The Midgard Serpent

by James L. Nelson

  It was Odd Thorgrimson, and though his legs were moving it was clear he would not have been able to stand on his own. His long hair was wild and ragged. One eye was bruised purple, red and black and swollen shut. His beard was streaked with dried blood. He seemed to have difficulty keeping his head upright as he was all but dragged forward.

  Amundi felt his stomach turn. He heard Alfdis try to stifle a sob. Odd was brought up to the post and for a moment was allowed to stand on his own, which he seemed barely able to do, swaying as he stood. One of the men grabbed his tunic and pulled it up over his head as the others kept him from falling.

  If they meant to flog Odd then it would not be the first time, Amundi could see that. Odd’s back was already a crisscross of bloody red, brown and black lacerations. The wounds were no longer bleeding but they were clearly not very old. A few days, perhaps.

  One of the men wound a cord around Odd’s wrists and ran the other end through an iron ring that was made fast to the upper end of the post. He pulled it tight, jerking Odd’s hands up, nearly lifting Odd off his feet. Odd let out a gasp, but no more. His eyes were closed, his head was back as if he did not have the strength or the will to hold it upright.

  Amundi felt a certain madness wash over him. He felt he had to move but he could not, as if ropes were tied to his arms and legs and were pulling him in every direction with equal force. He wanted to kill someone. Kill himself, kill Halfdan, he was not sure. Both, perhaps. With Halfdan’s men there, trying to kill the king would be as good as killing himself.

  “Watch carefully,” Halfdan called to the people. “Watch and learn the lesson. And if I see any one of you looking away, you’ll be next at the post.”

  Another man stepped up, a big man with a brown tunic that was tight across his wide chest and over the muscles in his arms. He held a whip in his hand, a heavy braided and tarred rope that split off into four smaller ropes at the end, which, Amundi was quite sure, held weights of some sort. Hooks or barbs, perhaps. He clenched his teeth as if he was the one about to feel the impact of the blows.

  The man with the whip looked at Halfdan and Halfdan nodded. The man brought the whip back over his shoulder and swung it down and around. It hit Odd’s back and ripped across at a forty-five degree angle, opening up four straight, fresh lines of blood. Odd gasped loudly and arched his back. Amundi could only imagine how agonizing the blow had been. And it was only the first, and laid on top of near fresh wounds.

  The whip came back again, and again it slashed at Odd’s back, and again Odd gasped and twisted harder. He was hanging more than he was standing and there was little he could do to change position. Not that changing position would have helped him in the least.

  The whip rose and fell over and over, and with each blow Odd’s back became bloodier, his gasps louder, his moans held in until it was clear to Amundi that Odd was trying to not cry out, trying to not give Halfdan the satisfaction. But Amundi did not think he could keep quiet much longer.

  Again and again, the smack of wet cordage on Odd’s lacerated flesh, the writhing, the gasping. Then the whip bearer changed hands, shifting the whip from right to left. He brought it back over his shoulder, the motion as smooth and easy with that hand as it had been with the other. He tore the four weighted tails across Odd’s back, opening up wounds crosswise to those already there.

  Odd screamed that time. A short, sharp cry that he bit off as well as he could, but the pain was now too much for him to keep silent. Amundi looked over at Halfdan. The king had been expressionless up until then, but Amundi saw the edge of a smile creep onto his lips. But that was it, and then the impassive face was back.

  The women all around Amundi were weeping openly now, as were the children. Amundi hoped that someone was shielding Hallbera from this but he did not want to look. He did not want Halfdan to think he was averting his eyes. Not because he feared a flogging himself, but because he did not want Halfdan to think he could not bear the spectacle.

  Which was all but true. His face was as passionless as Halfdan’s, but his thoughts were screaming and flinging themselves about like a madman. He wanted to beg Halfdan to stop, or to allow him to take Odd’s place. He wanted to offer Halfdan his farm, his livestock, his slaves, anything just so he would cut Odd down. But he said nothing, because he knew that it was pointless to offer Halfdan anything he could just take if he so desired, and he knew that any pleading would have no effect save to add to Halfdan’s pleasure.

  The whip fell again with its sickening liquid smack but this time Odd did not shout out. He was hanging by his wrists and not moving and Amundi wondered if he was dead. He hoped that he was dead. It would not be the death that he or any man would wish, but it would be a relief none the less.

  Halfdan nodded to someone else behind him and this man came up with a bucket of water in hand. He threw the water against Odd’s back and Odd gasped and writhed and his eyes flew open. He was still alive, and Amundi did not know how to feel about that. He thought bitterly of how he had watched Odd walk off to surrender himself to Halfdan, how he, Amundi, had despaired of ever seeing Odd again. How he wished now that it had worked out that way.

  The man with the bucket stepped back and Halfdan nodded to the one with the whip and the punishment started in once again. One blow, and another and another. Odd was not screaming now, but Amundi could see that it was not because he was trying to remain silent but because he no longer had the energy or the will to make a sound.

  The whip came back again but this time Halfdan held up a hand and the man stopped and let the whip hang. Halfdan stepped over to Odd’s limp body and with a look of mild disgust examined his face and his back. He turned and once again nodded toward the men behind him. Yet another stepped forward, also holding a bucket, but what was in it Amundi could not tell.

  This is well rehearsed, Amundi thought bitterly. He wondered how often Halfdan had already inflicted this punishment on his prisoner.

  The man with the bucket stopped near Odd and reached in and drew out a handful of salt, which he applied to the wounds on Odd’s back. That drew a gasp from Odd, an arch of the back, but no more. The man smacked salt into the wounds again and again until at last all of Odd’s back was covered.

  Halfdan turned to Amundi and Alfdis and the crowd of people behind them. “I see to it that this traitor’s wounds are dressed,” he said. “And I’ll give them some time to heal. It’s important that Odd Thorgrimson live. Because I will be visiting every farm in Fevik, and there we will give this same demonstration, so that everyone in this country knows what happens when they betray their king. So I will not flog him to death. Not until the last farm is reached.”

  The men who had brought Odd forward now stepped up again and untied the cord that held him up. They eased him down and put his arms around their shoulders and dragged him off, upright. Odd made no effort to even appear to be walking on his own. Amundi doubted he could have made his legs work if he wished to.

  What next? Amundi wondered. He did not think for a moment that Halfdan was done there. He certainly would not be leaving anytime soon. And still there was nothing that Amundi could do but wait for Halfdan to make his wishes known.

  He did not wait long. Halfdan watched with apparently little interest as Odd was dragged away, then stepped around the post and up to Amundi. For a moment the two men just stood there, looking into one another’s eyes, Halfdan waiting for Amundi to speak and Amundi forcing himself to not say those things that were fighting to leave his mouth. He heard Alfdis fidgeting beside him and he was sure she was terrified he would say what she knew he wished to say.

  But he did not, and it was Halfdan who broke the silence.

  “My men and I will be staying in your hall. Tonight, perhaps tomorrow night, I haven’t decided. I also haven’t decided what penalty you’ll pay for your treason, so we’ll search your hall and see what there is that will meet the price. You know, much like you did to my hall.”

  He paused and held Amundi’s eyes, waiting
for Amundi to speak. Daring him to speak. But Amundi knew better than to do that.

  “Needless to say, we don’t care to sleep in the company of thieves and traitors,” Halfdan continued. “So you and your family and the others will sleep in the barn over there.” He nodded toward the barn that housed the horses and the milch cows and the chickens, then met Amundi’s eyes again.

  “Will that be satisfactory?” he asked.

  “Very. Lord,” Amundi said.

  “One thing more,” Halfdan said. “Give me his sword. Odd Thorgrimson’s sword.”

  “His sword?” Amundi said.

  “Yes, his sword,” Halfdan snapped. “Don’t play-act with me. Blood-letter, the sword of Ulf of the Battle Song. Where is it?”

  Amundi shook his head. “I thought you had it, lord,” he said. “Odd was wearing it when he gave himself up to you.”

  For a long moment Halfdan stared into Amundi’s eyes, looking for some sign of treachery, and Amundi held his gaze, expressionless and steady. Finally Halfdan spoke.

  “If I find you’re lying it will not go well for you. You’ve seen what I can do to liars and traitors.”

  “Yes, lord,” Amundi said but by then Halfdan had already turned his back and was walking away.

  The arrangements did not take long. Amundi’s house servants were sent to get the hall prepared for the new guests, and to begin preparations for a grand feast that would include only Halfdan’s men. The other servants and men, along with Amundi himself, were ordered to see to Halfdan’s horses and oxen, to get them fed and staked out.

  Afternoon was fading into evening when Amundi tossed the last fork-load of hay to Halfdan’s mounts and checked that their hobbles were properly fixed. Alfdis came up beside him and laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “You’re done here, husband,” she said in a soft voice. “Come and rest and eat.”

  The voices from inside the hall, muffled by the thick walls, were already loud and raucous, the sound of men enjoying themselves at another’s expense. They would eat and drink as much as they could, and take as much, and damage as much, as they wished, and they would do it not only with the permission of their king, but with his encouragement. Amundi now understood that there was no one who could create a stew of physical and spiritual devastation, of terror and humiliation, like Halfdan could.

  He allowed Alfdis to lead him into the barn. Most of the household were there, hunkered down in the long space that fronted the stalls. The air was thick with the smell of animals and hay and the candles burning in various lanterns hung from nails around the place. Fresh straw had been strewn on the ground and Amundi was all but certain Alfdis had ordered it. That would be like her, to try and mitigate the misery of the situation with whatever little thing she could do.

  He sat on the floor and leaned back against one of the rough beams that supported the wall and roof. One of the slave girls came up and offered him a bowl of stew that had been cooked over a fire behind the barn, but Amundi shook his head.

  “Please, husband, you should eat,” Alfdis said but Amundi shook his head again.

  “No, wife, I’m too weary,” he said. “Too weary by far. But thank you.”

  He did accept a cup of ale, however, and drank that slowly as he listened to the various soft conversations around him and the sky outside grew darker.

  Oh, I have failed, by all the gods I have failed, he thought as he looked at the people crowded in around him. I thought to join with Odd’s fight against Halfdan and I failed in that, and I failed Odd, failed to stand with him. Now Halfdan does what he wishes and I have failed my people. Amundi felt a dark despair sweeping over him, just as the darkness was overtaking the farmyard outside the stable walls.

  He sat there, awake, staring into the dark, as one by one the people around him fell asleep. The muttered conversations faded away, only to be supplanted by the soft rhythmic breathing of some, the coarse snoring of others. Alfdis lay down at Amundi’s side and curled up and slept. She did not bother urging her husband to sleep as well. She understood, no doubt, that sleep was not likely to come to him.

  But it did. Somewhere in the deep night sleep overcame Amundi at last, leaning against the post, his chin tilted down against his chest. It took him unaware, and when he woke he was surprised to find he had been asleep. And what had awoken him, he did not know.

  Someone was shaking him. It took him a moment to realize that, a moment for his thick head to clear. The lanterns had been extinguished and it was very dark in the stable, but Amundi could just make out the shape of someone kneeling beside him and gently shaking his shoulder.

  “What…?” Amundi asked.

  “Pray, quiet, lord,” the person said and Amundi recognized the voice of a girl named Unn who was one of the kitchen maids. Her tone was urgent, her voice so low it was just audible. He could hear the fear in it.

  “What is it?” Amundi asked, speaking as softly as Unn had.

  “Pray, lord, there’s someone sent me to fetch you. Someone who would speak to you.”

  “Who is it?” Amundi asked.

  “Please, lord, won’t you just come with me?” Unn seemed afraid to even speak the man’s name, as if doing so would conjure up some evil spirit. But Amundi could think of no reason not to go. This was not likely Halfdan’s doing: if Halfdan wanted Amundi dead he would just kill him. If it was someone else plotting to kill him, well, Amundi did not really much care.

  He stood, his muscles tight and sore after having been propped up against the beam for so long. He could just barely see. Unn was little more than a dark shape against a slightly less dark background, but he could see her walking slowly away and he followed her, stepping with care so he would not make any noise or step on any sleeping body.

  Unn led the way out of the stable door, and with the stars overhead it was considerably easier to see, particularly as Amundi was familiar with every inch of that farmyard. He continued to follow as Unn led the way across the open ground, way from the long hall and toward the smith’s shop, which was near the wattle fence to the east.

  They came to the door of the smith’s shop and Unn said, “Here, lord,” then turned and raced off, seemingly desperate to get away, running as fast as she could and still not make any noise.

  Amundi watched her go, then looked around him. He could see no one, nothing moving in the dark. He looked in the other direction just in time to see the dark shape of a man step around the corner of the shop. Amundi drew a breath in surprise and was about to speak when the dark shape spoke first.

  “Amundi?”

  Amundi knew the voice, and when he heard it he recognized the man as well, by his shape, his posture.

  “Onund Jonsson,” Amundi said.

  Chapter Nineteen

  With shields are your ships bedecked;

  boldly ye bear yourselves,

  few things ye fear, I ween:

  tell me how your king is named.

  The Poetic Edda

  Thorgrim drifted off some time later with Failend, herself fast asleep, still sprawled across his chest. He slept so deeply that when he awoke he was not certain where he was, or what had woken him.

  He opened his eyes slowly. It was not dark, not night-time dark, but it was not daylight, either. He looked out at the gray pre-dawn and realized there was water dripping on his head. The heavy fur was pulled over him nearly all the way, and stiff as it was it formed a sort of low roof and the water was dripping off that roof.

  Is it raining? he wondered. He looked out over the beach. The air was thick with mist, just short of actual rain. The weather had been remarkably good since they had landed in Engla-land, with only a few days of rain on and off. Not at all like the miserable Ireland from which they had sailed. But it seemed that fine weather was going to desert them now.

  He pushed the fur aside and sat up. Failend had moved in the night to sleep beside him, and had been entirely sheltered under the fur, but now he exposed her to the falling mist. She stirred, muttered somet
hing, then opened her eyes and looked around. She looked at the beach, she looked up at Thorgrim, she looked at the fur he had pushed off her.

  “You damned cruel heathen,” she said as she pulled the fur back over her.

  “Daylight,” Thorgrim said. “Or near to it. Time to go.” He crawled out from under the fur, bringing his leggings with him. He pulled them on, balancing awkwardly and cursing himself for leaving his tunic on the sand rather than bringing it under the covers as well. He picked it up and pulled the cold, damp fabric over his head, then buckled Iron-tooth around his waist. Failend pushed the covers aside. Sometime during the night she had put her clothes back on, and so managed to keep them dry.

  Together they rolled up the fur and the blankets while other men, scattered around the beach, did the same. They carried the bedding across the sand to where Sea Hammer was pulled up on shore, and handed it up to Vestar on board.

  Bergthor came rolling up to them, his usual smile even wider now. “Ah, Thorgrim!” he said. “Beautiful morning for a raid, isn’t it?”

  Thorgrim looked around. The mist had turned to light rain and he knew it would soon turn heavier still. “It’s a fine morning, Bergthor,” Thorgrim agreed. “But I look forward to sleeping in an English home tonight, and eating English beef.”

  “Had your fill of whale meat?” Bergthor said. “So have I. Let’s go visit the English, get our hands on something better.”

  Those men still asleep were roused to their feet by the encouraging shouts and kicks of their captains. Soon all the provisions and gear on the beach began flowing back aboard the ships. A fire was coaxed from the last of the embers and breakfast cooked.

  Thorgrim and Bergthor and the other ship masters ate together on the ring of driftwood logs. Herjolf was with them this time, on Thorgrim’s orders. He would have to hear the things they were discussing now.