The Raven's Table: Viking Stories

by Christine Morgan

  At last a few of the bravest defenders came out to meet their foes, but they soon fell, and the draugr swarmed over the wall and into the fortress. Even from where she stood, Hildirid could hear the cries of pain and anguish and terror, and the ghastly sounds of feeding as Sveinthor’s followers feasted on quivering, still-warm flesh.

  Later, when quiet had descended and the night was almost done, she took Bryn-Loki and ventured into the fort. Everywhere she looked were draugr, plundering the newly-dead and adorning themselves with medallions and arm-rings, or taking trophies of scalps and fingers and jawbones and heads. The living—the women and children and slaves taken from among Kjartan’s people—cowered unharmed and ignored.

  Then she saw Kjartan himself, freed from his prison and seated upon his great wooden chair draped with bearskins. Ulfgrim’s body, bound in ropes, lay before him with a pool of blood around the stump of his neck. His head was held aloft on the point of Wolf’s Tooth, raised high by Sveinthor.

  Kjartan saw her, as well. “He will not stay, Hildirid,” the king said. “He must return to the burial-mound, before dawn comes. He has fulfilled his wyrd.”

  No amount of imploring by them could sway Sveinthor. As the sky to the east brightened, the draugr left off what they were doing. Almost as one, they left the fort and returned to the field, lying down again where they had died and then arisen. Eyjolf, Bork, Thrain and their women entered the tomb, followed by Bryn-Loki.

  Only Sveinthor remained. He had Ulfgrim’s head knotted by the hair to his belt, and Wolf’s Tooth was finally released from his grip to be sheathed again across his back. With his one good hand, he reached out and caressed the curve of Hildirid’s cheek. Then he turned from her, and walked toward the mound.

  “Farewell, lord,” Hildirid said to Kjartan, and kissed him.

  “Hildirid!” the king called. “Where do you go? What do you do?”

  “As you said, lord, Sveinthor has fulfilled his wyrd.” She touched the knife at her belt, and smiled. “Now I shall fulfill mine.”

  So saying, she followed Sveinthor into the darkness. When the sun rose, the entrance to the mound was covered over again with planks and stones and earth. Never again was it disturbed by mortal men.

  And so ends the saga of Sveinthor the Unkillable, and the beautiful Hildirid, his beloved barrow-maid.

  THYF’S TALE

  A wolf’s wind howled, winter snow whipping as white drifts piled, the whole world cold and dark as Hel’s domain.

  Within the longhouse, behind log walls mud-plastered and beneath wet thatch moss-heavy, the folk of Jarl Hodvard’s farmstead gathered against the night.

  Here around the hearths they sat, upon sleeping-platforms that lined the hall. Here were heaped furs and fleeces, thick cloaks and wool blankets. In stone-ringed pits the fires burned, shedding heat and light while smoke hung thick among the roof-beams.

  Bread and cheese and barley beer had been their meal, with a broth of boiled beef and leeks and garlic. Now men passed the mead-bowls hand to hand, that sweet drink, honey-made. Voices rose as spirits did, in merriment and laughter. Children played with hounds on the rush-strewn hard earth floor, the women sewed and spun.

  And they did not know how Death waited among them.

  Ate and drank, spoke and laughed, among them.

  Hodvard had at the head of his hall a great chair, oak-carved, antler-adorned, draped in deer-hides and bear-skins. A sword, sheathed in leather, rested above it on wooden pegs. To one side of the sword was a shield painted oxblood-red. To the other was a helm, old and much-dented.

  He had been a warrior once. A hewer of men, a blood-letter, a death-bringer, a cleaver of limbs and skulls. He had plundered rich silver from cities and monasteries. He had won worthy followers to his boar’s-head banner.

  He was a warrior still, for all that the years might weigh upon him. Though his shoulders might be stooped, his hair and beard grey-streaked, though a softness of paunch rolled over his belt, he would set himself against any number of foes.

  He would set himself against them unflinchingly, eager for the battle-rage, the red fog that clouded the eyes yet let them see all with an eagle’s clarity.

  Oh, his youthful times of raids and pillage were done, yes, and they had well served their purpose. How else could he have settled here, wealthy and content? He had fine farm-lands, the soil not thin and rough, not rocky and miserly to yield. The fields provided good pasturage, the woods good hunting.

  Olrunn, his first wife, had given him six sons. His second wife, young Esja, had already borne him another. Among those of his hall were daughters and in-laws, kinsmen, grandchildren, nephews, bastards, war-brothers, guests and friends. Servants there were too, and slaves, well-treated.

  Hodvard was known as a fair and just jarl. His hospitality and generosity were beyond compare. His nature was jovial, his wise judgment often sought in counsel.

  Strange, it might seem, that any would wish him ill-will.

  Or bring violence against him here in the fastness of his own hall.

  The mead-bowls passed ’round again.

  Men called for music and Erik Deft-Handed fetched down a harp. He played to them a familiar tune, an oar-song, one they knew from riding the whale road, Njord’s grey waves, in the dragon-headed ships, and they sang along heartily. When it was done, Hodvard acclaimed the harpsman, and threw to him a silver ring.

  Then was another song called for and this time a girl arose, pretty Lundis, Bergulf’s sister. Her voice pure as clear-water, she sang of Brynnhild’s sorrow, the valkyrie-maid pining in her love for Sigurd.

  The women of the hall found this to their liking, and Hodvard gave the girl a comb of ivory. But the rest wanted next some entertainment more to thrill the nerve and chill the blood, and so turned to Thyf.

  “You have traveled far and seen much,” they said to him. “Tell us a grim tale!”

  So Thyf settled himself near the fire and began to speak.

  “This is the Saga of Guldi and Svarti…”

  ***

  Once there were two friends known since birth

  Babes-in-arms together, orphaned of mothers

  Playmates, they were, and inseparable

  Guldi as fair-haired as Svarti was dark

  The both of them handsome lads, and strong

  When they came of age and wished to go to war

  Their fathers armored them in mail-coats

  Gave them swords and shields, helms and horses

  And sent them to be trained, to be made battle-ready

  Proud sons to bring honor to their names

  Guldi proved a bold and fearless warrior

  Shrinking from no challenge

  Valorous, a true leader of men

  Winner of renown and rewards

  Gold-girt, with rich rings thick upon his arms

  But for Svarti, swift and clever

  In the clash of shield-walls, the slash of sword-blades

  The drumming of hoof-beats and the singing of bow-strings

  Muster his courage though he would

  Time and again it failed him

  The others, at first, laughed and jeered

  Making much mockery of his plight

  Until even Guldi took part

  Their brotherhood since boyhood,

  Their long friendship, forgotten

  Soon it was that none would stand beside him

  Shoulder-to in the line where lime-wood overlaps

  Where each man must rely upon his neighbor

  Else join the dead upon the corpse-strewn field

  Eyes raven-pecked, flesh cold, guts spilled

  In fierce battles where men bled and died

  His companions would find Svarti

  Crouched and cowering, dumb-struck

  Unmanned by terror, weeping

  Breeches befouled in hot and stinking shame

  Until he could withstand no more

  Abandoning their war-band to slink away

  To sell sw
ord and shield, mount and mail

  To take up trade in the town, and settle there

  Where he prospered, and grew wealthy within its walls

  Now, there dwelled in that city the maiden Alfir

  Of beauty, wit and wisdom above all women

  Blue-eyed Alfir, daughter of a lord

  Whose father, swayed by gold and greed

  Consented she would become Svarti’s wife

  But war kindled in the land, and fanned its flames

  Until farms and fields smoldered in black ashes

  The folk slain, enslaved, the cattle slaughtered

  The city besieged, bereft of mercy

  Wracked by famines and the pestilence

  Soon Svarti found that all his fortune

  Could not stave off sufferings for long

  Silver useless ’gainst sickness and starvation

  Even emeralds buy no meat or milk

  Nor bread when none is to be bought

  Just when it seemed hope must be lost

  Rescue came, men and horses, over the hills

  A sea of shields, spears like tall grain-stalks

  Sun glinting on helms, an army

  With Guldi’s banner flying at its head

  They broke the siege and sent foes scattering

  For their very lives running in rout and retreat

  Cut down as they fled, heads hewn from bodies

  The city saved from certain fall

  The army welcomed, and Guldi hailed a hero

  In the great glad revelry that followed

  Alfir looked on Guldi, loved and favored him

  Wanting for her husband a brave man, a warrior

  Insisting she would wed no other

  And Guldi did not disagree

  So it was that Svarti, shamed anew

  Vowed oaths of vengeance against Guldi

  Once his friend, close as a brother

  Hated now, his sworn enemy

  Heart poisoned against him

  Then there came to Svarti’s house a traveler

  A stranger, a visitor, wolf-cloaked

  Bright of eye and sly of smile

  Who had heard of Svarti’s troubles

  And come to make offer of counsel

  “For a purse of silver,” the stranger said,

  “Men can be bought, hired swords

  Mercenaries loyal-bound to no king

  To beset upon Guldi from ambush

  Cut him down, and end his life.”

  But Svarti would not consider this

  Saying, “Guldi is too great a warrior

  Well-armed and well-armored

  Well-accompanied when he rides

  He fights as if born of sword and shield.

  “Whole armies could you throw against him

  Like waves against a stone cliff-face

  Even should by chance some blow strike

  To die in Odin’s battle-glory

  Would be Guldi’s dearest wish.”

  “For a purse of gold, then,” the stranger said,

  “I will undertake this task myself

  To, by stealth, slay him as he sleeps

  Peaceful, unknowing of his fate

  No weapon within his grasp.

  “And so deny him the honorable war-death

  That would earn him a seat at Odin’s table

  In high Valhalla, golden-roofed

  The feast-hall, the mead-hall

  Of its five hundred and forty doors.

  “There, men wait, Valkyrie-chosen,

  For the sounding of Heimdal’s Gjallarhorn

  To don their war-gear against the giants

  In that final battle, the gods’ twilight

  At the destruction and the drowning of the world.”

  At this, Svarti let himself be coaxed

  Giving the stranger half a purse of gold

  For which he would that very night

  Go to Guldi, and do mischief upon him

  Dooming him forever to Niflheim, Hel’s realm

  The stranger, whose name was Mord-Vargr

  The killer-wolf, the murderer

  Went forth in darkness from Svarti’s house

  Stoat-silent and cat-quick

  Upon death’s errand like a shadow

  He donned again his cloak, two-sided,

  White-furred and black, a gift to him

  From the insulter of the Aesir

  Mother of Sleipnir, Fenrir’s father

  The wily one, bringer of Baldr’s bane

  He went unseen to the place where Guldi slept

  Dropping into the hearth-embers a sprig of herbs

  Troll-wife stuff, marsh-witchery

  Its smoke to lull and cast a pall

  Drawing dreamers deeper into dreams

  Guldi had by his bed-side a broad-bladed axe

  On the bed-post his sword-belt hung, within reach

  A stabbing-blade he kept beneath his head-rest

  A short knife secured to his wrist

  All of these, Mord-Vargr slipped from him and took away

  The war-lord, unarmed and unaware

  Defenseless, Guldi slumbered on

  He felt nothing as the knotted twine

  Looped loosely ’round his neck

  Twisting tight and ever tighter

  First flush then pallor flooded Guldi’s face

  Mouth gaping and with lips blue-tinged

  He twitched, and gave a thin last gasp

  Then strong limbs slackened; he lay dead

  Strangled like a stillborn babe upon its own birth-cord

  Swift and stealthy as he’d come, he left

  The wolf-cloaked killer, Mord-Vargr

  Returning to the house where Svarti sat waiting

  Gut-sick with reproach at his abasement

  Even as his heart leaped in wicked joy

  “The deed is done,” the murderer said. “Guldi lives no more

  No seat awaits him among the einherjar, Odin’s own

  No mead-horn and feast of boiled meat

  Cut each night from the flesh of Saehrimnir

  The immortal boar renewed again each dawn.”

  Svarti paid what was owed, that terrible perversity of wergild

  Yet took but bleak and shallow satisfaction from it

  For a coward lives like one half-dead already

  And he knew the freezing fogs of Niflheim

  Would one day await him as well

  But Freya’s tears of gold had purchased Alfir’s tears of silver

  The maiden weeping, grieving for the hero slain

  Mourning him, she scorned anew what Svarti offered

  So despite his wealth, a dragon’s hoard

  He grew old and wretched, and died alone.

  ***

  A hush spread as Thyf spoke, and for a span of time it lingered when he finished.

  He’d watched the jarl’s men grin at the words of war-glory and battle-carnage, and seen them sneer their disdain for Svarti’s cowardice.

  And he’d observed how unease seeped into each of them, like ground-water, as Guldi’s dishonorable death unfolded. He saw them shiver, and faces go ashen beneath their beards.

  Every warrior’s innermost creeping fear, dark, gnawing and insidious, was to be denied a glorious death in combat, and be deemed unworthy of Valhalla. To become aged and infirm, crippled, weak, a feeble burden, a frail and useless creature… or to die of illness, accident… or worst of all, a low and slinking murder, life not lost but stolen…

  They had asked him for a grim tale, had they not?

  Now, gathering themselves, the men uttered bluff and hearty laughter to prove it had not affected them unduly.

  “Grim, indeed,” Hodvard said to Thyf, “but, well-told, well-told.” And he gave Thyf a brooch of hammered bronze.

  The fires had burned low by then, the mead-bowls drained, and Hodvard’s folk readied themselves for the night.

  Some of the men made a joke-show of checking that their wea
pons rested near at hand by their sleeping-places. Others peered into the hearths, poking the ash-covered embers as if searching for bundles of suspicious sprig-bundles, to the amusement of all.

  There were none, of course, and the smoke no different than ever.

  Neither was it the mead that had been laced with potent herbs.

  Soon enough the night-noises of the hall became slumbering-sounds, rustles and murmurs, snores and slow breaths.

  Beyond log walls and thatch roof, wind whistled and snow blew.

  Then Thyf, who had lain awake all the while, arose from his furs and blankets.

  None stirred at his movement.

  He went to Hodvard’s great chair. Behind it hung a partition of hides, draping off a smaller chamber where the jarl and his young wife Esja shared a bed.

  The dull red glow from the low-burned fires let him make his way unhindered to Hodvard’s side. He saw that the old warrior slept with a hand-axe, its iron head leather-sheathed, curled to his chest the way a child might cradle a twig doll.

  It was the broth that had been drugged, the broth of boiled beef with leeks and garlic, strong-flavored so any bitterness was masked.

  Thyf, with gentle care and caution, lifted the axe to remove it from Hodvard’s arms. He put it aside on the floor, where it might easily enough have fallen in the course of normal sleep.

  He slid his fingers through thick grey hair, raised up Hodvard’s head, and turned it to the side. There was the neck, the nape exposed.

  Not the strangling twine this time.

  She wanted it done without sign or trace, an undetectable murder.

  At the base of the skull where the spine joined with it was a hollow, an indentation of the flesh.

  “I bore him six sons,” Olrunn had said. “Six strong sons, fine boys.”

  Thyf withdrew from one of his woolen leg-wraps a folded piece of linen, and from the linen a long sliver of ivory. Its narrow end came to a point, sharp as any needle, while its wider end was blunted. Its edges were honed like those of the thinnest sword-blade.