Viking Tomahawk
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“I’ve got some good news for you,” the voice said. “And I know you’ll be surprised to hear it because you never get anything good.” The voice belonged to one of Ragnar’s friends from the Northland, a jovial giant who was so big his head seemed like an oversized egg perched on top of his shoulders.
He wore the traditional garb of a Norseman—thick boots that went up to his knees and were stuffed with animal fat for warmth, a short-sleeved wool tunic over a heavy leather jerkin, and a fur cloak.
His long hair hung down past his waist and was tied back in a ponytail at the base of his skull by a braided cord, revealing the thick beard of a man many years past middle age. A large white raven perched on his shoulder, preening its feathers as though to make sure they were still shiny enough.
Ragnar had just finished his first day of training under the guidance of these new warriors and now sat cross-legged in front of them, staring into their eyes. “Who is this?” he asked.
“He’s called Viking Tomahawk,” said the tall blond-haired boy, standing before him. Like Ragnar, he was dressed in similar furs as a shield wall but with a twist—he wore only a small loincloth underneath instead of trousers. It was obvious he liked the attention he got whenever he walked around like that, as he flashed a smile at the other boys, his bright blue eyes gleaming.
“You’re not really Viking Tomahawk,” Ragnar scoffed, trying to act like he did not care what the skinny kid thought about him, or who he called names behind his back. “If you were really Tomahawk, then your name wouldn’t have been changed when you left the Northland.”
As usual, the skinny blond kid’s response was immediate. “Then my parents named me wrong! And since I am right, it means you are wrong!”
This exchange between Ragnar and the skinny blond boy happened frequently, as both boys found fault with everything each other did or said. They argued often, sometimes with words and sometimes with fists, always trying to prove which was better.
But even though they fought like cat and dog, the two of them had become fast friends, and their friendship gave Ragnar hope that he could find companionship among this strange land of people unlike any he’d ever encountered.
But for all their fighting and arguing, they shared one thing: Both knew they would soon face death if they continued on their way. In fact, the next time Ragnar saw this skinny blond kid, that very night Ragnar planned to leave the place and go home. As far as Ragnar was concerned, this was one fight he didn’t plan on finishing.
It wasn’t so much his life he cared about, but rather his father’s life. This boy, Loki, had killed his father, Ulfrik the Red. When Ragnar’s mother had died during childbirth, his father took the baby girl and raised her as his own daughter and namesake, Ula. Now that she had grown into a fine woman, the king had decided to marry her off to Odin Gudridson.
Now that Ulfrik was dead and his daughter married, there would be no more excuses for staying in the Northland. If Ulfrik had stayed here, he might have become another Odin—one of Odin’s chosen few men who lived in Valhalla, a place of endless feasting and drinking.
Or perhaps he could have been a godling himself; there were plenty of them in this region and they enjoyed playing tricks on mortals, such as the trick that killed his father.
That night when Ragnar met Loki, he had seen the skinny blond kid slip away from Ulfrik’s tent where the rest of the boys slept while the guards stood to watch outside. Ragnar knew what this meant: He was going out alone at night and would surely return in worse shape than he had come. That was why Ragnar had followed him.
They had gone out together into the dark, cold forest surrounding their campsite. They hadn’t talked; both knew what they had to do.
“What are you doing?” Loki whispered as they crept along in silence. “Why don’t we just sneak out together tonight? Then we can see what the real world is like.”
“We need to separate,” Ragnar said quietly. “Otherwise someone will recognize us and think one of us killed him. If they think I did it, they might try to kill me too.”
“You can handle yourself against anyone,” said Loki. “I’ve seen you do it.”
“Maybe,” said Ragnar. “But if they think either of us killed Odin Gudridson, then they’ll come after both of us.”
When they arrived at the place where they had agreed to meet up, Loki pointed toward the forest and said, “Good luck. I’m going to head back now. I have to get back to my wife and children. I won’t be joining you in this.”
Without waiting for an answer, he slipped off into the woods. A moment later, he was lost in sight.
“Wait!” yelled Ragnar, hoping his voice wouldn’t carry across the distance. He ran toward the forest edge but stopped when he heard voices coming from within. The sounds were muffled, so Ragnar waited until the sounds faded before continuing his search.
The forest had grown lighter by then, and Ragnar moved faster through the undergrowth. His heart pounded and sweat poured down his body from exertion. Finally, he reached the spot where he and Loki had arranged to meet, and he knelt to look around for signs of footprints. There were none. He glanced into the clearing where their camp lay and saw nothing amiss.
Ragnar stood slowly and looked around again. Then something caught his eye: a patch of snow that had not melted despite the warm days of summer. It was a place where a fire once burned, and now there were only ashes and gray ash.
Suddenly, he froze, knowing he should turn back. This was dangerous ground. He had seen enough blood to last a lifetime. What if this was the same as before? What if Loki’s family came looking for him? Perhaps this was the first step toward revenge, a way to send a message back to their lord to take care of these two young killers.
But what if they had no idea who he was? How would they know they’d killed Odin Gudridson’s son? Would they come looking for revenge anyway?
He stood frozen, unsure of what to do, and that’s when his feet moved again.
He stepped into the clearing and walked to the spot where the fire had burned. He picked up a stick and stirred the ashes, watching as they sifted over and around each other. Suddenly one caught flame and flared up briefly.
Ragnar dropped his stick and ran for cover, dashing back into the woods. He heard voices coming from the clearing behind him. In seconds, men emerged, all armed with spears and swords. One called out, “Where is the firestarter?”
“Over there!” shouted another man, pointing at where Ragnar had stood moments earlier.
“Kill the bastard,” growled someone else. “Cut his throat or gut him.”
In the confusion, some thought it strange that Ragnar still lived and they began to shout questions, which grew louder as he dashed away. He had to get back to his father’s camp, and he knew exactly how to get there.
It had been years since Ragnar had run like this. Even though he was taller now and could move more quickly, it was as if his legs were leaden and full of sand. He didn’t dare stop to catch his breath; even running in a straight line he was losing time, and if they found him here, there was no telling what would happen.
Finally, Ragnar reached the outskirts of his camp, and he slowed to a walk. He felt eyes on his back, and he knew if any of them spotted him they would chase him relentlessly. So he turned to face his pursuers and let his sword fall from its sheath, drawing attention.
As expected, they followed. As soon as they reached the open area in front of the camp, Ragnar charged, swinging his blade above his head. The men scattered, and Ragnar cut down three of them before he realized he couldn’t kill every single one of them. Then he was surrounded by armed men in chain mail hauberks, and Ragnar’s chances of escape dwindled to near zero.
A warrior grabbed Ragnar and threw him to the ground. Another drew his sword, and others joined the attack, driving forward like a wave crashing upon the shore. A spear thrust toward his throat; another struck his helmeted head. The blow knocked his helm from his head and left him exposed.
He fought back, kicking and punching, using his bare hands against those who attacked without armor. He felt a blade scrape along the side of his neck and knew it would go through to his spine. He drove the attacker hard against the earth and then twisted aside, bringing both arms up in a powerful overhand punch. It struck home and sent him flying backward several yards.
More men advanced on him, their faces covered by helmets or shields. They pressed him hard, forcing him deeper and deeper into the camp. At last, he was hemmed in on three sides, and no longer was he able to fend off his attackers with brute strength alone. Two more spears stabbed toward his chest. One pierced his shoulder; the other his right leg below the knee.
But he did not stop fighting. Not yet. He slashed at his enemies’ ankles, cutting deep gashes across leather and flesh. He kicked and punched again, then dropped his sword and pulled himself free of the men around him.
He landed on his feet and rolled to put distance between himself and his foes. Blood dripped from wounds all over his body. He stumbled and fell to his knees, but a pair of hands yanked him back to his feet.
“Stand strong! Stand fast!” cried a voice.
Gunnar’s face emerged from among the men surrounding him, and Ragnar recognized the Norse leader immediately. His face showed no emotion, and he gripped his spear and held it aloft, protecting his friends while he fought for his life.
Ragnar nodded, and Gunnar grinned.
“We won’t leave you alive!” roared a man from behind Ragnar. “Kill this son of Loki!”
With that, the battle was joined once more, and in that instant, Ragnar realized his mistake. He should have known better than to fight a group of men wearing steel, even ones who were not warriors.
His enemies pushed back, and they forced him farther into the camp, away from Gunnar. Soon only two men remained, and they closed in for the kill. One raised his axe high overhead, intending to drive it into the back of Ragnar’s neck.
But just then, a spearhead buried itself in the man’s stomach. His scream echoed through the night, and the second man spun around in terror, trying to see from which direction his enemy came.
Ragnar had lost sight of Gunnar, so he did not know if his friend had survived. The spear thrust forward, and he braced himself for death. But he wasn’t ready for what happened next.
The spear was driven home.
Then Gunnar’s hand appeared and took the shaft out of the air. The weapon went sailing past his head, and Gunnar slammed his fist into the man’s face with such force that he flew backward, tumbling end over end until his skull hit the ground.
For a moment, no one moved; everyone held their breath and waited to hear what would happen next. Then they cheered, as one voice cried out: “Victory to Gunnar! Victory to the gods!”
Gunnar stood tall amid all that chaos, his face beaming. He pointed his spear at Ragnar, whose own smile spread wide in response. And as the shouts grew louder, Gunnar yelled again.
“And now,” he said. “Now we are brothers.”
The End