The Midgard Serpent

by James L. Nelson

  There had been no council of war, no meeting of the ships’ masters. Thorgrim simply gathered Bergthor and the other ships’ masters and told them what he would do and what they would do.

  He would take his small band and ride north to Winchester and see how promising it looked, see if they had any hope of sacking the place, see what had become of the army they had fought on the bay. The rest would see to the wounded and send those who died off in a proper way and repair their ships and repair their weapons and wait for Thorgrim’s return, at which time he would tell them what would happen next.

  There were no objections. Nor had Thorgrim thought there would be. The Norse army was in no shape to do anything but lick its wounds. And Bergthor seemed happy to not have to make any decisions.

  So they rode north, and they rode mostly in silence, their eyes alert for signs of an ambush or someone tracking their movements, but they saw nothing. They followed the wide dirt road and soon it became something more than just a muddy stretch of ground battered by the passing of an army. There were stones, carefully cut and fitted to make a road thirty feet wide and amazingly flat and straight. The borders of the road were likewise lined with cut stone, but longer and standing proud, like a short wall to hold the others in place.

  The road even seemed to be rounded, just a bit, in such a way that rain would run off to the sides rather than settle in pools. At first Thorgrim thought that was an accident, the result of the particular contour of the land, but as they rode on and he saw that the slight arch did not vary at all he realized that this had been done on purpose.

  But astounding as the road might be, it did not seem new at all. There was a quality to it that suggested it had been built ages before. In sundry places he could see where it had been repaired by men not nearly as skilled as those who had built it.

  “Louis,” he said at last. It took a great deal of curiosity for Thorgrim to ask Louis anything, being as it was a tacit admission that Louis might know something he did not. “What do you know of these roads? Did the Britons build these? Or the Saxons?”

  “The Romans,” Louis said.

  “Romans? Who are the Romans? They live in this country?”

  “They did,” Louis said. “They lived everywhere. Frankia, Germania, Engla-land. They conquered it all. Many, many generations past. We have such roads in Frankia, and other things the Romans left behind. They conquered all the world at one time.”

  Thorgrim considered that. Romans.

  “They did not conquer Ireland,” Failend said.

  “No,” Louis said. “The Irish were too great a bunch of lunatics for the Romans to conquer.”

  “I don’t think they conquered our country,” Godi said. “We have no roads such as this. I’ve never heard any speak of the…Romans.”

  Louis sighed. “I meant to say they conquered all of the civilized world.”

  They rode in silence for a bit more, then Thorgrim asked, “These Romans, they worshiped your Christ god?”

  “No,” Louis said. “Not at first. They were the ones who killed him. The Romans worshiped many gods.”

  “Of course,” Godi said. “How could any people become so powerful if they worship only one god?”

  Failend made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a snort of contempt. “One god is enough,” she said, “as long as he’s the right god.”

  They continued on for some time more, the ancient road over which they passed making the going easy. Thorgrim felt certain they were traveling in the right direction. If Winchester was as important a city as the Briton had said it was, then this road must lead there. Still, he would have liked to question some local person, but so far there was not a person to be seen.

  The road ran through low, open country, and every once in a while through a cluster of small houses gathered where a lesser road met up with the Roman way to make a crossroads of sorts. Sometimes there was a larger, heavy-timbered, two storied building among the smaller ones which Thorgrim guessed would be an inn of some sort. If there was anyone inside they were keeping hidden.

  It was lucky for them, Thorgrim mused, that he had only an army of twelve with him. If all the Northmen had been marching past they would not have been able to resist plundering the place for anything they could carry off.

  They rode all through the morning hours then stopped to have their midday meal at a spot where a tumble of large rocks would make comfortable seating, though once they dismounted none of them felt much like sitting again. The fields of waist-high grass ran off for a mile or more in any direction, which meant they would have ample warning of anyone approaching unless they were crawling on their bellies.

  With groans and other guttural noises they stretched and then fished out the dried meat and bread and cheese and skins of ale they had brought in the bags hung over their saddles. They ate leaning against the rocks, somewhere between standing and sitting.

  “Might finally see some people,” Harald said as he chewed, one of the first statements he had made that day.

  “Why do you say that?” Godi asked.

  Harald nodded in the direction where the road led. “Some smoke up there. House or a smith or something. And I’m pretty sure I saw some folk off in the distance.”

  “Well, all of Engla-land couldn’t have fled in terror,” Gudrid said. “I suppose we’ll meet up with someone eventually.” That met with a few grunts of agreement and they continued eating for a while longer. Harald’s companion, Brand, was the next to speak.

  “Do you think they’re watching us?” he asked. “I’ve been keeping lookout, but I haven’t seen anyone.”

  “Neither have I,” said Hall.

  “I haven’t either,” said Thorgrim. “But I’ll wager they are, and are just good at keeping hidden. They know we’re in Hamtun, and they’d be fools not to watch the roads from there to Winchester. And those men who surprised us on the water, they were no fools.”

  They finished their meal in silence, then mounted again to continue on their way. Thorgrim looked over his small band as they swung themselves up into their saddles. They were mostly outfitted with mail shirts, and all had helmets they were not currently wearing. They carried round shields on their backs or hanging from their saddles. Anyone seeing them would know they were warriors, but they would not necessarily know they were Northmen. They would appear little different from English men-at-arms, and seeing as there was only a dozen of them, Thorgrim did not think they would cause much alarm in the countryside.

  The poor folk, the farmers and laborers, would not be eager to approach any warriors at all, and Thorgrim expected they would keep a wary distance. He counted on it. If the king or whoever ruled in those parts had sent men to watch the road, it would not be entirely clear to them if the dozen riders were Northmen or not. He guessed they would be able to ride all the way to Winchester without anyone being certain of who they were.

  At least he hoped that would be the case.

  A few miles on they began to see folk for the first time, farmers mostly, off in the fields some distance from the road. They would stop in their labors and watch as the riders approached, alert for any threat, and only when the dozen had passed by and shown no interest in them did they resume their work.

  Once they came upon a small house near the road. A woman there was running back and forth in a panicked rush, herding her children inside. It was almost comical. As they rode past Thorgrim imagined the woman huddled in a corner, shielding her children, the ax she used for splitting kindling held in her trembling hands. He wondered how long she would stay like that before daring to come out again.

  By midafternoon the broken patchwork of fields past which they had been riding all day seemed to grow more regular, more carefully laid out, the houses scattered around more numerous. There were more people, too, men working in the fields and men working in makeshift shops in the yards outside their cottage doors. It was clear they were approaching some sort of central and well-populated place.

&nbs
p; We must be nearing Winchester, Thorgrim thought. If Winchester is a real place, then this must be it.

  He heard hooves behind him, and Louis de Roumois drew alongside. “Have you see them?” he asked.

  Thorgrim nodded. “Not for a while. But they made little effort to hide themselves before.”

  There were other riders nearby, men on horseback just a half mile or so ahead. They were not on the road, they were moving through the fields and the stands of trees, keeping just ahead of Thorgrim’s band. They were doing a decent job of concealing themselves, but not a perfect job. Thorgrim had caught glimpses of them from time to time, and he had a good idea of who they were. Poor farmers did not ride. Simple travelers did not avoid the road.

  “What do you make of them?” he asked Louis.

  “There are five or six that I can see,” Louis said. “But they’re not riding together. They have shields on their saddles. Sometimes I think I see mail, but I can’t be sure from so far off.”

  More hoof beats and Starri Deathless drew up on the other side. Despite the rain of the day before there was still a fair amount of dried blood in his long, tangled hair and scruffy beard. His tunic, however, was clean, since he always went bare-chested into battle.

  “Are you talking about the riders ahead?” Starri asked. Starri had the keenest sight of any man in the fleet. Thorgrim trusted Starri’s eyes more than those of anyone else, but he did not so much trust Starri’s interpretation of what he saw.

  “Yes,” Thorgrim said. “What do you make of them?”

  “English warriors. Half a dozen. They’re trying to keep hidden while they spy on us, but they’re doing a piss-poor job. I’ve been watching them since just a little after our midday meal.”

  “They must suspect that we…you…are Northmen,” Louis said. “But they can’t be certain. They might take us for some wealthy man’s hearth guard.”

  “Which is why they don’t attack us,” Starri said. “Which is why we must attack them.”

  “No,” Thorgrim said. He could just imagine the dozen of them chasing these English bastards all over the countryside. “Let them wonder. We’re just going to Winchester to have a look.”

  The watchers did not leave them, but they were better able to hide themselves as the number of farms and clusters of homes and wayside inns became more numerous.

  And then, finally, they could see it. Still several miles off, still mostly hidden, but they could see the spires of a church, the roof of a large building that looked to be a great hall, various other tower buildings, thin columns of smoke rising up from dozens of small fires.

  “That must be Winchester,” Godi said, putting words to the others’ thoughts.

  “Must be,” Hall said. “Biggest village we’ve seen yet in all Engla-land.”

  That was certainly true. They had been months now in that country and had seen only small fishing villages huddled up to the sea. Hamtun was the largest of those, and it was certainly larger than most such villages in Norway, but it was still of no terribly impressive size. But this town up ahead, this looked like a truly large, truly important place.

  Winchester…

  “Ha! Look at that whore’s son!” Starri called out. He was pointing off to their left and Thorgrim looked in that direction. One of the watchers had come out from behind a byre and was riding off hard across the field, heading toward Winchester, it seemed.

  “I reckon soon enough all Winchester will know we’re here,” Gudrid said.

  “I hope so,” Starri said. “I hope the cowardly bastards try to do something about it.”

  Thorgrim watched the man ride off. He was surprised they had not been challenged yet, despite their ambiguous appearance. He would have thought one of those scouts might have come close enough to enquire as to who they were. One spoken word would tell any Englishman that Thorgrim’s band was not English. Instead, they had just kept watch from a distance, and made a poor effort at hiding themselves.

  “What now, Thorgrim?” Louis asked.

  “We keep going,” Thorgrim said. “This changes nothing. We see what Winchester is about, and then we ride back.” That was as much as Thorgrim meant to explain, and it was also about as much as he had thought through.

  Just ahead of them a dirt road crossed the Roman way at a right angle, the deep ruts in its surface, left behind by generations of cart wheels, making a sharp contrast to the well-ordered bricks over which the Northmen traveled. There was a scattering of houses at the crossroads, just as they had seen at others, and one larger building, two storied and heavily built with timber frames and wattle and daub walls, the way the English seemed to build their more substantial structures. There was a stable and a fenced-in area and a few outbuildings: smith, kitchen, latrine. An inn catering to the travelers going to and from Winchester.

  There were no people there, at least none nearby. There were some off in the fields, a couple of men driving a team of oxen that dragged a plow in their wake, some others sowing seed, apparently. More at work farther off. But no one in the houses, no one at the inn.

  They rode slowly past, keeping a careful eye on the buildings as they did. The doors were shut, the windows shuttered. Nothing moving. There was something almost eerie about it. Thorgrim heard the whinny of a horse coming from the direction of the stable, the only sign of any creature there. It was a familiar sound but seemed out of place in the strange silence.

  Then they were past, continuing on, Winchester becoming more visible in the distance, the clusters of houses scattered around the open country more numerous. It was as if a big town like Dubh-linn had been broken up and the bits tossed around the hills and fields.

  Thorgrim was looking at those things but he was not thinking about them. He was thinking about the horse’s whinny that he had heard, coming from the stable at the inn. There was nothing at all strange about a horse being in a stable. Indeed, it would be more odd to find such a stable that did not have at least one horse in it. But he could not shake the idea that something about it was not right.

  You’re becoming a foolish old man, frightened of shadows, he chastised himself, but even that could not drive off the uneasy feeling he had. He could not dismiss what he felt. He was no stranger to such things, the gods whispering warnings in his ears.

  Then another thought came to him, another hint from the gods. The scouts might not have been doing a poor job of concealing themselves. They might have been quite clever, in fact. They might have been keeping the Northmen’s attention on them, while others set up a surprise attack.

  “Listen, the lot of you,” he said, loud enough to be heard without turning around in his saddle. “I think we’re about to be set upon. From that inn we passed. I may be wrong, but make ready for it anyway. Get helmets on and get your shields and weapons ready. But easy. If they come, let them think they’re surprising us.”

  He heard a shuffling and thumping behind him as his warriors did as he said, settling helmets on heads, taking shields off their backs or their saddles where they hung. He heard Starri make some strange sound, something like a whimper, a strangled note of eager anticipation.

  Thorgrim reached down with his right hand and grabbed Iron-tooth’s hilt and pulled the sword out, just an inch or so, just enough to know it would draw easily. He untied the cord that held his conical helmet hanging from his saddle and settled the helmet on his head. He unhooked his shield from the other side of his saddle and was just putting an arm through the leather strap when the English launched their attack.

  The quiet of the afternoon was shredded in an instant by the sudden pounding of hooves, the shouting of men who hoped the noise would surprise and disorient an unprepared foe. Thorgrim jerked his reins to one side, making his horse spin in place, just in time to see twenty or more riders come pouring around the corner of the inn, spears in some hands, swords held high in others. Fighting men, they wore mail and their helmets were shining.

  Thorgrim kicked his heels back hard and his horse plunged forwar
d and Thorgrim drew Iron-tooth from its scabbard. Now he was shouting, too, and Starri was screaming his battle cry, more disconcerting than anything the English could hope to produce. All the Northmen were turning their horses together, like dancers performing some choreographed move, and they were building speed as they charged to meet the enemy head to head.

  Failend was near the back of their group and that meant the English would be on her first.

  “You bastards!” Thorgrim shouted as he kicked his horse again, his eyes on Failend. She had her helmet on, and her shield on her left arm, her seax in her right hand. She looked like a child set against the men around her. She had been riding toward the enemy but now she pulled her horse to a stop and braced herself for the attack coming at her.

  Thorgrim made a loud, guttural sound of frustration as he tried to get to Failend’s side before the English did. She was a good warrior, she had proven herself many times, but the bow was her weapon. Practiced as she was with her seax, her weight was slight and her reach was short and there was nothing she could do to change that.

  Thorgrim was still fifty feet away when the first of the English riders came up with her. He was a spearman and he held his weapon level, right at Failend’s shield, and Thorgrim knew if it struck with all the force behind it, it would likely go right through. That, or if the man was skilled, he would shift the point just a few inches to go under or around the shield and drive the wicked point right through Failend’s small frame.

  He gritted his teeth as he saw the two come together, saw the point of the blade dip to go under Failend’s shield. And he saw Failend drop the edge of her shield to meet the point. The spear tip impaled the wood and Failend pushed it aside, knocking the spear out of line, as she lunged with her seax.

  Now the rider’s momentum worked against him as he rode right onto Failend’s blade. Thorgrim saw the point of the short weapon drive through the spearman’s mail as the two horses collided and Failend and the Englishmen were knocked clean off.