Robbing rats and ravens of their gluttonous foul feast
Wolves left hungry, dogs denied dead bones to gnaw
We have trimmed our nails short, we are at our ease
We will win honor and victory, or a warrior’s death
Our oaths sworn to Hjorleif and through him to his brothers
We will fight for them, gaining glory for our own names
We will fight for wealth plundered from our fallen foes
For gift-given gold, gems, and silver from generous kings
For the pride of forefathers, of our sons and theirs after
Those with wives and women fighting for them as well
Whatever else, we will surely be remembered and famed
Yet, as the ship skips and skims with swift wind and wave
As the sail bells, the mast creaks, the wake widens white
And each crash of the hull on the swells casts up spray
From the north sweeps a sudden strong gale, bitter-cold
The exhalation of a thousand fierce frost-giants blowing
A storm-wall of hail-clouds, ice and sleet whirling at us
Whipping the world to a freezing white terror and frenzy
The onslaught comes too quickly to be weathered or outrun
It comes screaming and howling, sea and sky all one beast
A ravenous gods’-wrath like the Fimbul-Winter foretold
Hjorleif shouts for us to hold fast, to brace and make ready
His words ripped from his lips by the teeth of the wind
We throw ourselves flat, cling to oar-benches, and pray
There is no other making ready for something such as this
Prayers go unanswered, unheard, laughed at, or ignored
Asgard does not interfere once fate’s threads are woven
Leaks spring, water pours in, waves sluice over the sides
The serpent’s head at the prow and the snarling stern-wolf
Cracking loose, tumbling off, swallowed up by the storm
Hull splintering to kindle-wood, high mast snapped short
And our ship breaks around us like some child’s twig toy
We are cast from our hand-holds, hurled from each other
Plunging with cries and splashes into frothing, frigid seas
The harsh salt-brine dashes, sharp and stinging, in our eyes
We struggle to the surface, we gasp, coughing, for breath
The water soaks our clothes, the sodden weight of wet wool
Fur and leather, like iron, like anchors, dragging us down
Those who cannot swim already lost to us, gone under
We call out, voices feeble in the fierce face of the wind
Futile calls for help, or to loved ones, or cursing the gods
The deep chill surrounds us, seeping into flesh and bone
Draining us of life’s blood-heat, sapping us of strength
Leaving us clinging to wreckage as relentless sleet lashes
Shivers wrack our bodies, hands and feet soon go numb
Until the waves rush over and engulf us in foaming whorls
The surge floods our nostrils, forces entrance at our mouths
Sieving through clenched teeth in thin, gritty salt-streams
Gorges lurch, gullets heave, we gag and choke on our bile
And murk-cloud the dark water with our last-eaten meals
Only to gulp throats and bellies full from the font of the sea
Swallowing deep of the waters as they swallow deep of us
Lungs ache and burn air-starved within the cages of our ribs
The throbbing of our heartbeats like heavy hammer-blows
As breaths burst from behind resisting close-clamped lips
Silent screams rise confined in bubbles, wavering quicksilver
This is not how our endings should have been, not like this
Slain in battle, yes, by violence, a warrior’s glorious death
But not this helpless, wretched horror as we drown and die
Our heads pound, our chests crushed as if in Thor’s fists
The very bones of our skulls seem to groan in our ears
Far above, ever farther, the surface sky-shimmer fades
We trail dwindling breath-bubbles like glimmering pearls
Mouths agape, wide eyes staring through our drifting hair
Pallid fingers sway limp in the tide, as if waving farewell
In vain reach for Valhalla, or rescue that will never come
Deepening waters darken in deepening shades as we sink
From blue to grey-blue, and from grey-blue to dusk-black
And then from dusk-black to a black even blacker than night
Un-moon-touched, un-star-pierced, un-north-lighted, black
Shapes flit and flick past our bodies, indistinct in the gloom
We are brushed and bumped, nosed, nudged by curious fish
And other sea-creatures, larger ones, large and ever-hungry
This is their lair, their world, here in the vast darkness
Where whalesong warbles eerie, uncanny and strange
Where sharks glide, their unblinking eyes like jet beads
As serpents writhe through the water with sinuous fins
The hunters and the hunted, eternal predators or prey
And somewhere, far below, in the bottomless trenches
Jormungandr encircles all Midgard to bite his own tail
We do not belong here, we should not die in this way
This is no death for warriors, no death for brave men
Denied our battle-glory and our places in Odin’s hall
No blazing funeral pyres to consume our corpses to ash
No grave-barrows with grave-goods, swords, and silver
Not even a cairn-pile of stones or humble rune-marker
We descend deeper, ever deeper, as we drown and die
As we drown… as we have drowned, we must have
The cold salt-brine fills our mouths, throats, and lungs
We are dead, we must be, limbs unmoving, skin cold
Our eyes are blind in the blackness; somehow we see
Somehow we feel, the water’s weight an unbearable press
We hear whalesong, but no longer our hearts in our ears
We are drowned, we are dead, and yet… we are not
Through this blacker than black utter night, lights appear
Distant winks, quick white flickers darting and dancing
Here a pale shine as of marsh-fire, there a sky-violet flash
Rainbow ribbons and ripplings, sparkling silvery strands
Tear-drops glowing golden amber, or clear blue-green
Like stars, but not stars… like jewels, but not jewels
Luminous beauty luring, lending sly guises to dire truth
Foul things of translucent flesh and pulsating organs
Terrible fish bristling fierce teeth like fistfuls of knives
Sharks whose cavernous jaws could take a man whole
Great-bodied squids, glassy, coils seething and clenching
Throngs of milk-jellies swarming thousands-strong
Their tendrils tangles of venomous hair-thin threads
Slowly, our cold corpses sink and settle onto wet sand
Where no kelp grows, nor sea-grass; a bleak barren plain
Strewn only by scatterings of shell-shards and stones
Silt swirls up clouded, disturbed by death, then disperses
All is silence, all is stillness, in this darkest of depths
The ocean looms heavy, its endless vastness above us
This desolate place now our lost and lonely grave-yard
Though we drown and die, we still feel and hear and see
We despair, denied our chance to fall bravely in battle
To take up brimming mead-horns at Odin’s
feast-tables
And stand with gods against giants at the world-end’s war
Dreamed-of glories gone beyond grasp in this deep doom
When we now would even welcome the grey road to Hel
In whose realm wait the wretched, the aged, and infirm
Moon-white crabs creep over us, scuttling, claws clicking
Spiny urchins, sea-stars, spider-shrimp on long spindly legs
Hagfish come, loathsome and coated slick with thick slime
We would rather have rats and ravens, wolves and worms
Dogs, carrion-crows and other scavenging corpse-pickers
Better to feed their appetites than be this windfall bounty
This unexpected meal from an unsuspected world above
To think no one will know what’s become of us, our fate
For our families, only mysteries, unanswered questions
Our ship simply gone, vanished, sunken or far-sailed away
Men missing, presumed dead perhaps, but not known so
Reputations at the mercy of those who might disparage
Claiming treachery or oath-breaking, or the worst shame
Naming us cowards who fled battle to save our own skins
But our skins are not saved; they soften, peel and slough
Our bellies bloat, gas-bulging guts grotesquely swelling
The vile sea-scavengers crawl and squirm at every orifice
Each quick pinch of crab-claws, each sharp nipping bite
Eating away at our substance in bloodless bits and pieces
Naked gleams of ivory peeking through rot-spongy flesh
They will devour us until nothing but bare bones remain
Here we are to stay, dead men and drowned, lost forever
No funeral pyres for us, barrow-mounds, or grave-goods
Ours oaths to Hjorleif and his to his brothers, unfulfilled
Ruins of proud men amid ruins of once proud war-gear
Leather decaying, leaving buckles and brooches behind
Mail-coats corroded, sharp bright blades dulled by rust
None so much as touched by bloodstain, victory or defeat
Then something stirs in the dark depths, stirring within us
Like a sound, an unsung song, a horn-call only we can hear
Hjorleif twitches, he sits up, blond skeins of hair floating
He rises, our oath-sworn lord and leader; we rise with him
Bodies struggling upright, flesh sagging wetly from bones
Stiff joints bending, sinews creaking like ropes under strain
Dreadful things that we are, hideous dead horrors, we rise
Silt again swirls, disturbed by clumsy and staggering steps
As we drag our feet onward with determined, grim purpose
Shedding crabs and sea-stars the way snakes shed their skin
We gather our war-gear from where it lays strewn on the sand
Donning mail-coats, fitting helms over skull-loosened scalps
Grasping our sword-hilts and axes in wet, cold-fingered fists
For, though we drown, though we die, we are restless and rise
Fish and eels scatter from us; even sharks flee our approach
We had yearned for Valhalla, glorious war-death in battle
For our bodies to be honored and names long-remembered
Denied such worthy ending, we still would have welcomed
The walking of the hard and grey weary road to Hel’s realm
But it is a different road we must walk now, a deep sea-road
Through untold fathoms of darkness to again find the light
BRYNJA’S BEACON
“Here, girl. Wrap yourself in this. The wind today is colder than Hel’s own breath, and it would not do to have you freeze before we reach Skuthorpe.”
So saying, the man, who’d told her that his name was Sjolfr Hyggsson and he was steward to the Lady Gethril, dropped a woolen cloak over Unn’s shoulders.
The weight of it, heavy with rain and damp sea-spray, staggered her. But the warmth of it was welcome, for she had been shivering in her thin and ragged linen dress. She pulled the edges close around herself as she continued following him up the steep, wending path.
A donkey on a rope lead plodded along behind, pulling a cart laden with the goods Sjolfr had purchased at the trade-market. Among them were iron tools and cookware, bowls hewn and polished from soapstone, a sack of good wheat grain, casks of butter and soft cheese and salted herring, two cowhides bought for a fair bargain, and six fat geese in a wicker cage.
And of course there was Unn…
Unn the Mouse, as she’d been called, when she’d been just one more of the many daughters of Bertold the Swineherd and Aud his wife. Unn the small one, Unn the quiet one. Unn of the dun-brown hair and eyes, while her sisters were blonde and fair, red-cheeked and comely.
When the raiders had come in their long ships, striking like Thor’s own lightning so fast and so fierce… when they’d come with swords and spears and fire… when they’d slain the farmers and herdsmen, cut down the aged and infirm, seized women and girls and sturdy youths as well as silver, pigs, cattle and sheep…
It had not gone well for Unn’s many comely sisters.
Not that it had gone well for Unn herself, taken from place to place and village to village until she no longer knew how far she was from home. As new slaves were obtained and others sold, she saw those who’d been neighbors, friends and kin led off, and at last only strangers surrounded her. At times she could scarcely recall the faces of her parents, her sisters.
She’d huddled with the others in wave-tossed ships and old cattle-byres where they slept upon dank straw. She’d eaten what little was given her, and shed no tear even when hunger growled like a beast in her belly. She’d trudged uncomplaining even when the twine-bound leather about her feet fell apart into scraps. Those slaves who complained, who resisted, who fought their captors or tried to flee, suffered for it with lashings, with beatings, even with death.
Now, Unn too had been sold. Bought by this steward on behalf of his Lady, and she had heard him say to the tradesman he had been bidden to purchase the lowest, meanest, and cheapest of slaves to be had in all the market.
The tradesman, Unn recalled, had shown surprise at this. And why should he not, when Sjolfr paid from a purse of silver coins? When there was also hidden deep amid the cart’s load a carved and inlaid wooden box, holding two bone combs adorned with amber, and a headscarf stitched with the most delicate embroidery? Sjolfr’s Lady Gethril could only be a woman of wealth, so should have had as many slaves as she liked, all of them stout and hearty.
Sjolfr merely shrugged. “That is what she bade me, and I would not draw down her anger.”
With that, he had led Unn away. He did not strike her or seem unkind, no more than he did to the donkey as it placidly pulled its load. He gave her a mouthful of ale and a chunk of bread to strengthen her before they set out, and a strip of dried meat to gnaw on the way. He shed his own cloak to cover her against the bitter wind, striding ahead in tunic and breeches, an arm-ring of hammered metal glinting when some feeble rays of sunshine pierced the grey clouds.
Unn saw the arm-ring and wondered if he had earned it in battle, for he also wore a short blade at his side.
“Are you a warrior?” she asked when next he paused to rest the donkey and water it from a fast-flowing creek that rushed down a cleft in the rocks.
He looked at her, bushy brows rising. “Ah, so the mouse can speak after all! I’d begun thinking you a mute, which is a fine quality in a woman and a finer one in a wife.”
“Am I to be your wife?” she asked, startled, for such had not occurred to her.
His laughter pealed forth until tears ran from the corners of his eyes, and he slapped his thigh. “One of those, little mouse, I already have! Though the gods did not see fit to gift her with muteness either, to the sorrow of my aching ears… which she would scold from my very head if I brought home an
y other! No, no. You are to serve the Lady Gethril, who rules over Skuthorpe from its timbered hall.”
She nodded, and said nothing, and pushed a windblown tangle of hair back behind her ear.
“As for your question,” Sjolfr went on, patting the weapon that hung at his waist, “any farmer or herdsman may be called upon to fight, if there is need, to defend our homes, our fields and our livestock. I, since I go about so much on Lady Gethril’s business, must be able to look after myself. She entrusts me with silver and goods, so should any wretch seek to attack me, he will pay for his troubles in blood.”
“Your arm-ring—”
“Once, yes, when I was younger, I took up a shield and a helm and a spear, and went to war. Came back with a scar on my hip where a foeman’s axe bit deep, but I stuck him through the throat and stood over him as his last breath gurgled out.” He lifted his arm, bent at the elbow, to gaze with pride upon the hammered metal. “I was given this as a prize for my bravery by my lord, Hrothgar Firehair.”
Again, Unn nodded and said nothing.
Sjolfr, however, proved glad enough to keep talking now that he knew his slave charge was neither deaf nor mute, for the most part both speaking and understanding his tongue. Some of his words were strange, or said in ways strange to her. He spoke of places she had never seen and people she had never met… but Unn listened, and learned, suspecting she would see those places and meet those people soon enough, when they came to Skuthorpe.
It was, by his recounting, a country of bluffs and boulders and farm-hollows, with woodlands above and a curved inlet of the sea far below. Oats and barley grew well in the fields, and onions and cabbage. They kept many goats and pigs, and some sheep, though the pasturage was not such that they could keep many cattle or horses. The men hunted boar and wild fowl, and fished, and gathered mussels, and sometimes hunted seals along the rocky shores.
All the land from the river Sidaec to a rearing headland that Sjolfr called Brynja’s Beacon was owned and overseen by…
There, Sjolfr hesitated. Unn, who happened to be watching him closely, saw his brow crease and his mouth turn downward. He gave a brusque shake of his head.