Fantasy Viking
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“I can’t tell you how relieved I am to see that we’re alive.”
“The gods must be with us,” Sigurd replied, and he meant it. He felt as if they were in the palm of the gods’ hands this day. “We need their help again today.” They stood on a hillock looking down over what had once been the village of Haith before the Vikings had arrived and burned every last building to the ground.
The sun was rising behind them in full glory, casting a shadow over all the land below, but Sigurd did not look at the light or feel its warmth; instead, he looked into the eyes of his warriors who’d come to him for help.
They needed reassurance from him more than any other man could ever give them. It was the burden of leadership and it weighed heavy on him like an old sword belt, one he knew would eventually break under the strain of his weight and lead him to his death.
But not yet. Not this moment. Because right now he was still standing and so too were they. If Sigurd had learned anything from his father’s death, it was that leadership came only after years of experience and failure, and it would always come at great cost. His friends were here because the gods had given him strength and he hoped that some good would come out of it someday.
The gods are cruel, he thought. They gave me my strength for nothing but then took it away when I had no use for it.
“How many men did they bring?” Sigurd asked.
Gudrid shrugged and answered simply, “A few.”
Sigurd nodded at Gunnar who’d spoken next, saying, “And they say there is more coming along the road.”
“That’s impossible,” Gorm said. “If they’ve found another group of Norsemen, it will be hard to miss them; we’ll hear them long before they come within sight.”
It was true. Even as Sigurd spoke he heard something moving through the forest beyond the hills they were sitting upon, but even if he had not noticed it, his senses would have told him the same thing: the sound of a horse’s hooves hitting soft earth.
There was no mistaking the clatter. That much was certain. As soon as the noise reached their ears, he knew the enemy had already been here, which meant his men needed more help than they’d first thought. And more help always meant greater risk.
Yet they had no choice; they could not turn back nor could they let their enemies take Haith again unopposed. So they watched the horses go by without saying a word. Then Sigurd turned to face his warriors and said, “Let us fight these bastards. We cannot lose our home again.”
He raised his hand and they cheered and roared like bears in the woods as they leaped to their feet in unison and charged down toward the trees below.
The Vikings’ charge was swift and decisive. They moved as a pack of wolves against prey who had no idea what they were up against until it was too late. Sigurd ran beside his shield-bearer and shouted encouragement to his men as they raced across the hills in search of their foes; it made no difference though—not to him and not to the enemy they encountered halfway between the hills and Haith.
As the Vikings drew closer, three of the mounted men turned to face them and spurred their steeds forward. The others scattered in different directions as if to draw off any surprise arrows they might have aimed at the attackers. In that instant, Sigurd’s heart sank; those riders had seen them coming. And now they had to kill those men who’d fought so hard for them.
But as the warriors neared the mounted men, their mood changed dramatically. Instead of fleeing, the other three galloped toward the Vikings to engage them directly, leaving the two who remained to watch their backs. It was as if they wanted Sigurd and his men to think they’d gone unnoticed.
“Don’t fall for that trick!” Sigurd shouted to his men as they closed in. “Keep your shields high and do not stop until we’ve killed them all.”
“Shield wall!” Sigurd called to his men. His voice echoed across the open field and the enemy heard it too. All eyes were fixed on Sigurd and his shield wall, which he knew would be impenetrable to anyone but a single arrow fired from the flank. A single arrow was all it would take to defeat them and he knew his men knew it, too.
“Now!” Sigurd yelled as the riders neared, and with one final shout from himself and his comrades, they charged in as one.
***
I don’t want to die here, he thought as he felt the hot sun beating down on his back. He tried to ignore the sting of sweat that dripped into his eyes or the dull pain that radiated throughout his body, and he focused instead on the enemy ahead of him. If he could just hold out for another ten minutes, maybe an hour at best, he would be saved.
He knew this man; he’d killed him before. But this time he wasn’t alone; he still had an axe-wielding companion and a bowman shooting from the side. That left only a single man who stood before him. Not even Sigurd would try to block him.
He wouldn’t have dared. The man was strong and powerful. More important, he was fearless. The fool! What did he expect? Did he think he was better than the rest of us or that he could stand against me? No; no more thoughts. Just action.
His opponent lunged at him from his right, swinging his ax down in a great arc. He was fast. Swift. Strong. Like all of them, really. The only way to beat him was to move faster; hit harder; make fewer mistakes.
But Sigurd hadn’t expected the enemy to rush him headfirst in a straight line; he’d anticipated an attack on his left. As his attacker approached, Sigurd dropped his shield onto the ground behind him, then spun around and slammed the flat of his spear into the man’s gut.
It took some doing, but he managed to shove the point in deep enough to break a rib or two and force the warrior to drop his weapon.
Then Sigurd pulled it free and twisted the blade around so that it dug its length into the man’s belly and cut upward under his armpit as he swung around to strike at his enemy once more. With his free hand, Sigurd slapped his sword against his shield to knock the blood off the hilt and thrust the point forward, catching the man on his left side above the elbow as he passed by.
“Berserk!” he cursed when the man fell away screaming and writhing on the ground.
He stepped over the dying man to see how his other opponent fared. As he did, his eye caught sight of the bowman. The man stood well back from his companions and loosed another arrow into the air as he watched Sigurd approach. It landed somewhere to the right and Sigurd saw no reason not to believe that it would go far enough.
So he threw his sword away again and grabbed his dagger and held it out like a shield. The arrow flew, and just as planned, it struck the edge of his dagger, sending it spinning out of control. Without pause, Sigurd rushed at the bowman and slammed his foot into the man’s chest, and drove him backward into a low stone wall.
As he fell back, Sigurd reached down with both hands and gripped the arrow shafts. One in each palm, he used them as leverage and rammed the arrows up under the man’s arms, pinning them in place, then drew back and plunged them into his heart and groin as he died.
And suddenly there was no need for him to worry about these men anymore.
Sigurd turned to find that he’d drawn his attention back to the other rider whose ax had found a home in the center of his chest. Blood poured out of his mouth and his eyes bulged in their sockets as he stared at the tip of his weapon as though expecting it to disappear.
His legs buckled beneath him and he toppled to the side. Sigurd’s gaze moved farther to the left where a woman lay curled into a ball next to the dead horse.
She’d taken an arrow, but she didn’t look hurt.
Not good enough, I suppose, Sigurd thought as he kicked the ax out from under the dead man’s leg and snatched up his own weapon. “Kill the other riders first!” he yelled, trying to sound like an avenging god rather than a frightened boy with an angry father waiting on him. “You’re mine now!”
As the enemy drew near, Sigurd ducked behind a rock and waited for an opening. And as the last of the riders drew near, Sigurd’s eyes widened at the man’s size; he was huge! The fellow must have been three times larger than any of the others. But that was fine. It gave him room to swing.
The big man charged into combat with a roar and Sigurd’s fear vanished in an instant as the fight began. In a flurry of strikes, punches, and kicks, Sigurd’s enemy pushed his smaller enemy back toward the trees. A moment later, Sigurd felt the point of a blade sink into his thigh; he looked down to see a wicked knife protruding from below his hip bone. But he was too busy fighting to feel it.
It took all my strength to push him off,” I said when we were through. He was stronger.”
“Well, that’s what you get when you choose the smallest one,” I said and Sigurd laughed.
“I’ll be sure not to do that again.”
They rode back to the camp with only the faintest of injuries and no deaths.
“That was some show, lad!” Harald said as they entered the clearing. All the men sat around fires, drinking ale and telling stories. They were all grinning at him and he felt embarrassed until Olaf pointed to Sigurd and said, “Look at this little runt who made us pay for it!” And everyone roared again, including the boys.
Olaf’s face was bright red and he clapped Sigurd on the shoulder. “Now let me give you the best advice I can. You are going to have to learn a few things if you plan to stay at my hall. I don’t mind teaching you anything you need to know, as long as you work hard enough.”
“Thank you, sir!” Sigurd said, feeling pride rise in his throat.
A sudden silence descended upon them. Everyone looked around confused then Ilsør called out from behind his shield wall, “What was that?”
Olaf looked up and shook his head. “Nothing.”
“We heard you say something, Olaf,” a man named Rolfson called.
“Oh. Nothing,” Olaf said again. Then he added, “Well, maybe something.”
There was more muttering as they debated the meaning of Olaf’s remark.
Olaf glanced at Sigurd and smiled. “Don’t worry, lad. This is a good bunch here.”
***
The gods grant me the strength to kill my enemy.
–Old Norse Saga, chapter 24
Frigg knew the gods were angry and she could see why. They wanted Ragnarök right here. But it wasn’t to be. That much Frigg did know, though her knowledge came by way of Freyja whom she had met that day. She also knew that if Odin was going to lose, he would want to lose with as many people as possible watching. So she put herself forward.
She stood before Odin in Valhalla and looked out over the throng of gods. Her hair was tied back tight so that nothing could hide its silver color or the fact that she wore a crown of gold. The gods’ eyes were wide with fear and their faces pale despite their armor and jewels. Their eyes fixed on the battlements where the giants were advancing against the wall of spears.
“Why are you showing yourself to us?” Odin asked.
“To warn you that I am coming for you,” Frigg said, speaking in the tongue of the Æsir and not the language of men.
Odin looked at Frigg for a long moment, then turned away without answering. Frigga followed his gaze and saw Freyja standing behind him; it seemed her sister goddess was always there lately. Frigg sighed and returned her attention to the giants, who were now only forty yards from the wall of spears.
The giant chief raised his arm and threw a spear; it struck true and pierced Gorm, who had just started to draw steel from his belt. He fell dead and his death was soon followed by others.
“What does that mean?” Odin muttered.
“You will pay for your arrogance,” Frigg said in the same language. “And I promise you it won’t go unpunished.”
The gods stared at Frigg. Many looked at her with hatred but most looked afraid and she thought she might have seen the slightest hint of hope in some of their eyes. For those few, Frigg hoped the gods could find some sort of peace. For those who deserved it, she promised a swift death.
Then the giant army broke past the first line of spears and ran toward the gate to Asgard.
Odin turned back to Frigg. “This doesn’t look like Ragnarök! What gives?”
“Because you lost.”
Odin scowled and said, “No one loses Ragnarök.”
“Ragnarök is not about winning, Father,” Frigga said.
Everyone turned to stare at her, including Frigg, who looked at her sister in confusion.
“I told you not to call me that!” Frigga shouted and turned away again, which caused Frigg to smile. It reminded her of how they used to argue as children. “It’s Frigg,” she said quietly.
She watched as the giants reached the gate, which was now guarded only by Thor and Odin. As one, they drew steel and waited. The warriors from both sides stared across the thirty-foot gap at each other, waiting to see who would move first.
At last, Loki appeared on the battlefield, carrying a white cloak under his arm and looking none too happy. His hair was still wet from washing. And he was wearing his old green robe. Frigga wondered whether anyone remembered Loki’s oath.
As he stepped to the edge of the wall, Loki lifted the cloak above his head. All the eyes turned to him and everyone held their breath. Then suddenly the sky opened up and Loki threw the cloak into the air. It flew through the open air in a perfect circle and landed directly on Frigga’s head.
She felt a sudden shock, and then an icy chill spread down her spine. She looked around and all her friends had frozen in place. Even Odin stopped breathing for a moment.
All Frigga could think was that Loki had betrayed them once more. She turned toward him but he kept walking until he stood next to Odin. “Didn’t I tell you to wear a helmet?” Frigga whispered, knowing no one could hear her because everyone remained frozen.
He smiled. “Not this time, sister.”
“Do you think you’re funny?” Frigga growled as she lifted her shield onto her left shoulder. “Tell me what you have planned so Odin and I can stop it.”
Loki shrugged. “We will do our best to give you some warning before we begin,” he said and then turned and walked to the gate. He paused there, looking up at it and saying, “But that depends on your ability to understand the language of my words.”
Then he entered the gates.
The End