The Great Pagan Army

by Vaughn Heppner

  “I’m Thor’s man,” Heming said.

  The Hammerhand grunted. “You trust that amulet, but you would be wiser trusting your wits. Make your own luck, Heming.”

  “Yes, father.”

  “Bah!” the Hammerhand said, shaking him. “You think I’m drunk, and I am! But don’t think to fool me. You must swear by Thor—and by Odin, too, he loves blood. And this is an oath of blood.” His father shoved something at him. “Do you know what that is?”

  Heming grasped the cup of Attila.

  “You know what that is?”

  “Yes,” Heming said.

  “Grip it, lad. Grip it tight and listen to me. You must swear to avenge my death. Whoever kills me you must hunt them to Niflheim and back. Nothing must stop you. Swear it by Thor, swear it by Odin and then swear by the cup of Attila the Hun, the Great Slayer. Do it, lad, if you’re my son.”

  “That’s a warrior’s oath,” Heming said.

  “It is!”

  “It makes me one of your sworn men, a true member of the warband.”

  “Will you swear it or not?” the Hammerhand growled.

  “Gift me a spear, father. The leader is supposed to give the oath-taker a gift. I want to stand in the shield wall and fight like a true warrior. I want a shield and spear.”

  The Hammerhand measured him. His drunken eyes seemed troubled. “Yes,” he said hoarsely, “done. Now swear.”

  “May Thor’s hammer strike me dead and Odin’s spear lick my guts if I do not slay every man who bloodies Ivar Hammerhand with sword, spear or knife. And may I choke on my own blood like Attila the Hun if my words are false.”

  Ivar Hammerhand expelled his breath. “Good lad, yes, a worthy oath. Remember, you are the last of my sons. You should have become a skald. The warrior’s path is hard and filled with blood. Ah, I curse all priests. I believe in no gods or luck, or fates seen in the stars. I am Ivar Hammerhand, and by the might of my own right arm, my sword and my cunning, I have won my place in the world. Do you deny that?”

  “No,” Heming said, realizing that his father was quite drunk.

  “Go to sleep, lad. Get.”

  “Shouldn’t you sleep, too?”

  “When I’m dead I’ll sleep, for there is no Valhalla! I don’t believe in curses nor in prophesies from priests wearing women’s robes. I spit on them, even if that worthless, hump-shouldered monk knew how to die. It doesn’t mean anything and I shit on him. Go!” the Hammerhand roared. “Get to sleep.”

  Heming stumbled away, troubled by his father’s strange mood, wondering what it foretold and if his father’s luck had finally run out.

  5.

  Peter lay on his belly as dawn approached. Smoke rose in greasy curls.

  “Peter.”

  He dragged his chin through the dirt. The abbot was awake. The left side of the old man’s face was frozen. The left eye seeped blood and stared lifelessly.

  “Peter,” the abbot whispered. Only the right side of his mouth moved. “Listen to me, my son. They burned our relic.”

  Peter didn’t know whether to weep or laugh.

  “The abbey is destroyed,” the abbot whispered. “We’ve been punished for our sins. But you must rebuild it.”

  “What?”

  “You’re obviously beloved of God. Bodo, Martin, Einhard, they lie butchered before us. The others are nothing but ashes. But you live, Peter. Mercy begets mercy. You wished mercy on Ermentrude and now God has been merciful to you.”

  The abbot’s earnestness was too much. “Father,” he whispered.

  “We don’t have much time left together, Peter. You must find a new relic. It must be powerful and holy. You must bring it back to Aliquis. Then you must build a new abbey. That is why God has spared you.”

  “Father.” Peter blinked away sweat. “I’m not the one to do such a thing.”

  “Humility is Christ-like, Peter. You are indeed the one.”

  “Father… I-I lied about the parchment.”

  The abbot stared with his good eye.

  “I-I slept with the elder’s daughter. I wrote Willelda a note from Solomon’s Canticle of Canticles. I was in your house to steal deniers to bribe the serf who brings the note. Father, I’m a sinner: a fraud, a liar and a fornicator.”

  The transformation on the abbot’s face was awful. Half never moved. Half broke into a strange and almost sinister smile. “Oh, Peter, my son, you are a true child of Christ’s. You confess your sins. You say that you’re a liar, a thief and a fornicator, but you have brought it to God’s attention. You’ve confessed rather than have me think you a holy man. Bless you, my son. I now lay your penance upon you. You must go to Rome and find a holy relic and return with it here, to Saint Martin of Aliquis, and rebuild the abbey.”

  “Father, please… I’m a coward, too. Absolve me of my sins, for I know that today you and I shall die.”

  “The future lies in God’s hands, Peter. I will pray for you. I will pray that you escape these beasts of Satan.”

  A Northman strode up and kicked the abbot in the side and Peter in the gut. Peter dragged his chin through the dirt, looking at the last flickers of the guttered abbey as he squirmed in agony. Nothing had gone right since he had slept with Willelda.

  Was she safe? He had to help her. He had to warn the villagers.

  Use your wits, he told himself. Be clever. If you don’t, you’re dead.

  6.

  The squawk of ravens woke Heming several hours later. The big black birds squabbled over charred monk-flesh, pecking and striking one another with their wings. Smoke drifted from the blackened ruins. White ashes swirled in the breeze.

  Heming crawled out of his bag and splashed water onto his face. One old reaver nibbled on cold chicken, another frowned at a notch in his axe-blade. Most still snored, Ivar Hammerhand among them.

  Heming couldn’t think with all this noise. He liked it quiet in the morning. He grabbed his bow, pinned on a cloak and strode toward the grove. A swarm of ravens lofted from the three naked corpses. Heming’s features twisted. Flies crawled into the gory eye-sockets, out the nostrils and mouths. He rushed to the brook in the middle of the grove, dropped onto his hands and knees and plunged his head into the stream. He came up gasping, shook his head and wrung out his hair. Then he drank his fill and wondered about the two living monks Ivar had spared, had trussed up like hogs. Father had spoken about the likeness of Turgeis, some Viking hero-king of the past, in the face of the red-haired monk.

  Maybe because all the death made him ill, maybe because he lacked a marauder’s savagery Heming told the man on watch to go and lay down. Then Heming went to the two monks and untied their hands.

  “If you have to piss now’s the time,” he said.

  Heming didn’t cut their ankle ropes and they just stared at him. By motions, he finally made them understand. The younger monk helped the older deeper into the grove. The old one had trouble moving the left side of his body. They pulled up their habits and squatted behind a tree, and later the younger monk hopped and drew the half-stricken monk where Heming indicated. He set out wine, half-gnawed chicken bones and a lump of cheese. The older monk shook his head. The younger one bolted it all down.

  Heming pondered their fates. Then he heard a distant clink of metal. Scowling, he barked at the monks. The arrow-scratched, red-haired man crammed down a last bite of cheese before he put the older man’s wrists together. Then the monk put his own wrists in his lap. Heming caught the cunning. If your wrists were tied in front, you could use your teeth later and chew your way free. But unease made him hurry. He looped rope and tied each pair of wrists tight. Then Heming grabbed his bow and slunk through the grove. This was too much like last night, but at least he could see. He hurried, eyes peeled, not so worried in the sunlight as he had been in the dark. Maybe that’s what made him careless.

  Another metallic clink sounded from ahead. It wasn’t that of mail brushing together. It was more a sword pommel striking a shield-rim. Heming’s lips drew back. Thi
s was his strength: slinking in the woods, hunting. Probably it was just one of the crew, but only a fool or an unlucky fellow didn’t check. Heming hurried past a tree and at the last moment saw the foot. He hit it with his ankle, stumbled and a furry man pounced upon him, bearing him down. Heming shouted, or tried too. The man shoved his face into the leafy loam and drove a knee into his back. Cold iron touched his throat.

  “Say a word and you’re a dead man,” hissed a Viking with a Trondelag accent. “Do you understand?”

  Heming made muffled sounds.

  The Viking curled his fingers in Heming’s damp hair and yanked his face out of the loam. The knife remained as his throat. “Stand up slow if you want to live. You want to live, eh?”

  “Yes,” Heming whispered.

  “Sure you do,” the Viking said in a cruel voice.

  As Heming rose the fingers gripped his hair tighter and kept his head pulled back, hurting his neck.

  “Walk.”

  “Where to?” Heming whispered.

  The lips moved just behind his ear. The breath was hot and prickled Heming’s scalp. “What if I shove my blade in your belly? What if pull out your intestines, tie you to a tree? You like that?”

  “No,” Heming whispered.

  The Viking pushed him. It was difficult seeing where he was going with his head yanked back. Then the Viking shoved him hard. As he staggered, Heming figured he had one chance for freedom. Before he could take it, huge hands clamped upon his biceps and he found himself staring up at a beast, a monster of a man, the worst berserk of the Great Army.

  The berserk had a low sloping forehead with a horizontal crease, a heavy line running across it. He had small beady eyes filled with fanatical fire and a wide, flattish nose. His lower jaw was massive and he had big square teeth. Unkempt, oily hair spilled around him and he wore shaggy furs. He was Bjorn the Berserk, chief of the Sea King’s Twelve. He was of a size of Ivar Hammerhand but without the fat. Ivar was huge. Bjorn was like some primordial beastman, as much animal as human, hairy, primitive and with apelike arms.

  Vikings named such men trollblooded, believing that in the past trolls had mated with women to sire tall, ugly men such as Bjorn.

  “You’re Ivar’s whelp,” the berserk said.

  Heming nodded.

  Bjorn tore the Hammer of Thor amulet from Heming’s neck.

  Heming noticed Bjorn’s amulet hidden among his matted furs. The crudely molded silver showed a galloping horse. Upon its back rode a horned-helmed hag grasping a spear. She was a Valkyrie: a fierce female spirit, a servant of Odin the Slayer that delighted in blood and carnage and devoured battlefield corpses.

  “I’ll… I’ll tell my father you’re here,” Heming said.

  Bjorn shook his ugly head. “I’ll greet the Hammerhand myself.”

  “But… but they’re getting ready to leave,” Heming said, his mouth bone dry. “I must stop my father before he leaves.”

  “You lie,” the hidden Viking whispered. “They’re bloated on monk-meat. They’re asleep like the dead.”

  Heming tried to squirm free. “We’re all part of the Great Army. We’ve all swore oaths of brotherhood.”

  Bjorn lowered his features into Heming’s face. “I also swore an oath on my brother’s corpse. It was long ago, Ivarsson, long ago in Lombardy, in a city called Luna.”

  The blood drained from Heming’s face.

  Those terrible eyes narrowed. “I see you know the tale, or whatever lies that your father has told you.”

  Heming shook his head.

  Bjorn cruelly dug his fingers into Heming’s arms. Those eyes become flat and glassy.

  He’s mad, Heming realized, insane with years of bloodlust. Heming squirmed, was afraid piss would dribble out of him.

  “Your father once marched into a crypt with companions,” Bjorn said. His glassy stare became distant. “Aye,” he whispered, “I scampered behind them unseen. I was a whelp then, a dog of a lad jeered at by the reavers of Hastein’s band. I endured blows and kicks. Only my brother treated me fair. I waited for him to come up from the crypt. I hid behind a tombstone and watched Ivar Hammerhand stride out the church, staring at a golden cup. Etched on Ivar’s face were greed and hatred. After he left, I hurried down those dank stairs. I felt spirits all around me. Do you know what I found?”

  Heming shook his head.

  “We waste time,” the hidden Viking said. “The day lengthens and soon they will arise.”

  The flat, glassy stare changed as facial muscles hardened. Bjorn glanced at the other and slowly nodded.

  Heming drew his breath to shout. Bjorn hurled him down. Nevertheless, Heming managed a strangled yell as a lean man with a wolf-headed cap (the hidden Viking) pounced upon him and wrestled a rag over his mouth.

  Then death tramped from behind the apple trees, more shaggy cutthroats in wolf-coats, the rest of the Twelve. They were the feared bodyguard of Sigfred the Sea King. Most had long greasy hair and coarse brutal faces. A few wore mail. Each carried a chosen weapon: spear, axe or sword. Only three had shields. They were not defensive fighters, but rather the living embodiment of the attack. Like aftergangers, live corpses, they filed between the apple trees. They moved as one, quiet, efficient, a killing team. Then the horses gave warning. The Frankish mares neighed wildly, their nostrils wide and blowing as if they scented wolf. Maybe those fur coats gave off the dreaded lupine stink.

  “For Odin!” Bjorn shouted.

  The twelve berserks burst out of the apple orchard. In great, leaping bounds, they rushed the startled reavers.

  The veteran sea rovers should have been ready. They had raided for many a year and had good arms and armor and more than three times the berserks’ numbers. Unfortunately, for Ivar’s band, the fight was swift, savage and brutal. The Twelve were the chosen of Sigfred, the select of the Great Host. Although they hadn’t gained the fury of Odin, they fell upon the older, mostly sleeping warriors like wolves, and slew all but Ivar and his son.

  7.

  The Twelve slaughtered the horses, buried one of theirs and left the Viking slain where they lay. Most of Ivar’s band hadn’t even made it out of the sleep bags. Berserks hauled the old monk to his feet, slashed his bonds and shoved him stumbling into the forest. Of the second monk, there was no sign. When the old monk fell, the berserks kicked him or dragged him by his gimp leg.

  Ivar Hammerhand, with his huge hands bound behind his back and a noose digging into his fleshy neck, grunted and spewed profanities. Blood tricked from his blubbery back and the back of his thighs. The blood seeped because berserks jabbed him whenever he became too stubborn. Heming trotted beside his father, equally bound and noosed but not as mulish. In a deepening daze, he staggered through the forest. He blamed himself. He hadn’t given warning. Doom curdled his gut. Bad luck perched on his shoulders. He should have—

  “Step quickly,” a berserk said, with a tug on the rope.

  They marched through the damp, dense forest. They had jogged down a deer run and then stepped off the path. Now they avoided all trails. They snapped branches, brushed aside ancient spider-webs and kicked old brittle leaves. They wandered deep into the gloomy-green labyrinth, into its darkest, pathless recesses. The berserks spoke little. Those in pain from wounds grinned with sweat on their faces. Bjorn and the wolf-capped berserk broke trail. With axes, they hacked through the branch-laden maze.

  Heming stumbled over uneven ground. Twigs and spider-silk twined in his hair and sweat soaked his tunic. The forest air was thick and oppressive. In the silence (except for snapped branches and the grunt or oath of a berserk) the forest seemed eerily haunted. In this shadowy world, mossy boulders loomed upon them suddenly. Some of the rocky formations seemed like seats or thrones for Elves. The slanted rays of the sun glowed with a leafy-green taint. One time a lighting blasted tree lay athwart their route and later they kicked through a sea of mushrooms as high as their knees.

  The quiet oaths, the grunts, grew in number. They had trekked now for ma
ny a weary hour. Likely few Franks had ever been in this trackless section of forest. Perhaps a lost charcoal-burner or a hermit longing for solitude had trod this ground, but surely no others.

  Bjorn swiveled his head and said, “Soon, soon now.”

  Heming trembled as much from dread as exhaustion. The man’s voice was impossibly deep. Beside him, his father stumbled as his foot sank into a pit. The Hammerhand crashed against a tree and left a swath of his skin on the bark. Blood welled on that shoulder. Ivar swayed, and he said in a husky pant, “No more. Slay me and be done with your damned deeds.”

  Sweat and blood had mingled on the Hammerhand’s white skin. It made it greasy-slick and cool. He had aged. His facial skin hung lank and loose. His damp beard had tangled with the flotsam of the forest.

  Bjorn loomed before them, thudded his axe into a tree and held out his hand. A berserk put a clothbound object into it. Bjorn unwound the cloth and revealed the golden chalice shaped as a human skull.

  Ivar glared from under bushy eyebrows. His nostrils flared as he hunched his head.

  “Do you remember, Hammerhand? Do you remember my brother who you slew, cutting him down from behind? Do you remember his companions who trusted you?”

  Pain lurked in Ivar’s eyes. He shook his head and flung blood-sweaty droplets. “It was not I who slew them. Your brother went mad, inflamed by that cursed priest and his lies.”

  “Lies?” Bjorn said.

  Ivar blew sweat from his mustache. “The priest lied about the cup and gave us false prophecies.”

  “It is cup of Attila,” Bjorn said.

  Ivar laughed harshly.