by Griff Hosker
I put the sword belt around my waist and coiled the rope Ragnar gave to me around my body. I followed our footsteps through the snow. It was coming on to night and we both hurried. Ragnar, surprisingly, kept up with me. When we neared the body we could hear the foxes. Ragnar screamed and they fled yelping. I found my bow and quiver and secured them about my body. Then I looked at the dead wolf which seemed as big, if not bigger than me. I wondered how we would get it back.
“Find your wooden sword and then tie this rope around his forelegs and head. We will drag him back.” He suddenly whirled around with his stick and two foxes which were sneaking towards their spoiled meal ran off. I found my wooden sword. It was buried in the wolf’s neck and had entered his skull. I had not had the strength to do that, it had been the force and the power of the beast which had done that or perhaps I had been aided by the gods.
We dragged the carcass back to the house. It was easier than it might have been as it was all downhill. When we reached the house night had fallen and I was chilled to the bone. Once inside Ragnar said, “Put the cauldron of stew on the fire we need warming; especially you.” I hurried to do his bidding, grateful for the warmth of the fire which began to thaw me out although I noticed that my fingers were a strange shade of blue. By the time I returned Ragnar had slit the animal open down the middle. “Take out the stomach and throw it outside. The foxes will eat that. If we leave it in here it will stink and attract rats.”
I had gutted enough animals to know where the stomach and the bowels were. We always discarded them. I ripped them from the warm body, my blue fingers grateful for the body warmth of the dead wolf. The stink almost made me gag. I opened the door and threw them as far as I could. Almost before I had closed the door, I could hear the foxes racing for the offal. “You watch the stew. I can do this by touch.”
Even with just one hand he was skilled. It helped having a knife as sharp as his.
I tasted the stew. It was hot enough. “It is ready.”
We ate the stew and afterwards I helped Ragnar to skin the wolf and prepare the meat for cooking. Both of us were so tired that we fell asleep almost as soon as we had placed the raw meat on to the table.
I was awoken by a banging on the door. It was Butar’s voice. “Ragnar, it is me Butar.”
Ragnar stirred but did not wake. I yelled “Come in Lord Butar, it is safe.”
“Who is it?” Ragnar had woken from his sleep.
“It is your son master.”
The door opened and Butar, my mother and two of the men from the village were there. Butar looked relieved. “When we had not heard from you for a few days we worried.”
Ragnar spat phlegm into the embers of the fire. “You need not worry about us.” He pointed to the table. “My thrall killed a wolf last night; with a wooden sword.”
The two men with Butar exchanged a smirk and my mother grabbed me and hugged me. “Is this true?”
“Yes mother, we were hunting when three wolves attacked us.”
One of the men, Olef said, “How did you kill it then, thrall?” His tone implied I had not done so.
Ragnar growled, “Did you not hear? With a wooden sword.”
I saw the disbelief on their faces. “I first put two arrows in him but he did to stop and then he fell on my sword.”
Ragnar struggled to his feet and went to the wolf skin; he threw it at the two men. “There is the wolf, Olef the Doubter. See the wounds and look at the size of the beast.”
They opened it out and gasped. “I am sorry old one. You are right.” He looked at me. “He looks like a strong wind would blow him over and yet he has the heart of a dragon.”
That is how I came by my name for Butar clasped me to his chest and roared. “You are Dragon Heart and that shall be your name from now on. Now come, both of you. We will hold a feast to celebrate the kill; unless the two of you wish to eat the whole beast yourselves?”
Ragnar sniffed, “No, we will join you but the heart belongs to the boy. He will take the strength of the wolf.” My mother was close and the old white eyes could just make her out; he probably smelled her. “Your son was saved by your gift and I will come to your home, not for the food but to get to know you. I would like to know about the wolf charm and, of course, enjoy your cooking. Your son’s does not compare.”
Mother cuddled me and smiled. I did not mind. I was not a cook. I was a killer of wolves and I felt like a giant as we wound our way through the trees to the village. The warriors with Butar carried the animal. When we reached the hall mother set too, preparing the food, and Ragnar and I were taken to the hall where Harald One Eye held court. All of the warriors were there. In the long winter nights the warriors drank much and told sagas and tales of bravery and heroism. The two warriors who had carried the meat and the skin down had already begun to tell the tale of the thrall and the wolf. Harald One Eye shouted at them to be silent as we entered. “Would you deprive us of a good story? Be silent fools, or you shall be the guards tonight when we celebrate this kill. Come, Butar and revered Ragnar. Bring this thrall who still looks like a leaf but appears to have the strength of an oak.”
Harald himself helped Ragnar to a seat. Butar stood behind his father and next to the Jarl. He spoke, “This is the son of my woman and his courage saved my father. He has earned the name Dragon Heart.”
The warriors who were all seated at long tables began banging the tables with their fists and cheering. They were already a little drunk but I felt flattered to have the warriors cheering me.
Ragnar told, quite simply, what had happened without embellishment or fine words. Someone else would make it into a saga. We were cheered, again, as we left. We returned to Butar’s home and he put an arm around me. “You have saved my father’s life and given him purpose again. I thank you thrall. The Norns must have directed us to your village that day.”
“Master, why did you choose our village?”
“I spied the boys in the river and knew there must be a settlement close by. We were headed up river to the bend where there is a choice of villages.”
Once again wyrd had intervened in my life. Ragnar was seated by the hearth in Butar’s hall and I could hear him and my mother chattering away. Butar had three other thralls. All were young girls from my village. They all had the sullen look of the others. I sighed. If they accepted that this was their destiny they would find the burden much easier to bear. My life was better than it had been. Apart from the odd clout around the ears for carelessness I had not been beaten and I had certainly never been bullied. With the thrall collar gone I could live as normally as any. I could not flee but where would I go? I would either starve to death or be eaten by wild animals. I was suddenly aware that all three of the adults were looking at me. Ragnar’s white eyes were fixed on my shape framed in the doorway.
Butar chuckled, “Dragon Heart is dreaming while awake my love.”
“Come in my son and close the door. You are letting out all the warmth.”
“Speaking of warmth,” Butar went into his sleeping quarters and returned with a fur, “Your mother has spent the long nights sewing together the hare and squirrel fur from the animals you hunted. You have a cloak. My father told me you nearly froze to death. I cannot have my father’s thrall dying on the job.” He handed me the cloak. The fur was soft and downy. There was a leather tie to secure it. I put it around my shoulders. It was fine.
“Thank you mother; thank you master.” My mother nodded her approval as she prepared the food.
Ragnar stayed in his son’s house and ate his food there. “I do not need to see Harald One Eye and the others making fools of themselves. I know that already and I do not wish to hear them butcher the saga of Dragon Heart the Thrall. I will sit by the warm fire and speak with the mother of the Dragon Heart.”
I would have loved to stay there with them but Butar insisted that I attend because the feast was in honour of my deed and they wanted to compete with the telling of the tale. “Master, how can they tell the ta
le? They were not there. Even I do not know all that happened and your father’s eyes would not bear true testament.”
“The detail matters not. They all know that a youth of twelve summers or so went out and defeated a wolf pack with a wooden sword and two arrows. They will enjoy competing to give the most stirring saga.”
When we entered the hall they all cheered. A place for Butar was cleared next to Harald and a wooden log placed behind Butar for me. I was still a thrall. Butar and Ragnar did not treat me as such but here, in the hall of the Jarl, the proprieties had to be observed. This was the first time I had seen all of the warriors since the raid. There were more of them. Old Olaf was there and he was still scowling. They were all busy drinking and eating and I was able to sit and watch them. I also saw the other thralls, most of them taken from my village, as they served the jugs of ale and brought in the hunks of steaming meat. They all had their wooden collars on and they all gave me hateful glances. I sighed. I was still the outsider. Even here where we were all strangers I was still not accepted. I think that was the night I decided that I did not need them. I had done nothing to offend them and yet they treated me badly. So far, I liked these people amongst whom I had been planted. I would grow to be like them and I listened and I watched just as my mother had urged.
When the food was finished Harald stood up. “We have a new tale to tell today, the saga of Dragon Heart the Thrall. Who will begin?”
Many of the warriors fancied themselves a poet and they all vied to be the first. Harald was the arbitrator of all disputes over seniority. Butar told me later that it should have been my role to tell the tale but I was still a boy and I was a thrall. I did not mind. Eventually six of the men told the tale. One of the things I discovered was that they loved to have sagas repeated and each one was told and retold until the final version was reached, delivered by Harald One Eye. This one, of course, was greeted by the loudest cheer and was the one which would be retold each winter.
The Saga
The winter snow lay on the ground
The cold ate like the wolves
Old Ragnar left to find the food
And hunt with just his boy a thrall
Ullr watched down with hard cold eyes
To see what they would do
With deepening step they struggled on
The eyes of wolves glowing red around them
The pack had gathered to feast on men
In the forest land of Harald the Brave
With dripping jaws and savage teeth
They stalked the one armed warrior
And child with wooden sword
The cunning wolf surrounded them
And they readied to feast on flesh
One armed Ragnar had no sight
But his heart was true and strong
With his thrall close by
They faced their foes
Joined together by bonds and oaths
The arrows flew swift and true
But still the wolves came on
To feast on man flesh and gorge on blood
Until with sword made of wood
The thrall bravely stood his ground
With snarling teeth and eyes of fire
The wolf opened his mouth to feast
Dragon Heart stood fast and strong
Like a rock against the flood
The wolf fell dead and the others fled
Ragnar had prevailed
And the wolf died there
While the pack all fled
Beaten by Dragon Heart the thrall
And Ragnar the mighty
After the saga Harald stood, a little unsteadily and addressed his warriors. “Men of Ulfberg, we have had a fine year and we are now richer than before the disease came which took so many.” They all nodded and Harald swept an encompassing hand around the table. “I see before me another ten warriors who have travelled here to join my band!” This was greeted by the banging of hands on the table. “When the ice and the snow melt we will return across the water and we will take more from that honey pot that is the land of the Angles. We will build a second ship to join my ship ‘Sif’ so that we can take even more plunder and make this hall even better and finer. And make the name of Ulfberg feared across all the northern seas.”
The evening then became a drunken orgy of drinking contests, arm wrestling and fist fights. I only saw this briefly for Butar, who had drunk less than most, took me back to his hall. “Thank you for taking me master.”
He looked at me strangely, “It was in your honour. You had to be there.”
I shook my head, “I was the saga but I am a slave; I was not needed there so I thank you.”
He shook his head, “You are wise beyond your years. Come, my warm hall calls.”
My mother awaited us and she held her finger to her lips. She pointed at Ragnar curled up by the fire with furs about him. She kissed me on the head and led me to the other side of the fire where she had laid furs for me. Butar wrapped one of his huge arms around her and led her to the sleeping room. I could hear them trying to make me a brother and then I fell asleep.
We spent the months of the lengthening days continuing my training. The main difference to my life was that we visited the settlement more. Ragnar enjoyed the company of my mother who fussed over the old man. I was now afforded a higher status and, whilst still a thrall, I was seen as a human being rather than an object. My fellows from the village across the sea were less than friendly. I still used the wooden sword to practise but now the warriors often asked to see it. The wolf blood still stained the wood and they would look at me and shake their heads at either the bravery or stupidity of taking on a wolf with a wooden sword. Opinions were divided.
The preparations for the raid to the land of the Angles occupied everyone. Weapons were prepared; arrows and spears gathered. Blades were sharpened and those who could afford it had their helmets and shields improved. I noticed that only three warriors wore mail shirts; Harald, Butar and Knut. The rest all had leather byrnies. The one thing they all had in common was a shield. They all had a design painted upon them and each warrior took the time to painstakingly repair any flaws. Some of the wealthier warriors studded their shields with iron but all of them spent the majority of time with their swords or their axes. The late winter saw them practising all the time with their weapons and the winter fat became muscle once more.
Ragnar fell ill just before they were due to leave. It was probably just the normal colds we all suffered but Butar insisted that we return to his hall. “Father, you need care. Dragon Heart is faithful but he is no nurse. My woman will care for you both.”
Ragnar relented although he was so ill that he had little option. I helped Butar carry the old man down to the hall where a bed was built close to the fire and my mother took charge of him. She became quite bossy but I think Ragnar enjoyed it. His wife had died when the disease had ravaged Ulfberg and my mother reminded him of her. I had mixed feelings about the return. I liked being close to my mother again but I enjoyed my status as Ragnar’s thrall. The village had too many of my enemies within its wooden walls for me to be happy.
The snow had gone from the village although it still remained in the hills when ‘Sif’ set sail. There were ten old men and young boys left to guard the village. Olaf the Toothless was, to his chagrin, left in command. He was not happy about his role and took his displeasure out on the thralls. The ship slipped silently down the fiord. After it had gone both the anchorage and the village seemed empty somehow. It should not have been so for there were well over a hundred people left in the settlement but it seemed desolate and lacking life. I saw that my mother was unhappy that Butar had gone. They seemed very close; much closer than she had been to my father. I suddenly realised that I could barely remember my birth father’s face. I had forgotten my own father.
Ragnar was becoming better and he sent me, one day, to return to the house and bring his sword. He had been too ill to make a fuss but now he wanted it close by.
I did not know why for he could not use it but I was glad to be away from the hateful stares and the depressing atmosphere. I took my bow; Ragnar had gifted it to me after the wolf attack. I was more aware of the danger I might be in. I was almost at the house when I was suddenly aware of being followed. There was someone behind me. I think the time I had spent hunting with Ragnar had honed my senses. I would not turn around for that would mean they would know that I knew they were there. I continued up to the house. The skull of the wolf peered at me from its wooden perch outside the front door. It marked our home and warned the wolves of our intent. I carried on beyond the house. I knew the land as far as the mountain top better than any other and I knew how to set a trap. Whoever was following me would follow my prints in the snow which lay beyond the house. The path wound around the rock and I would be able to ambush my pursuers.
Once I turned the corner of the large rock I hurried. I needed to gain a lead. The path entered the forest and turned back to head down the slope. I began to move through the trees and I found a spot from which to watch the path. I saw Tadgh and Saelac, two of the boys from my village. They both had cudgel like sticks in their hands which confirmed that they wished me harm. I slipped my bow around my body. I would use my wooden sword.
I heard them as they struggled to ascend the slippery slope. Their footwear was not made for the snow and mine was. “That bastard moves faster than a deer!”
“Don’t worry Saelac he has to come back this way and we can see his tracks.”
“What will we say when we return to the village?”
“We say nothing. They will not know we followed him here. They will not miss him until tonight and then it will be too late to hunt for him. The wolves and the foxes will finish off this Dragon Heart.”
“Are you sure we can take him? I heard that he killed a wolf with his bare hands.”
“Are you afraid? Raldson died because of him and we will avenge his death. Besides I am sure it was the old man who killed the wolf. I am not afraid of Crow!”