Midnight Sun

Wulfhere stood waiting at the entrance to the caverns. Waiting for two things to happen in succession. First for the sun to go down below the horizon, so the light that the blood suckers feared would be extinguished from the sky. Then for the creatures to come shambling from their hiding places.

Will this work, was the thought that kept running through his mind.  He had spent most of the day working on this plan.  Everything he could think of he had done, but that didn’t mean he had thought of everything. This would either work, or he and his men would fight their last stand on this Gods foresaken island, to possibly rise again as undead, but surely to never reach Vahalla.

The Viking was as prepared as he could be. He had left his helm and shirt of scale back at the wrecked ship, not wanting to be weighed down by them in case he had underestimated the speed of the creatures. The sword passed down to him by his father, carried by his grandfather and great-grandfather in battle before him, was in his hand. He refused to leave it behind, in case his dying still offered an opportunity to enter Valhalla. Without his sword he could not prove to Heimdall, the guardian of Bifrost, that he was a true warrior, and so enter the halls of Odin.

“Odin, grant me strength,” he muttered at the thought of the God.  Surely the All Father could not condone the existence of creatures such as these, and would help his true sons to strike them down. Surely, for these must be creatures of Loki, whom all the Gods justly hated.

The sound of feet scuffing rock came to his ears.  The twittering as of bats, or some other rodent, followed. They were on the move, as the globe of the sun sank below the horizon, moving through the caves under the hill that provided them with shelter. Their instincts must have told them of the approach of night. Would they be as strong at the approach of day?

The first appeared in the cavern mouth, its nostrils expanding as it tested the air. It stopped and looked at the man before it with red glowing eyes, as if confused at the foolhardy behavior of its prey. Long fangs gleamed in its mouth. The rags of clothes were draped upon its form. One of the original monsters, surmised Wulfhere, and not one of his risen men. 

It shuffled forward as another monster bumped it from behind. This was also an original, one of those who dwelt here before the coming of the Vikings. The next two were not, and Wulfhere shuddered as he looked into the faces of those who had been his companions, who had been drained of their blood and forced to a nightmare existence as one of the vampires. One wore the shirt and breeches he had on when killed on the first night. The other wore a scale hauberk that had not protected him on the second, when they had tried to fight off the monsters with fire, and found it just as ineffective as swords and axes.

Wulfhere started walking backwards as the creatures came on from the cavern. They looked wary as they checked their flanks, expecting some kind of attack. When they saw none the leader opened its mouth and let loose a high pitched rattling scream, its arms outstretched as it came after the living man before it, its food. 

Wulfhere turned and started to lead them, keeping to a jog as the creatures came behind him. So far they were not moving very fast. The slower the better, he thought. The more time it took them to reach the other survivors, the more chance of success.

After a couple of hundred yards the creatures attitude changed, their primitive senses telling them that this night was different. They scanned the twilight that was the closest this night would get to darkness. Howling like a pack of wolves, they ran toward the Viking, as fast as their legs would carry them. Not as fast as a man in his prime, such as the Viking leader, but fast enough.

Wulfhere sped before them, arms pumping as his booted feet slapped the soggy ground. He had always been reckoned as fast among his people, and he was thankful that his speed hadn’t completely disappeared with his youth. The Viking had to slow his pace as he approached the halfway point, so the creatures would stay close enough behind him to keep the scent of living blood fresh in their noses. So their hunger would override their survival instincts.