I should note that the style is experimental, as it is my attempt to copy the features of Norse poetry into the English language, and I imagine the changes in syntax, grammar etc. will not necessarily appeal to many.
1. Leave Me Not Alone
Sun grows black, land is sunkStar-filled night turns dark
Roar and rage, flame
Fire reaches sky, burning
– Völuspá
Ravens had come to feed on fallen. From naked branches, they rose in flight until feather shadow surrounded rising sun. Crying the call, they came to peck through corpses. Talons closing tightly against head and helmet, harbinger of Hel found footing. Greedy, the grim creature sought to savour soft eyes concealed under closed lid. With swift stroke of sharp beak came spray of blood. Ravenous, the bird threw its head back, guiding the gruesome meal down the gullet.
Roar rang out across the clearing. Hand harrowed black bird eating the eye. Warrior woke, summoned by agony from Hel’s hall to the land of living.
Raven kept in suffocating grip, he rose to stand. With remaining eye, he surveyed his surroundings. He saw bodies on battlefield. He saw corpse eaters, called by carrion to feast upon his friends. “Be gone, you baleful creatures of Hel!” he shouted. “Return to your craven king, seiðr-maker, bond-breaker! Tell him that Torkil Arnarson yet lives!” He squeezed the raven in hand until he felt the burst of brittle bones. “Feast on this!” He threw his victim against those violating the dead. The other birds beat their wings and shrieked in reply, indignant at the interruption.
Pain, both sharp and dull, told Torkil of his fate. His mail was marred, tunic torn, and skin slashed. The spear had cut wide and shallow into his stomach. A wound to hinder, not to slay. Throbbing head related what remained. Removing helmet, Torkil saw dented metal. A club or hammer, sending him to sleep while battle still raged. Loss of blood kept him from waking until renewed pain shocked him to life. He threw the helm aside.
Once more, Torkil searched the field, nearly stumbling now he only had half the sight. Quick count gave twenty bodies or so. All the jarl’s hird, he suspected. Torkil turned the nearest man over. Empty hollows of Sven’s eyes stared back. They had fought together in Northumbria and Mercia under Sigvarðr Worm-in-Eye. Their ways had parted after that for many years. Sven had come to serve in this hird because of Torkil. Now he was dead.
Next body belonged to Asger. Face remained untouched by ravens, staring at the sky. A dour man, seldom smiling, but strong at the spear as name foretold. Torkil had met him in Garðaríki, and they had served the king of kings in Miklagarðr together. Now he was dead.
By him lay Hakun, who once hit the snipe in flight. When they collected bow-struck bird, they counted more than hundred paces. There lay Rolf and Roar, blood-brothers, shield-bearers, oath-takers. From the look of it, Rolf had fallen first, and Roar had defended kinsman until felled as well. Kalf lay further away, taken by the bite of bows in the back. He had tried to run, seeking to save his life. Now they were all dead.
On and on, Torkil’s eye found the hacked pieces of his life rotting across the clearing. His brothers, sworn to same hird and same jarl. Some known since youth, others only in adult years. All of them his family, bound by oaths stronger than blood.
Finally, he saw the woad-blue cloak, and the knife twisted in Torkil’s heart. Cloth was cut by sword and axe, the blue turned bloody. Rings of iron beneath were broken. Torkil stumbled forward to reach the body. He turned it over to see the truth he feared to know.
Lying alone, none left to defend him, the jarl had been overwhelmed. The lustre of silver on his arms stolen, as the lustre of life from his face. Wounds beyond count riddled his corpse.
Grief seized Torkil’s tongue. “Erland, Erland, wake, I beg you! Leave me not alone,” he cried out. He had followed Erland to lands of silver-rich Franks, seax-wielding Angles, and silk-wearing Greeks. When the king of kings died and Miklagarðr burned, Erland had led them to the Danemark and raised long roof to shelter all.
Of all deeds, Torkil deemed none better than leading Erland’s hird. Since given that honour, Torkil’s oath bid him die in defence of jarl. The man who was brother to him. The man to whom he owed all. The man he held more dear than life itself. Yet Torkil lived, and Erland did not. Tears burned in the wound that was once Torkil’s eye. The sting of shame filled his throat.
Grief overcame Torkil’s mind. “A curse, Erland Olafsson, on every hand that brought blade against you. While I breathe, I take this burden upon me to see vengeance wrought. From Hel to Ásgarðr, from realms of frost to lands of fire, I walk until this deed is done. From Hel to Ásgarðr, from realms of frost to lands of fire, let no place call me home until this deed is done. From Hel to Ásgarðr, from realms of frost to lands of fire, let all men call me niðing unless this deed is done.”
Grief took Torkil’s hand. With small knife, he opened skin. Red tears fell from cut to colour snow. “By blood from mine to Ymir’s flesh, this oath is thrice bound,” he swore. Cleaning the knife, he placed it back in belt.
Torkil rose to his feet, banishing grief for the time being. Cries to mourn and skaldic verse to honour, such would be delayed. Revenge required action, and swiftly. He returned to where he had awakened, finding warrior’s axe waiting. He picked it up. Only shallow comfort came from familiar feel of heavy shaft. The slight dent where his fingers belonged. The gleam of metal in the pale morning sun. The head was made of strongest steel from lands so far south, to go beyond meant Múspellsheimr. Torkil doubted better axe could be found in all the Danemark.
Smaller axes lay nearby, stained from the throw. If either had killed with cut, Torkil could not say. His weapons lay on soil absent sign of slain enemy. After ambush, the cowards must have carried their dead with them. They had hurried, only looting rings of gold or silver from the slain, leaving all else behind. The thought gave Torkil cause for concern – what ills might their haste portend? Placing throwing axes in their leather strops by belt, Torkil looked east and west.
East lay the home of Jarl Vigmund. Erland’s blood stained Vigmund’s blade. Honour demanded that before another day dawned, Vigmund’s blood would colour Torkil’s axe. But west, a column of smoke spiralled towards the sky. He had no doubt what burned, and it settled his course. He owed a duty to Erland’s family and those who dwelt in Erland’s home – fear of what fate might befall them filled his mind. And if he made haste himself, vengeance against Vigmund might be Torkil’s before midday. Resting his great manslayer over his shoulder, Torkil moved west.
*
With hasty step and heartbeat, Torkil hurried towards Erland’s homestead. His own home. The black pillar on the horizon, built from smoke, urged him forward. Buildings burned, but that in itself was of little matter. Houses could be rebuilt, fields sown anew. Even if land was lost, the one-eyed warrior knew other lands could be taken with silver or steel. Torkil would see Erland’s family safe, his son secure, before returning to revenge. With luck and nornir willing, Vigmund had ceased bloodying his blade after battle and only taken thralls from Erland’s homestead. Thralls could be rescued, and Torkil’s axe would swiftly negotiate their release.
Leaving naked trees, the wounded warrior entered Erland’s fields. In summer, grain would grow to make land golden. In colder season, snow lay as blanket to cover winter barley. Now, it served to tell a tale to Torkil. Footprints, many and heavy, formed an arrow pointing at the homestead. Torkil crouched, taking closer look. He raked his hand through Ymir’s frozen tears to find loose snow above hard, swept by wind to fill where feet once stepped. These prints were old. Grasping axe, standing up, ignoring pain, Torkil hurried onwards.
Ahead, his waymark made of smoke loomed and grew the closer he came. A lighthouse rising from ground to guide him home, made of darkness. Now he saw the buildings beneath, filling him with further dread. Now he saw the smouldering flames, no longer fed. Now he saw the dead.
Some lay slain upon the ground. Dead in failed defence. Others had faced the same fate by other means. On beech tree in courtyard, Torkil saw two. Though his sight was old and one-eyed, he knew them from afar. The flowing dress in crimson colour belonged to one woman only. She who carried keys of the house upon belt. Next to her swayed small body in the wind. Small feet, small legs, small fingers upon small hands. Scrawny neck encircled by snake-coiled rope.
He ran to them. He fell to his knees. He cast his axe aside. He cried bitter tears once more.
When he had given grief her due, Torkil rose to look at them again. Hands were not bound, fingertips were bloody. Both had clawed at rope in final moment to no avail. Single rune was carved in flesh on brow. Óss, the mark of Hanged King. Seeing made Torkil’s stomach turn.
With his cleaver, he cut them free. They fell, lifeless like apple sack. His oath bid Torkil press on, but not before he saved the dead from battle-eating birds. Above, they circled, calling brethren to break the fast.
Barrow or burial were beyond his means. Instead, he looked around. To either side, barn and stable had burned to the ground. Ahead, the longhouse remained. Thatched roof had fed the fires, but stone walls stood, blackened by smoke. Torkil placed child in mother’s arms. Let them embrace in sleep without end.
Touching the boy’s cold body, Torkil breathed harder. Seeing ashen face, he averted lone eye. Hearing only silence, his heart broke. No more laughter when catching fish with gleaming hook, pulling it ashore as great Thórr had done to cruel Jörmungandr. No more delight watching in wonder arrow’s flight upon release. No more joy. Aged five, Torkil had taught the boy how to fish in brook. Aged seven, Torkil had taught him the bow. Aged ten, Torkil lay him to rest a final time.
The stones from longhouse would do. Summoning his strength, Torkil tore the first one free. Large as man’s head, heavy as guilt on his spirit, Torkil placed it by the dead. Another and another. Soon, he felt the sweat and let his cloak fall.
For an hour he laboured, tearing and hauling stone after stone. When finished, stonework rose beneath beech-leafed tree with mother and child entrusted to cold embrace of cairn. Swing of the axe saw branch felled before given to grave. A few twigs could serve as kindling. It was not ashen wood, but it would do. From embers of flame-eaten homestead, Torkil salvaged fire to ignite the wood lain upon cairn.
“Fare well, Gro Esbiarnardóttir. You deserved old age with comfort of warm hearth and care of children’s children. I will punish those who robbed you of both.”
Torkil’s tongue grew thicker. “Fare well, Guthmund Erlandarson. From your first day to your last and beyond, I loved you best of all.”
Exhausted from long march and labour, war-breaking and wounds, Torkil sank to ground. Back against beech, he stared at cairn with crackling fire. Yellow flame reflected in grey eye. The toil of tearing stone had tamed Torkil’s rage while labour lasted. With hands empty again, head became full.
Vengeance burned brightly as ever within the one-eyed warrior, but no longer as wildfire. Time and toil, like hammer strokes from blacksmith, had shaped and sharpened thought. Blind attack while weary and wounded would not avail. Building great ship began with small nail. Oft, Erland had spoken thus to Torkil. On this winter’s day, he would heed the jarl’s wisdom.
The warrior opened his waist-rope. Kept safe, silver pieces lay sewn into belt. Needle and thread kept coins in company. Retrieving the former, Torkil heated thin metal against flame on cairn. Once ready, he began to sew his stomach shut.
With steady hand, Torkil moved needle to knit flesh. Through dirt and dried blood, stitch followed stitch. He paid the pain no heed. It would fade in time, leaving only trace of scar. Such marks lay as runes upon warrior, telling his story on skin, and Torkil had many. The first in sixth year, cutting himself on mother’s sword. The latest in fiftieth year, earned this morning. A hundred and hundred more in between.
His mail was not so easily mended. No needle could repair broken rings. Still, iron shirt gave protection all other places but his belly. It would serve another fight. Smaller axes were sharp and ready to bite. His great axe, faithful companion since forged in Miklagarðr, gleamed against midday sun. His head remained without helm. So be it. Torkil foresaw no further battles beyond this.
Six hours across field and forest to Vigmund’s homestead. He would reach hostile dwelling shortly after dark. Shortly before the hour to strike. For the second time in second day, Torkil set out seeking Jarl Vigmund and all his hird. Yesterday, he marched among many. Today, he walked alone.
*
Winter sun had set when Torkil arrived at aim. Absent Sól, darkness hid details of Vigmund’s homestead, but he knew the farm was fortified by earthen works and palisade walls. It held single gate, drawing his gaze due to simple fact. Two torches burned three paces in front, casting light on all who approached. Solitary guard stood inside opening. He leaned against lumber-made wall as cover from cold. Entry would be easy.
Stealth in step, Torkil moved forward with confidence. Many feared the night that hid and harboured monsters, whether spirits or men. Torkil held no dread in darkness. He inspired it. Across the land of Angles, he had plundered and pillaged towns and monasteries under Máni’s eye. Aged fifteen, Torkil made his first strike while shadow-walking. Aged fifty, he mastered the craft.
Axe came hurling through air. Edge sank into sentinel by the gate, cleaving leather and flesh. Torkil left no opening for chance. Swift as Sleipnir, he crossed the lighted path into dark. His belt knife slashed throat to unleash blood. Other hand caught dying guard by the collar. Strong as jötunn, Torkil hauled the sentinel into shadows and let body fall between stable and stockade. He was in.
Although a stranger, Torkil found the buildings placed in familiar pattern of any homestead. Smell of cattle and creatures spoke of stables next to him. Further down, shoddy shacks could only lend roof to thralls. On opposite side, barn was built with stone foundation to fend against vermin. Between slave-shelter and harvest-home rose the longhouse. Lights and laughter issued from inside. Feast was held in honour of vanquished foe. Mead and ale flowed in stream, pork was roasted on spit, honey cakes served. Torkil clenched fist until fingernails drew blood. Vigmund, child-killer, coin-licker, sat within. Along with all who remained of reaver’s hird.
Mighty though in flight, lone eagle would fall to many crows. While Torkil’s blood bid him charge and chop with axe, Erland’s voice kept him restrained. Guile might win the battle lost to brute strength. Seeing wooden longhouse, thought took hold in Torkil.
He fetched flame from beyond the gate. Torch in one hand, great axe in other, Torkil crossed the courtyard. He knew such timber would not fall to fire with ease, and tinder was needed. Removing cloak, Torkil let flame consume fabric. Burning light bloomed in dark yard. Thralls appeared from derelict dwellings. Seeing one-eyed warrior holding burning banner, they shrieked in fear and fell back. Torkil threw cloak to cover door. With solid foundation, flame licked against frame. Seeking upwards, the fire spread across the longhouse, reaching roof. Inside, smoke spread.
Thrall came first bursting through burning doors. No threat. Torkil let her pass in peace.
Soldier came second. Silver rings shining on arm. Sword in sheath by his side. Fur-lined cloak to keep warm in winter. Axe between shoulder and neck sent him to sleep.
Another shield-breaker, another swing, another slain. With stumbling step, blind from fire and smoke, Vigmund’s men showed themselves one by one. Again and again, Torkil’s weapon found work. He clove and slew, he killed and slaughtered.
More came. Warrior sleeping in stable hay, waking to find fighting. Drunkard in barn by ale barrel, stumbling outside with shout. Smaller axe left Torkil’s side, flung through air to bite first. Twin took different path to second enemy, same effect. Both drew final breath and fell.
Enemies filled the courtyard despite Torkil’s effort. Swinging great cleaver with strength to slay was slow labour. Freed from flaming trap, the men of Vigmund’s hird could see, hear, and understand. Ragnarök had come. The fires of Múspellsheimr burned the world of men. In their midst stood Surtr, slayer of gods. The Norsemen showed no fear. They fought.
Nine lay dead, six remained standing. Weapons drawn, they came against the one-eyed warrior. Eager, they rushed forward rather than raising arms together. Doing so, they hindered instead of helped their fellow fighters. A needle sewing back and forth, Torkil struck and moved through them. He leapt close, making quick cut with knife. He flew back, using reach of axe to keep foe at bay. Bending down in one swift movement, a hand axe returned to grip only to be released.
At the back stood Vigmund, watching Torkil put his dogs down. Six became five and four, four became three and two. “Flank him, fools!” shouted the jarl.
They all moved. Covered in blood of foes, Torkil stood before burning longhouse. Let fire enfeeble their sight. Vigmund’s men spread out to either side, approaching him from left and right. The jarl advanced directly, but kept out of reach from Torkil’s axe. Close enough to threaten yet still distant from fight, the jarl showed thrall’s courage.
On the right, a seax. Warrior’s true weapon forgotten in longhouse, no doubt. On the left, heavy hammer. Greater threat. Ahead, Vigmund with long blade, waiting for others to risk life and limb first. Nothing to fear for now.
Sword and hammer advanced on either side, raised to strike.
Torkil’s knife flew from belt to make brawl on the left. Unbalanced for flight, the throw was poor. The blunt end struck chest, causing no harm but making hammer wielder flinch for a moment. Torkil needed nothing more. He turned right, pitting long arm and great axe against toothpick. The small blade came up short. With crossed eyes, the swordsman stared to find axe head stuck in skull. He made no remark to this, dying with barely a rattle.
Wresting axe free, Torkil swung it around. Another moment bought as hammer-handed enemy evaded. Torkil let his steel continue to sing. Sensing weakness and seeing chance, the hammer struck high. In reply, a long step forward with axe wielded as staff. Before the club came down, Torkil brought blunt end against enemy. Shaft struck chin to shatter bone, and he fell to ground.
Pain slapped Torkil. Vigmund had slashed his legs where iron did not cover limb. Blood was drawn, but breath remained at ease. Torkil had disdained greater wounds in his day. He swung his axe around, forcing jarl to withdraw. While hands did this, one foot crushed the throat of fallen hird, losing grip on hammer. None else remained.
Vigmund drew back. Before him stood the slayer of his men, hefting axe. Beyond, he saw burning home. Beneath, sixteen warriors of hird lay dead. “What are you?” shouted he. “Man or draugr?”
“I am the last you see in life.”
Vigmund gave sneer and strike as reply. While his warriors died, he had watched. Eyes saw Torkil’s torn mail. Like worm Fáfnir, the maw was vulnerable. Like Sigurðr, the jarl struck.
Using old feint, Torkil fell to a crouch. Sword tip struck further north, scorned by iron rings. Axe swept out, biting ankle. Now Vigmund fell as well, but not by will. On his feet faster than thunder, Torkil kicked the jarl in his chest to land flat on his back.
One foot pinned sword arm against dirt. Two hands swung weapon. One hand severed.
Vigmund screamed. “Hel take you, Erland’s dog! Crows shall eat your entrails!”
Torkil’s boot met the jarl’s face four times. It bought him silence and time to retrieve his knife. Hand against Vigmund’s throat, Torkil held enemy still. “Behold!” he shouted. Vigmund’s thralls, frozen in fear, gave full attention. “I am Torkil Arnarson! I take vengeance on Vigmund, craven, crippled, and blind!” His knife blinked twice in flames burning longhouse. No longer could Vigmund be counted among the seeing.
“Curse you!” he spat. “Curse you, Torkil, until your manhood rots!”
Torkil slapped him across the face. “No death in battle for you, Vigmund the Weak. No glory. You shall live. All shall see your shame. All shall know. Torkil the Tall took this vengeance upon you for the sake of Erland Olafsson and Guthmund Erlandarson.” He raised his sight and voice as he spoke the names, ensuring all had heard.
“To Hel with you!”
Torkil rose. “Bark if you must. Your day is done, dog.” He turned to look at those bearing witness to his brutal deed. Thralls and jarl’s kinfolk – all stared, and none stirred, not even the children.
Torkil gathered his weapons from red-soaked ground. His blood no longer boiled. His rage retreated. His fury faltered. The stench of death lay heavy in air, stronger than smell of smoke. Women wailing could be heard. Pain returned along with weariness. Grief took hold of heart once more.
With heavy breath, Torkil looked at devastation done. He glanced at Vigmund, crawling away from cruelty. One hand held onto other wrist, reduced to bloody stump by Torkil’s weapon.
This was just, yet brought no joy. Torkil felt only hollow in heart. He turned his back on the people, the fallen, the fire. With staggering step, he walked away.
*
To bird and beast watching, only wind moved the branches. To eyes that might see the unseen, twelve warriors rode through night-clad wood. Steeds made no sound. Armour shone pale silver, seen only by the wise wolf. Hair was long, beard was none. All were women.
Riders reached clearing and corpse-ground. Erland and hird lay where left by Torkil. Letting foot leave stirrup, valkyries walked among the dead. Each held small stone, inscribed with runes. With gentle hand, they placed carved stone against cold brow of fallen warriors. Markings glowed. With twelve riders and twenty slain, they swiftly reached them all. Within moments, the valkyries were ready to return. Except one.
“Alfdis? What ails you?”
Amidst the dead, Alfdis moved from one to other. She sought tall man, scarred by years of war. Felled at age fifty. Hands fought with axe and axes. Thórr’s hammer around neck. Runes of power in pattern upon skin.
Many of the slain might fit one, two, or even three of these marks, but none fit all. With frustrated face, Alfdis turned her sight upon sisters in oath. “Tell me, have any of you made harvest of he named Torkil Arnarson?”
Each goddess had leather pouch in possession. They placed their hand inside, touching stone of power. “Easy to ask, hard to answer. Death clouds the spirit. This man makes only mention of Ioar and nothing more,” spoke one.
“I hold him whose father was Esbiorn. His own name, he cannot say.”
“How close you need the cut? I can offer Torstein Arason,” suggested a third.
“Play not games,” came the curt reply. “Torkil the Tall, he of the Spear-Danes, he should be here. Tell me swiftly if his spirit has found rest by your runes, or Óðinn as my witness, my spear will make a roast of you.”
The threat caused only calm reaction. “Peace, sister, we hold nothing from you. Twenty men we have. What need is there for twenty-one?”
“Perhaps Alfdis has stolen onto Óðinn’s seat and seen a man more worthy than all of Ásgarðr,” laughed another.
“Dearly Freyr paid for doing this, yet why should this be cause for Alfdis to correct her course? Always she stood with more pride than all her sisters,” came the continuation.
“Spare me,” sneered the valkyrie. “I do not seek the great warrior for my own gain. One-eyed Óðinn bid me find this mortal, mighty among the men of Miðgarðr. Of all we might harvest on this night, Alfather needs only him.” Alfdis moved her sight from sister to sister. “I say again, have you any knowledge of Torkil Arnarson?”
The valkyries remained silent rather than give desired reply. At length, only one spoke. “If Óðinn gave command to you alone, the task to tell of failure falls to you alone.”
Alfdis looked at all. Some met her stare, some did not. “Very well. We ride, sisters.” No warmth lay in final word.
