Viking War Hammer
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I have often heard that a Warhammer is the same as a battle-axe. I think this is incorrect. The two tools are very different and each has its own use in combat, which will be explained below. I will not belabor this point here, except to say that it is important for one to know the difference before beginning their study of the weapon.
I believe you will see this in action in the next chapter when the Norsemen come into contact with other cultures from around the world.
A Warhammer is a perfect weapon to strike the human skull without fear of breaking a bone. It is a long heavy stick and, if wielded well, can inflict considerable damage to a man’s head, neck, or face without killing him. If that wasn’t enough, it also makes an excellent club. It is also ideal for crushing bones or smashing skulls.
In a fight, the enemy must be brought to his knees quickly because he has the advantage in weight. A heavy sword is too much of a handicap when dealing with a shorter and heavier opponent wielding a heavy shield.
With the right training, one should be able to disarm the enemy using the weapon and, if they manage to get on top of him, they can easily finish him off. If the victim gets up again, a heavy blow to the head will stop him forever.
If used with skill and strength, this weapon has few equals in battle.
***
“Axe!”
The man’s scream made my skin crawl and the hair stood on the back of my neck. My mind flashed back to all the horrible things I had seen in my short time alive, including men mutilated at the hands of a vengeful woman wielding an axe, but nothing could prepare me for this.
I’d been standing guard for about thirty minutes, watching our ship’s wake from a rocky cliff above the water. It was a hot day, the sun blazing in the sky and beating down on us like a hammer. In fact, my hand was on a rock to block the sun and the sweat dripping from my face had soaked the front of my tunic and leather jerkin.
I felt dizzy and nauseous after so many hours on watch. Even though I was in good shape, my mind began to wander, and before I knew it, I heard that horrible cry.
My body reacted first and without thinking. I turned toward it and ran full tilt down the rocky ledge, my longsword in my right hand, shield on my left arm and a dagger in my fist. I was going to end that threat before anything else happened.
The man who screamed was in shock and was running around in circles. He didn’t seem to notice I was there; his focus was on the axe-wielding maniac chasing him through the forest. The woods were dark, wet, and overgrown; there was little to see in the undergrowth.
“Get up!” I yelled at the man and he came to his senses enough to look over his shoulder at me. “Get up! Now!” he screamed back.
He tried to stand but his legs collapsed beneath him. “Please help me,” he said, pleading with me. I had no choice, if I wanted to save my life I had to do something. I stepped forward, my sword raised above my head.
I had never seen such a horrific thing as he lay prone, trying to get out of her way, eyes wide in fear and terror. As much as it tore me apart inside to think about what this would mean to my own death, I had to make a decision and I chose him.
I lowered my weapon, took a step forward, and fell flat on my ass, hitting the ground hard, knocking the wind from me, and throwing up in my throat.
The man looked at me then and his expression of horror made me realize what she’d done to me. It was a face like a boiled potato, pocked and misshapen; his nose was crushed, eyes swollen shut and his tongue hanging down from the corner of his mouth.
My shield clanged loudly against my knees as I got up again, my eyes focused on the beast behind him who was closing the gap between us. The man had fallen onto a boulder and the edge caught his hair. She brought the axe around and swung for his face.
It smashed into him, shattering his cheek and his teeth, which fell from his gaping maw as she pulled her arm back and drove him back against the rock face. Her arms were moving faster now; one was wrapped around his neck and another held the blade of the axe.
There was blood all over his body from the gash in his scalp to the long scratch along the side of his face. The man had tried to defend himself and even managed to get his right arm up and block the first blow.
But the second swing, the one that broke the skin, had knocked him onto the rock and her other arm came down on top of him, trapping him, choking the breath from him. The man’s screams turned to moans and she began to lift him up into the air, her arm wrapped tightly around his neck and squeezing.
His hands clawed at the axe-wielding woman’s arm, but she seemed oblivious to his pain.
Her hair whipped over her shoulders as she lifted the man off his feet, the man screaming, “No! No!” as his legs dangled helplessly. She threw him toward me. It didn’t matter if he hit me or not. It only mattered that her attention was momentarily diverted.
I felt the rock beneath my fingers as I reached down for my dagger, but just before it left my hand, I felt a sharp pain in the small of my back and the world went black.
I was lying in a field covered in green grass. I could see some trees off in the distance through a break in the trees. The air was clear and cool. A breeze made the long blades of grass flutter gently across the ground. I couldn’t move a muscle. There wasn’t a speck of wind and there was no noise.
It took several moments for me to realize that it was a death that surrounded me; the smell of decay wafting over me, the sound of the insects chirping and buzzing. My heart raced and I fought the urge to panic as I realized I was in Hell.
“What happened?” I asked myself, hoping to hear a voice answer me. But it didn’t, not from where I lay on my deathbed. I looked at the ground, looking for any signs of life, but it was all dead. There were no flowers in bloom, not even a blade of grass to catch my interest. Not even the sound of the birds singing.
I tried to sit up and fell back on my ass. Then I got to my hands and knees, still unable to do more than wiggle my fingers and toes. There was something in front of me; a small pile of stones. I pushed on one, expecting it to collapse and send me back into my own personal Hell.
Instead, the rock stayed put and the pile didn’t fall, nor did it make any noise. As far as I could tell, this place had no sounds, which made sense, because it was supposed to be a place of torment and suffering. This was like some old burial mound.
I felt around, pushing on the pile with both hands, and found a small door built into the side. It was smooth and cool under my fingers. The only noise I heard was a tiny creak coming from inside as the wood resisted me. I opened it enough so that I could peer in, my body shaking.
Inside there were three small stone benches and a bowl in the middle of them. The bowls were all filled with water. There were candles floating in each one, making it look like they were all suspended above a pool of blood. And lying at the bottom of the pool where the bodies of the men who’d been killed by her axe-wielding hands were.
All were mutilated, and their organs were torn out. Some of the women’s clothes were missing as well, leaving bloody holes in their naked flesh. Their hair had been cut from them, but the men hadn’t been stripped. That explained why I hadn’t seen the bodies when I first looked in. They’d already been buried.
She was watching me, kneeling down beside the pool. She was beautiful, in a twisted sort of way. Her hair was jet black, long, and loose. A thick braid ran from her head to the back of her neck. But what really drew my attention was the fact that her eyes were a dark blue, like ice on the river at night.
They burned with hatred and a hunger that only I seemed to see. As she watched me, I realized there were other forms lying on the ground behind her. I could just make out the outlines of their heads and shoulders; they were too far away for me to make out faces.
But I recognized two of the faces – Jarl Sigvard and Röskva, the old man I had met earlier that day. I wondered if any other victims had made it this far or if they’d been lost along the way. The thought chilled me more than Hell’s chill air.
“Why do you not rise?” she asked me. Her voice was soft and calm. I wasn’t sure if it was because I was dying or if it was some other reason. “Come to me, my lord. Come and join them.”
I tried to sit up, but I could hardly feel anything. So I laid down again. She stepped around to my side, crouching down so she was at eye level with me. I didn’t want to look into her eyes, but something in me forced me to stare right at her, even though I knew it was futile.
Her hair fell over her face and covered the rest of it, but it was clear enough to know that her eyes were as blue as her hair. There were two lines running diagonally across them. A red mark on her left cheek; one on her chin.
And those eyes were the same as mine. I’d never noticed them before, but now I saw that the lines matched the ones that ran from the center of my forehead to the tip of my nose. Like an old portrait that I’d seen somewhere in a castle long ago.
I tried to speak, but there was no sound. Instead, my thoughts were like an old melody played in a strange key; the notes didn’t match the harmony, leaving only frustration when I tried to make sense of my thoughts.
She looked up to the sky, letting out a deep sigh. She shook her head and then looked back down at me. “You are the last of the Norsemen?” she asked me. I nodded.
“Then you must come to me. There is still much work for us to do, and soon it will be done.”
“And then what?” I asked. She just smiled. That was when I realized that her smile was not beautiful at all. It was filled with cruelty and hunger I didn’t understand. I knew this place was supposed to be hell, but the idea that there could be any worse than this place seemed ludicrous to me.
If this was hell, how did she get away from it? She must have gone to some other form of Hell – maybe one where she could enjoy the pleasures of killing without fear of death. I thought about the things she’d said, “I am here for revenge,” and “The people you love are dead.”
Then the words she’d said to Röskva earlier: “You think he’s your father?” And she’d asked me about my family. But what does it matter anyway, now that they’re all gone?
“Why have you brought me here?” I asked, though my voice sounded as dry and brittle as the old trees in the forest outside.
“To kill you,” she replied simply. “I will take your head and wear it like a crown.”
“You’ll die before you ever get near my head. The curse is too strong,” I said. She shook her head and smiled again.
“What curse? You are nothing but an insect. No matter. This will be my final form before the end.”
“What do you mean? What end?” I asked. Her smile vanished; I could see a flicker of fear cross her features. She seemed surprised by her own thoughts. “Do not speak of death and dying, my lord,” she said quickly. “We have only a few days left. Don’t give me more work to do.”
“I’m sorry, what did you say?” I asked. Again, the words came out wrong. I felt my lips moving and tried to make sense of what I’d said. But I couldn’t focus. I knew if I focused on one thing, then I’d lose all others. “What’s happening to me?”
She stepped away from me and looked at the sky, letting out another long sigh. Then she turned back toward me and spoke in a different voice, “The curse is upon you, Lord Thorgrim. It has always been there; even in our childhood. It’s as old as we are.
But it is stronger now than ever before.” She took off her helm and threw it down onto the ground next to me. Then she unbuttoned the rest of her clothing until she was naked. She reached up with both hands to her shoulders, pressing the tips of her fingers into her flesh.
As if trying to peel the skin from her body. The red mark on her cheek flared briefly; like an animal’s eyes in the dark before it attacks. And then her hands were back at work, digging at the flesh. Her hair fell to her feet, where it lay flat against the grass.
The blood that flowed from the wounds began to dry as quickly as dew. She shook her head, and then pulled out those long red claws from between her teeth.
She turned and faced the woods and called out, “You must come to me, Röskva. Bring the others. We must leave this place before the night comes.”
She began running, as swiftly as if she were flying over the ground. In moments, I could no longer see her. The light faded slowly as darkness descended once again, but for me and for Röskva, things had just begun to get interesting.
***
RÚNAK RYGAR
There was a time when my family and I had been rich, though only my mother would say that. It was during the reign of King Magnus Eiriksson, who ruled from 989 until his death in 1000. After Magnus died, our house was not as rich as it had been; but neither was it poor enough that we went hungry each winter, or that we did without heat in the cold of winter.
But there was something strange about my parents’ wealth and how it grew year after year. They didn’t have many servants, so their servants didn’t earn much more than what we paid them, which made them seem wealthy in comparison to what we did.
So I guess that was why Mother said our house was rich. But when I think back on it now, I realize that there was something wrong with her words. Something wasn’t right, and I knew it as soon as she’d uttered them.
Our family was a large one—my father had eight children with my mother, including me. All of us were born at once, and all of us except me were girls. We lived in a grand stone home surrounded by great gardens that seemed to stretch forever.
We traveled everywhere: to trade fairs and markets throughout Sweden. And every summer, we visited relatives in Germany. My sister Sigrun was always the center of attention wherever we went; she was beautiful, clever, and talented, and her eyes sparkled like gold coins in the sunlight.
Her hair was thick and curly, and it fell to her hips. She was taller than anyone else, though she never seemed to notice it. My parents often called her their golden child.
But my life was different than hers. Though I shared the same bloodline, I was nothing like my sister. Where Sigrun’s talents lay in music and poetry, I was blessed with those skills too, but mostly in war.
When we traveled, I could hear things no one else could: footsteps in the darkness of night, horses that did not belong in my father’s stables, the faint stir of wings from overhead, an animal’s low growl just outside the walls.
My mother and father told me to stop being foolish, that it would be good for my future in a court of kings. Yet it was my family name that was important, not some skill of mine they had passed down from generation to generation.
So when I grew into manhood, my parents tried hard to mold me into what I should be. They put me at the head of a Warband that raided the coast of Norway in winter; I fought well on those occasions, so they encouraged me.
“It would be good if you learned to lead men into battle,” they said. But it was never what I wanted. I longed to fight against men who were not my own brothers or uncles. I wanted to do my part in bringing death to my enemies and then return home with plunder enough to give our families a few more years of safety.
Not so much as a gold ring, but at least a belt full of silver. It didn’t matter. I would fight them and they would fall to ruin. My father and mother loved to look at such battles, and I loved it too. So when a chance came along in which I could kill a man who was not my own kin, I did not hesitate to seize the moment.
A year after I turned twenty years old, there was a slave auction in Stockholm, and I paid for a young slave girl. Her eyes were blue, and she had a pale face that bore little resemblance to what was written on her birth certificate as a Swedish peasant woman.
She wore a simple brown dress made of woolen fabric; no jewels, only leather boots. But as soon as we met, my heart leaped up in joy because I could see my family’s mark upon her.
I bought the girl, but it wasn’t until two weeks later that we finally met. The slaves of Stockholm are usually packed into ships and sent north to Finland or the coast of Russia. But I was lucky this time because I was allowed to keep her in a room in my house instead of putting her back on a ship for another trip.
“She has a fine name,” one of my cousins told me. “It means ‘beautiful’ in German.”
The girl was shy at first. She kept her head down when we spoke, and she looked at me with those blue eyes that seemed to see all things, not just what I might choose to tell her. But soon her shyness faded away and I could see what she had meant by her name: my beauty.
In the evenings, when everyone else had gone to sleep, she sat on the edge of my bed and listened to me read poetry. I loved every minute of it. We were never alone because my parents often came to see us, and sometimes my cousins or other servants were there.
Still, though she had no experience as a wife, I think she knew how to please a man. At night, I would take her into my arms and we would lie on my soft bed. She seemed to feel my need, even though our marriage was not yet legal. Her touch, soft and slow, always drove me wild with passion.
One day I decided to show her a secret place behind my great hall, where it was peaceful and warm despite the harsh weather outside. It had been built for that purpose, so it was an ideal refuge. “Come,” I said to the girl. “We’ll be alone together here.”
But then Sigrun opened the door and walked in on us. She didn’t mean to—I know that much. She simply happened upon us from the other end of the hallway. For a moment, my mind went blank with shock; it wasn’t my sister’s fault that she was there. And so I tried to act as if nothing untoward was happening. As though we were two friends sharing some private moments.
“I’m sorry, Father,” said Sigrun. “There is a servant’s meeting in my room. You must go back now.” She stood behind my sister and held out a hand as if to help her along. “Father, come.”
For a moment, I was frozen with rage, but then I realized that it did not matter. My sister was not a bad person by any means. But she did not have the right to enter a woman’s bedroom. So I smiled at my father and kissed her on the cheek as if I would like to do the same to the girl he had just walked in on.
As soon as he walked away, the girl looked up and said: “Your daughter has a good heart, but you can never trust her.” Then she fled through the hallway, and I heard the front door slam shut behind her.
That day, I thought of leaving Sweden forever. Maybe I would travel to Norway or even as far north as Constantinople were men of high status often traveled with their families. I could take my wife and children and leave my old life behind.
I wanted to be free to choose what kind of man I’d become. It wasn’t until a week later, though, that I finally decided to act on it. I would send word to my parents in Finland. Perhaps they had found a better way.
The End