Viking Warrior

by Judson Roberts

  Harald pointed to the stone-outlined death ship farthest from us.

  “This last grave belongs to Harald, for whom I am named. He was Hrorik’s brother. He died as a young man defending against a raid along the Limfjord by four shiploads of Sveas and Gotars. But for his courage, none in the longhouse would have escaped."

  Before me lay the graves of chieftains and great men. Some of their blood ran in my veins. I wondered if the spirits of any of these men still wandered this hilltop at night as draugr, walking dead—their spirits still bound to this world, and living in their tombs. Or were these death ships now nothing more than stone markers of the place from whence their voyages to the afterworld were launched?

  That night at the feast, Harald insisted that I sit at the center of the main table. “You are the master of this household, now,” he said. “The place of honor is rightfully yours.”

  I sat there reluctantly. It felt strange; somehow wrong. It had been a day full of foreign feelings. Certainly it was very strange to walk through fields and pastures and realize that these were lands that I, Halfdan, but recently a thrall, now owned. And now I was at a feast in the longhouse, and I was seated at the head of the main table. It had not been that many weeks ago when I would not have been eating at a table at all—I would have been among the thralls, eating scraps.

  Aidan and his wife, Tove, had prepared a sumptuous meal. Whilst living amongst the Franks and the Irish, Aidan had learned many ways of cooking and flavoring foods besides those commonly used among the Danes. Though among our people the cooking chores were mostly the province of women, Aidan worked as hard at the hearth as any kitchen thrall. He and Tove cut the venison into small chunks and simmered them in Frankish wine flavored with herbs until the meat was so tender it scarce needed chewing to be swallowed. Aidan also cut many thin, boneless slices of flesh from the sides of the salmon, fried them in a shallow iron pan in butter, and served them over slabs of fresh bread.

  “Tomorrow night,” he promised, “we will cook the main body of this great, beautiful fish. I will submerge it in ale and cook it slowly in a style I learned in Dorestad. Tomorrow I also will take you to the village and introduce you to the folk there.”

  There were many other treats besides the venison and fish. Aidan and Tove were skilled cooks. It was, without question, the finest meal I’d ever eaten, and we washed the food down with a fine mead that Aidan had been aging for many months.

  When we’d all had our fill and far beyond, and our stomachs were groaning at our excesses, Harald stood up.

  “This is a special occasion,” he announced, “for on this day, Halfdan, son of Hrorik, takes possession of this estate to be his own.”

  All raised their cups, gave a ragged and slightly drunken cheer, “Halfdan!” then drank. The serving thralls scurried among us, refilling empty cups.

  “There is another reason this day is special,” Harald continued. “We are in the third new moon after the Jul feast. On this farm fifteen years ago, during the third new moon after the Jul feast, Derdriu gave birth to Halfdan. He is now fifteen years of age and has truly reached manhood.”

  This time I barely heard the cheers that echoed round the hall. I was stunned. As a thrall, I’d never counted my existence over a greater period than one day to the next. Unlike free men and women, slaves do not come of age. The birth months of property are not celebrated. From force of habit, I’d thought no differently since I’d been freed. Suddenly I realized Harald was speaking again.

  “It has been but a short time that I have considered Halfdan to be my brother,” he said, “but in that time I have come to know him well. Hrorik entrusted Halfdan and his training into my care. I have quickly learned that it has been my loss that we have not shared our lives as brothers since the day of his birth.”

  Tears came to my eyes. Embarrassed, I ducked my head to hide them. I hoped my mother could hear Harald’s words and know the blessings she had bought me by her sacrifice.

  Harald laid an object wrapped in sealskin on the table in front of me. “Accept this from me, my brother Halfdan, as a gift to celebrate the memory of your birth, your attainment of manhood, and my joy that we are brothers.”

  Wrapped within the sealskin was a dagger. Its hilt was a short bar of brightly polished steel, tapered to a point at either end. The handle was of some dark wood, smooth and polished and warm to the touch, and the pommel was solid silver, cast with intricate designs containing tiny ships, figures, and runes. The scabbard was wood covered with soft leather, with a band of oiled-soaked fur lining the metal-rimmed throat. It was when I drew the blade from its scabbard, though, that I realized the dagger’s true worth. The blade was pattern-welded, its surface swirling in mysterious designs, like the currents of a river frozen in steel. I knew as soon as I saw the blade that Harald must have purchased it to be a companion to his sword, Biter. He had done me great honor by giving this dagger to me.

  We celebrated far into the night. As he had promised, Aidan told his story of the whale that swallowed a man. Because he insisted the story was true, it provoked much discussion whether anyone could survive such an experience. Ulf was of the opinion that even if one could survive, their smell afterward would be such that no one could bear to come near. Harald recited a lengthy and stirring poem about a battle fought by a mighty warrior against great odds, and we all drank many toasts. It was a fine night that will live in my memory forever.

  I was awakened in the early hours of the morning by someone shaking me. Gradually I became aware that it was Harald, but I was too groggy from the mead I’d drunk and the sleep I’d not slept to fully wake up. Harald left, and I was almost back asleep when someone dumped a pitcher of cold water on my head. I sat up, sputtering.

  “Wake up, Halfdan!” Harald was squatting beside me. “And keep quiet. We are in danger. Get your weapons and join me by the hearth.”

  The remnants of the evening’s fire lay on the hearth, now mostly just glowing embers, but low flames flickered along one remaining log. In the dim light I could see, up and down the hall, others being awakened, gathering weapons, and making their way to the center of the hall. When all had arrived, Harald addressed us in a low voice.

  “There may be enemies outside, around the longhouse. Ulf, tell us what you’ve seen.”

  “I woke up and felt the need to empty my water,” Ulf said, “and possibly more, besides. I walked through the byre, intending to go out to the privy, but before I stepped out of the shadows of the byre doorway I heard voices outside and stopped. After a time, I saw them—dark shapes of men hiding in the edge of the woods behind the privy. Had they not carelessly revealed their position, no doubt I would be dead now, lying in a pool of piss and blood. I watched for a while. After a time, one of them stepped out into the open and waved his arm, as if to signal to someone at the other end of the longhouse. Though there’s no moon and it is dark outside, I could see the light from the stars glinting on his helm and spearpoint, and could tell that he carried a shield. We are surrounded by armed men.”

  The wife of one of the farm carls uttered a low wail. Tove clapped a hand over the woman’s mouth, cutting off the noise, and whispered, “Silence.”

  Harald and Ulf were already wearing their mail brynies. As Ulf was recounting his news, Rolf slipped on his leather jerkin and tightened the laces. The men who had helms—only two of the housecarls from the Limfjord estate did—pulled them on and tied the lacing under their chins. I did the same, then strung my bow.

  “Halfdan, you and Ulf and Lodver, and you three,” Harald said, indicating the three housecarls from the estate who were standing closest to me, “guard the main door here in the hall. It is small enough that only one man can come through at a time. Rolf, Odd, and the rest of you, come with me. We must defend the byre. If any have bows, bring them. We will need them this night.”

  Harald and his men left, headed for the byre. Ulf ordered Aidan to bank the fire so no light would show within the longhouse. Then he took the wome
n, children, and slaves to the end of the building opposite the byre. There they turned a table on its side, propped it across one corner of the room, and huddled down behind it.

  One of the carls Harald had assigned to me carried a bow and quiver. I hoped he could use it.

  “What is your name?” I asked him. I’d learned it earlier, but could not recall it now.

  “Fret,” he replied.

  “Fret, in a moment we’ll open this door and see what’s out there. If enemies are waiting, I’d rather that you and I keep them at a distance if we can.”

  To the men outside, we’d be hidden in the shadows that cloaked the interior of the longhouse, but I hoped the dim light from the stars outside would reveal their presence to us.

  I shook my head, trying to clear the last vestiges of sleep from it. My mind still felt slow from the amount I’d drunk at the feast, and I was having to work to concentrate my thoughts on what I was doing. It was probably a good thing. I was so intent on being alert to what was happening, it did not occur to me to be afraid.

  The main door opened in. When I signaled that we were in place, Ulf swung it open and folded it back against the wall. Fret and I stood with arrows nocked and our bows ready, a spear’s length back from the door’s opening, slightly off to either side. It was good we hadn’t stood directly in front of the doorway, for moments after Ulf swung the door aside, two arrows whistled in through its opening and thudded into the far wall.

  I peered, straining, into the dark, but at first could see nothing. Suddenly, from the direction of the byre, I heard the strangled cry of a man in pain, then war cries and the clash of metal. At the sound, a dark mass rose up from the ground in front of us—only a short spear-throw away from the door—and rushed forward. I realized that our attackers had crept close and had been lying, hidden in the shadows on the ground in front of the longhouse, waiting for the signal to attack.

  I loosed an arrow, aiming at knee height towards the mass of charging men. Someone yelped in pain and fell sideways out of the pack. Fret shot, too, but I heard his arrow thud uselessly into a shield.

  “Shoot low, at their legs,” I called to him.

  Quickly I nocked another arrow and drew. The charging men were close enough now that even in the dim light I could see details. A man wearing a shiny helm and a mail brynie was leading the charge, howling in a wordless war cry. His boldness cost him his life. My arrow skimmed across the top edge of his shield and struck him in the mouth. He fell forward, propelled by the momentum of his charge, and rolled with a thump against the wall of the longhouse.

  Lodver and one of the estate’s carls were crouched against the wall to the right side of the doorway, and Ulf and the other carl stood ready against the wall across from them on the other side of the door. As the first of the attackers reached the doorway, Ulf stepped out and blocked the way, far enough back that one man, but only one, could step inside.

  A warrior with blond hair, in two long braids hanging out behind his helm, leaped in. He caught Ulf’s sword on his shield, and stabbed forward with his spear. Ulf used his shield to deflect the thrust, then Lodver, still standing against the wall and hidden in its shadow, drove his spearpoint into the man’s back and killed him.

  The attackers learned quickly. No one followed their now-dead comrade through the doorway. Instead, men stood outside, against the walls and out of sight from Fret and me, stabbing their spears blindly through the doorway’s opening, reaching into the darkness on either side. The carl beside Lodver to the right of the door cried out and staggered back, wounded in the shoulder.

  Outside, a man stepped suddenly in front of the door and drew back his spear to throw.

  “Ulf, down!” I cried. Ulf dropped and rolled to the side, and the spear flew harmlessly over him. I launched an arrow in return and struck the spear thrower in the face. He flopped backward without a sound. Fret shot and dropped another, who’d lunged low across the doorway opening, trying to gut Lodver with his thrust. He’d crouched behind his shield as he attacked, but left his neck and shoulders exposed.

  Suddenly they turned and ran. Fret and I continued shooting as they fled. I brought one man down with an arrow through his back, and heard another cry out after Fret’s shot, before all escaped from view.

  Ulf scrambled on his hands and knees back to cover, on the left side of the doorway. The carl who’d been standing with Ulf on that side stepped forward to check his wounded comrade on the other side of the door, now leaning back against the wall and being examined by Lodver. As he crossed the open doorway, an arrow flew out of the dark and struck him in the side, toppling him to the ground. Ulf grabbed the man’s legs and pulled him back into the shadows. By the time I reached them, Ulf had propped him against the wall of the longhouse. The man was groaning and clutching at the arrow embedded in his side. Only half of the arrow’s shaft, and its feather fletching, was showing. Aidan joined us.

  “I have some skill at healing,” he said. “I will attend to him.”

  Ulf stopped him. “There’s another of your men who took a spear in his shoulder. Tend to him first. He can still aid us in this fight. This one is finished in this fight for certain, and probably for good.”

  Ulf turned to me and clapped his hand on my shoulder.

  “You shoot your bow fast and true,” he said. “If we had several more like you, I’d feel more confident that we will see the morning.”

  Ulf seemed calm. If the danger we were in frightened him, he hid it well. His words awakened my fear, though. Ulf was one of Harald’s most seasoned warriors. If he felt concerned, our danger must be dire indeed. A wave of nausea churned the contents of my stomach. I prayed I would not vomit and embarrass myself. Beads of sweat sprang out on my forehead. I mopped them off with the sleeve of my tunic, and was thankful that the darkness in the longhouse hid the signs of my fearfulness from the others.

  The carl who’d been hit by the arrow groaned softly. One of the women was at his side now, trying to give him water. He coughed, choked on it, and shook his head, indicating she should cease.

  Harald entered from the byre. He was panting and paused to catch his breath before he spoke.

  “It was hard going in there. They reached the door of the byre almost the same time we did, and several forced their way inside. They’ve withdrawn for now, though.”

  “Have you losses among your men?” Ulf asked.

  Harald nodded. “Aye. Two dead, one wounded. One of the carls from here was our first to reach the byre door. He was caught by surprise when the attackers burst in. He took a spear through the throat. Another’s head was split by an axe as we fought in the dark inside the doorway, and Odd has a wound in his leg, though he can still fight. But six of the enemy lie dead on the floor of the byre.”

  Ulf nodded. “They’re paying a price, but I fear they have more men to pay with than we. One of our carls from the farm is dying, and one is wounded.”

  Ulf gestured at me. “Halfdan is a good man to have by your side in a fight,” he said. “We killed four of their men for certain, at the door, and wounded or killed several others, during their charge and retreat. Most fell to Halfdan’s bow.”

  Harald reached out and put his hand on my shoulder.

  “That’s high praise indeed, my brother, coming from Ulf. He has seen much battle. I am proud of you.”

  I felt too rattled to be pleased, though later I would remember Harald’s words and take some comfort from them.

  “What do you think they’ll do next?” I asked.

  “They will try to burn us out,” Harald answered. “I do not think they’ll try an assault again, after taking so many losses.”

  “Are they raiders?” I asked.

  Harald shook his head. “I think not. There’ve been no foreign raiders on the Limfjord since the raid when Hrorik’s brother was killed many years ago. A hue and cry was raised along the fjord then, and all four shiploads of Gotars and Sveas were wiped out. No one has dared since. I fear this is the work of
Ragnvald.” He sighed. “If it is a matter of personal vengeance against me, we may at least be able to negotiate safe passage for the women, children, and thralls before the next attack. He may not agree, but I must try.”

  Harald stepped to the edge of the doorway and called out in a loud voice, “I would speak with your leader.”

  After a time, a voice answered from the darkness, “Who is it that wishes to speak with me?”

  “I am Harald Hroriksson. Are you the leader of this war band?”

  “I speak for him,” came the reply. I wondered why their leader did not speak for himself.

  Harald grunted. “I do not recognize the voice. Perhaps Ragnvald hopes to keep his role in this secret.” He called out again. “There are women and children and thralls in the longhouse. They have no part in this fight. Will you let them pass in safety?”

  “Send them out,” the voice replied.

  “I must have the oath of your leader,” Harald insisted. “I must have his oath that they will be unharmed and that you will not take them into captivity.”

  A long silence followed. Harald broke it by calling out again. “Whatever your quarrel is with us, the women and children have not harmed you. There is no honor in harming them.”

  Finally a muffled voice, different from the first, responded, “I am the leader of these men. I give you my oath. Send them out now if they’re coming at all. I will not delay my attack for long.”

  There was much weeping among the womenfolk as they prepared to leave. Harald urged Aidan to accompany them, for he was not a warrior, but he responded, “I am not a thrall. My place is with you and Halfdan and the rest of the men.”