapon falling from limp fingers.
Sigurd didn't see it. Ryan doubted if the man could see anything at all,
suspecting that the insides of his eyes were now coated red with insane,
bloody rage.
"Ooooooooodin!"
If Ryan had been forced to face the charging man with a blaster, he'd have put
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six rounds through his head, just to be certain. If he'd only had a panga in
his hand, then he might well have dived for the water.
Several of the muties were of the same opinion as Ryan.
Out of the corner of his eye, Ryan thought he glimpsed Doc trying to scramble
over the side of the dragon-ship. When half a dozen of the attackers leaped
for their lives, they knocked him back into the lake.
The berserker was magnificent. But he was also doomed.
Prevented from helping him by their own rules of combat, the rest of the
Vikings could only watch as Sigurd Harefoot trod his own path toward the
glories of
Valhalla.
He took five of the muties with him, hacking them into tatters of torn flesh
with his great war-ax. Arms, full-grown and residual, were lopped off. A head
was parted from its neck, yet its body remained upright for several ghastly
seconds, while arterial blood spurted high over the filling sail.
Once they realized that this was truly a solo charge, the muties gathered
courage and united against the single warrior. The pale flesh became blotched
with patches of smeared blood, red mouths dribbling away Sigurd's life. A long
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