Geirmund's Saga

by Matthew J. Kirby

  “You–no, the Völund under the sea, he gave that ring to me.”

  “Did he?” The smith paused. “Do you have it with you?”

  As Geirmund opened his mouth to answer, a pang of sudden shame surprised him and kept him from speaking for a moment. “I do not.”

  “Where is it?”

  The question made Geirmund feel that he had somehow failed the smith, or himself, and he looked down at the barrow’s floor. “I gave it to my king.”

  Völund raised one of his eyebrows. “Why?”

  “I believed it was his fate to wear it.”

  “Fate is made by the mind,” Völund said. “The ring is law. If it was given to you, it was yours to wear. To give up one of my rings is to give up great power.”

  Geirmund made no reply to that because he knew it to be true, though he had needed Völund’s words to see it so clearly. A part of him had always regretted giving the ring to Guthrum, whether fated or not. His honour had kept him from admitting that to himself, because he had sworn to the Dane, but now he saw that the matter had little to do with his honour but instead his power, which was always his to give or take, and the more he doubted the Dane-king, the more he wanted to take the ring back.

  “Why have you come here?” Völund asked. “My forge is buried and cold. I can give you nothing more.”

  “That is not why I came,” Geirmund said. “I dreamed of this place.”

  “That is because you have been inside one of my forges. When you came near another, the deeper parts of your mind felt it and rose up to meet it.”

  “That may be, but I think there is more. I think I needed to hear you speak of the ring.”

  “That may be also,” Völund said. “Your kind often hears what you want and need to hear, when you want and need to hear it. Is there more you wish to speak about?”

  If the Völund before him had been more like the Völund under the sea, Geirmund may have lingered, but it seemed he had come to the end of his fated purpose there, and he knew Steinólfur and Skjalgi would be starting to worry. “No, but I thank you,” he said. “I will take my leave now.”

  “I have no power to send or keep you, but you are welcome, Geirmund, son of Hjörr, whose father was Half, whose father was Hjörrleif.”

  Geirmund bowed his head, and when he looked up, the smith had gone, and he was alone again in the small, dark barrow. He left the chamber and crept back up the narrow stone passage into the harsh and blinding sunlight. For a moment he had to shield his eyes with the flat of his hand and squint at Steinólfur and Skjalgi.

  “Well?” the older warrior said. “You were in there long enough for something to have happened.”

  Geirmund gave him back his blade. “I talked with Völund.”

  “What did he say?” Skjalgi asked.

  “Less than he said the first time he spoke to me. But he said enough.”

  Steinólfur sheathed his seax. “Enough for what?”

  “Enough to know what I must do.” Geirmund moved towards Enbarr and climbed onto the horse’s back. “But first we must take Wessex.”

  29

  The march to Defenascire and the River Exe took five days. Geirmund could have pushed his Hel-hides harder to make it in four, but the wounded in their company needed a slower pace. They kept to the ridgeway through Wessex and into Dorsetscire, until they reached the River Lym, from which place they followed the coast west until they came to the Exe and the Roman town Guthrum wanted them to take. Geirmund had expected to see a fleet of two hundred longships or more, carrying an army of four thousand Danes but found barely a few dozen vessels moored at the riverbank.

  Upon entering the town, Geirmund learned that a storm at sea had sunk one hundred and twenty longships, drowning over three thousand warriors, including both kings Anwend and Oscetel. That disaster had so overwhelmed the surviving crews that many had sailed back to where they came from, believing the storm an evil omen, and the Danes that had stayed in Defenascire were not eager for battle.

  The loss of the fleet also struck the Hel-hides hard, especially after finding Ubba’s army slaughtered, and the mood about their encampment held little hope. Only a fool would fail to wonder if luck, fate, or the gods had turned against the Danes and sent them all to their doom.

  “How can Guthrum take Wessex now?” Steinólfur asked late one night when there were few to hear him, staring into the fire. “Without Ubba, and with the fleet at the bottom of the sea, the Danes cannot defeat Ælfred.”

  “Guthrum is cunning,” Birna said. “He will find a way.”

  Steinólfur spat into the embers, which hissed in reply. “Ælfred is also cunning.”

  Geirmund might have agreed more with the older warrior, were it not for Hnituðr. So long as the Danes had the ring on their side, they could still take Wessex, despite the heavy losses that befell them.

  “Perhaps Ælfred has already fallen,” Vetr said. He sat near Rafn, who lay next to the fire, weakened and fevered. “Guthrum may have defeated the Saxons at Wareham.”

  Steinólfur shook his head, as if he did not believe that possible.

  “We can only wait for word of the outcome,” Geirmund said. “And hope that it is so.”

  Word came a few days later, carried by Eskil, who Geirmund had not seen since Lunden. The warrior had ridden hard from Wareham sixty rests to the east, almost laming his horse, and the Hel-hides sat him at their fire to give him meat, drink, and rest.

  “Guthrum took Wareham easily,” the Dane said. “But Ælfred came with an army shortly thereafter, and for now… there is a peace between them.”

  Geirmund struggled to believe it. “A peace?” he nearly shouted. “After everything we have risked and lost for Guthrum’s plan, he would make peace with the Saxons?”

  “He did.” The scowl Eskil wore said that he shared Geirmund’s frustrations with their king. “Ælfred made Guthrum swear to it on the cross of his god.”

  “Then Guthrum’s oath is empty,” Birna said. “The cross means nothing. He must have a plan.”

  Eskil made no reply to that, and then looked hard at Geirmund.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  The Dane ran his tongue around his teeth, as if he disliked the taste of the words in his mouth. “Guthrum also swore on the ring you gave him. Ælfred knew of it somehow, and he demanded an oath upon it.”

  “And Guthrum agreed,” Steinólfur said, sneering in disdain.

  “Guthrum is changed,” Eskil said, then shook his head. “He is no longer the man I swore to in Jutland. He took Ubba’s death harder than the loss of his longships, and now swings from grief to rage in moments, without thought and without his past cunning. But Eivor came to Wareham as I left, and it seems he listens to her, so all is not lost.”

  Knowing Eivor counselled the king brought some comfort, but it troubled Geirmund that Ælfred knew of Hnituðr. He did not know how the Saxon king had heard of the ring, but rumours of it had also reached Hytham in Ravensthorpe, and Geirmund remembered the priest John asking if Guthrum drew power from a pagan relic, so perhaps Völund’s handiwork was not quite the secret Geirmund had thought it to be.

  “What does Guthrum ask of the Hel-hides?” Rafn said, his voice strained as he lay near Vetr.

  Eskil seemed to hesitate before answering. “By now Guthrum and Eivor have ended the peace and burned Wareham.”

  “He would break his oath?” Skjalgi asked.

  “I would not be bound by any oath to a Saxon,” Birna said.

  Geirmund wasn’t sure he agreed with that as a matter of honour, but especially for an oath that had been sworn on Hnituðr. “Where is Ælfred now?” he asked.

  “At a place called Cippanhamm,” Eskil said. “It has no walls, and Ælfred has few warriors with him. He is there for a Christian feast, and that is where Guthrum plans to attack. He calls every axe and sword to
his side for the battle.”

  “What swords?” Steinólfur said. “The fleet is sunk and scattered. Ubba is dead.”

  “Not all Saxons are willing to die for Ælfred,” Eskil said. “Word has spread of an old oath-man broken in two and tied to the door of his ealdorman’s hall. Wulfere of Wiltescire has already sworn to Guthrum. And Eivor has many allies across England, and rivals in her debt, who will fight under her banner.” He turned to Geirmund. “I have heard that Hjörr and Ljufvina will answer her call.”

  “All is not lost,” Geirmund said.

  Eskil nodded. “All is not lost.”

  “When do we attack?” Vetr asked with a downward glance at Rafn.

  “In four days,” the Dane said, ‘during the feast the Christians call the Twelfth Night.”

  “Guthrum did not give us much time to march,” Steinólfur said.

  Eskil hesitated again. “The king did not send me. I came to you of my own will because you are warriors of great courage and honour. I knew you would want to fight beside your fellow Danes and kinsmen.”

  The Hel-hides around the fire fell silent in confusion and anger at Guthrum’s slight against their war-band.

  “We have fought and died for him,” Vetr finally said. “And he wishes to forget us.”

  “Is it for the silver he owes us?” Rafn asked. “Perhaps he–”

  “It isn’t that.” Steinólfur looked around the circle. “Or, it isn’t only that. It is much simpler than greed.” He turned to Geirmund. “The Dane-king does what he does because he fears you. Guthrum sees in you what I saw all those years ago. You are a king, Geirmund Hjörrsson. It is only a matter of time before you realize that and take a kingdom for yourself.”

  Geirmund felt a heat in his cheeks that did not come from the fire, and he waited for at least one of his Hel-hides to speak against the older warrior, in defence of Guthrum’s honour, but none did, not even Eskil.

  “Do we march?” Skjalgi asked.

  Geirmund did not have to think long about his answer. “Yes, we march. But we do not fight for Guthrum. We fight for Muli, for Aslef, for Thorgrim, and for every Hel-hide who has fallen. We fight for Eivor, and for our kinsmen who march to Cippanhamm at her call. Are you with me in this?”

  “You are forgetting someone,” Vetr said.

  Geirmund felt the gaze of the circle upon him, but he could not think what the warrior meant. “Who?”

  Steinólfur let out a growl. “It’s you, you horse’s ass. We fight for you.”

  A moment passed, and then the warriors all broke into laughter that lasted for some time, after which the Hel-hides went to prepare for battle, and then Eskil came to Geirmund.

  “Where do you ride from here?” he asked the giant Dane.

  “I will march with you,” Eskil said, “if you will have me.”

  The offer surprised Geirmund. “Do you worry Guthrum will name you oath-breaker?”

  Eskil shook his head. “I do not care what an oath-breaker might name me.”

  “Then I welcome you to march with us,” Geirmund said. “And I will be honoured to fight at your side once more.”

  They left the River Exe the next morning and travelled by way of a Roman road. A day of hard riding brought them to the edge of a vast wetland of marshes, rivers, meres, and islands, which reminded Geirmund of the fens he had crossed when he first washed up on England’s shores. The raised Roman road moved them northward and kept them from getting mired in those lowlands, which stretched to the westward horizon and beyond, but another full day passed before they put the marshes behind them and climbed up into dryer hill country.

  From that high place they could see a great, seemingly endless forest to the east, which Eskil called Selwood, and which loomed alongside the Roman road for another full day. When they halted to rest that night, they did so almost in the shadows of its trees, near a large, jagged rock that may have once been a standing stone raised by the same giants who had carved the white horse.

  Geirmund found it hard to sleep there, knowing that the next day would bring them to Cippanhamm and battle, where he would fight beside his father and his mother. He rose early the next morning, his blankets and the ground around him covered in a thin rime, teeth clacking in the cold, and almost as soon as the Hel-hides had mounted their horses to leave, Rafn toppled from his saddle and fell to the ground, landing hard on his side.

  Vetr leapt down and flew to him, and soon Geirmund and a few others stood over both Danes. Rafn mumbled, but not in words that fitted together, and his lips had turned blue.

  “It is his arm,” Vetr said. “The fever in his wound has spread.”

  Steinólfur knelt down next to him. “Let me look at it.”

  Then he and Vetr removed Rafn’s armour, tunic, and linen, a task made difficult by the limpness in the warrior’s body, and when they pulled the binding from the wounded arm, Geirmund’s stomach turned over. Rafn’s flesh had gone putrid, and dark lines crawled beneath his skin like poisonous serpents.

  “You proud, bastard fool,” Steinólfur said.

  The memory of Thorgrim’s death still pressed on Geirmund’s mind, and he raged at the thought of now losing Rafn. “What must be done?” he asked.

  Steinólfur leaned back, hands on his thighs, and looked up and down the arm. “This limb must come off,” he said, “and it needs to come off now. He’ll die if we don’t. But even that might not be enough.”

  Though Geirmund had expected as much, he found it hard to speak. To a warrior like Rafn, the loss of an arm would be akin to death. Vetr laid a hand on his companion’s forehead and leaned in close, searching Rafn’s face as if seeking his leave to do what needed to be done, but the mind of the black-haired Dane was lost and utterly unaware of what was happening to his body. Vetr looked at Steinólfur, closed his eyes, and nodded once.

  “I trust he will forgive me,” he said.

  Geirmund looked away from Vetr to his Hel-hides, many of whom had stayed on their horses, and he thought about the day still ahead of them. “How long will this take?” he asked Steinólfur.

  “To gather what we need and do it well?” Steinólfur said. “Half a day, at least.”

  “That will bring us late to the field of battle,” Eskil said.

  Geirmund hoped that would not mean an outcome like that which had befallen Jarl Sidroc and his warriors at Ashdown, and to avoid that he ordered his war-band to march as planned. “I will stay with Rafn,” he said. “I swore to you at Abingdon that I would leave no man behind, and I will not break that oath now. Vetr will stay, I am sure, and so will Steinólfur and Skjalgi. All others will–”

  “I will also stay,” Eskil said. “I march with you, Hel-hide.”

  Geirmund looked up at the Dane and nodded. Then he turned to Birna. “I said I would give you Saxons to kill.”

  “Yes,” she said, “you did.”

  “I would trust few others to lead our warriors into battle,” he said.

  “Nor would I.” She grinned and went to her horse, and after she’d climbed into the saddle, she said, “I will try to leave some Saxons for you to slay, but I cannot swear to it.”

  “Do what you must,” Geirmund said. “May Óðinn and Týr go with you.”

  She gave him a nod, then called the Hel-hides to her, and away they galloped. Geirmund turned back to Rafn before they had passed out of his sight, and he asked Steinólfur, “What do you need?”

  “Clean water,” the older warrior said. “A hot fire and hot steel. Plants for healing. Linen for binding.”

  “We will see it done,” Vetr said, and they moved as one to make it so.

  By midday they had gathered water from a clear stream and plants from the woods, and they had buried the blades of several axes and knives in red embers. Rafn had stopped muttering and now drifted in and out of sleep, but Steinólfur said he would still fight l
ike a bear the moment they made the first cut, so they tied him down and pulled a leather strap tight between his teeth. Then they all looked away, then watched, then looked away again as Steinólfur went to work butchering the warrior.

  He cut through the top layer of skin first, all the way around Rafn’s upper arm, with a cold knife so the flesh would bind together again later, and he rolled the Dane’s hide up like a sleeve. Then he used a hot knife to cut through the deeper cords of flesh, filling the air with sounds and the smell of charred meat that Geirmund remembered instantly from his ordeal with Hámund in the mountains. The searing by the hot steel slowed much of the bleeding, but not all of it, and the ground beneath Rafn turned to mud. Through it all the Dane howled, eyes bulging, neck as tight as a ship’s rope under sail.

  When Steinólfur reached bone, he traded his knife for an axe, and he placed a flat rock beneath Rafn’s arm to strike against. The older warrior dripped with sweat, and he breathed in and out a few times before he brought the axe down. There was a dull thud, and another, and then a ringing when the blade hit stone and the bone cracked in two. The arm fell away.

  “It would have been better with a saw,” Steinólfur said as he picked and peeled away loose chips of bone.

  The older warrior then washed the torn flesh at the stump with heated water and rolled the skin and tissue back down, which he then gathered and sewed together like a pouch, but he left it partway open so it could weep, and he packed the opening with the plants they had gathered.

  Rafn had stopped screaming and fallen into dazed whimpering, and after they had untied him, Eskil lifted him as easily as a child and carried him into the woods a short distance. Vetr told the giant where to put Rafn down, and then Steinólfur set blankets and furs around and over his whole body.

  “The shock from that alone can kill a man,” Steinólfur said. “Keep him warm.”

  “I will,” Vetr said. “And no matter what happens, I am grateful to you.”

  “I hope it was enough.” The older warrior bowed his head and backed away.

  “I am grateful to all of you,” Vetr said. “But now you must ride to Cippanhamm. I will bring Rafn there as soon as I can.”