The Midgard Serpent

by James L. Nelson

  It was not long after that the rain started in, a few drops at first, indistinguishable from the spray. Then it started coming down harder, sweeping in sheets over the water, soaking already wet clothes, running down beards and down the necks of tunics. The women adjusted Odd’s covers, then sat in the bottom of the boat hugging themselves as the rest pressed against the weather side and did the same.

  When Amundi could stand it no longer he turned once more and looked astern. The shoreline was lost in the rain but Skorri’s boat was still visible, plowing along toward them. It was so close astern now that Amundi let out a gasp of surprise, which was happily inaudible to the rest. The rig was still standing, the sail still full and drawing. He could see the men lining the weather side of the boat, a crowd of men, just as he had imagined, like shields on a shield rack.

  He looked back toward the headland off the larboard bow. Once again he saw the geometry of the situation in his mind. And he knew they would not make it. They would not get around the headland before Skorri’s boat was up with them.

  Should I say anything? he wondered.

  But before Amundi could decide whether or not to speak, Onund, also looking astern at Skorri’s boat, said, “This will be a close thing.” That was met with grunts of agreement from the others. They understood the situation as well as Amundi. And they all knew that it would not really be close at all.

  For some time more they plunged on through that purgatory of rain and cold and the violent motion of the boat, the spray coming over the bow, the tension of knowing that the entire rig could come down at any moment. And astern, Skorri’s boat clawed its way closer and closer.

  “We had better get ready with what weapons we have,” Amundi said at last. “Skorri’s coming up to leeward of us. Let’s be ready.”

  With that the men pushed themselves off the high side and dug around for what weapons they had: some swords, a few spears, a couple of battle axes. They had come with the intention of escaping, not fighting. They had understood from the onset that they would be greatly outnumbered by their pursuers, which would make fighting pointless, so they had brought only the weapons they would normally carry as a matter of course, and no more.

  “Don’t know what that bastard Skorri thinks he’ll do in these seas,” Thord said. Skorri might be able to overtake them, but with those big seas running it would be madness for him to even try to come alongside Amundi’s boat, never mind attack it.

  “This won’t stop him,” Onund said. “He’ll try to board no matter what, even if he takes us all to the bottom. He’s more afraid of Halfdan than he is of drowning out here.”

  No one said anything to that because no one doubted it was true. They found their weapons and resumed their places at the weather side and waited.

  They did not wait long. Soon Skorri’s boat was all but up with them, just a hundred feet or so astern. He was coming at them from downwind, which meant there was no direction Amundi could sail that would not just bring the boats closer.

  They could see Skorri in the stern, hand on the tiller, his blond hair and beard looking black, soaked through as they were, his eyes fixed on Amundi’s boat. There was no question now as to what he intended. His men were crowded in the bottom of the boat, weapons in hand, ready to make the treacherous leap from one boat to the other once they had closed the last few feet. Twenty men, at least, just as Amundi had guessed.

  He looked away from Skorri’s boat. He looked at the headland off to larboard. He looked to windward, he looked astern. He looked for some way out of this, some escape, some clear path, but there was nothing. The only course available now was one that led right into the arms of Skorri’s overwhelming force.

  Amundi felt a strange mix of emotions roiling like the chaotic sea in his mind: anger, resignation, a wild recklessness. Very well, he thought.

  “Cast off those braces, cast them off!” he shouted. The braces held the yard from swinging side to side: casting them off would allow the yard to be moved if they wished to change direction. Which no one expected Amundi might want to do.

  The order was met with looks of surprise and confusion, but Amundi did not feel much like explaining. He pulled the tiller toward him and the boat swung wildly to starboard, heeling harder as it turned away from the wind, tossing wildly as it came broadside to the seas. Alfdis shouted in surprise and Amundi saw men grabbing for something to hold against the violent, unexpected motion.

  The bow swung in a wide arc, pointing out to sea, and the land and Skorri’s boat were lost from view behind them. And it kept turning, sweeping around in a nearly complete circle. The yard swung around with the turn because Onund and Thord had had the presence of mind to cast the braces off.

  Directly ahead and only fifty feet away was Skorri’s boat, now right under their bow, close enough that Amundi could see the looks of surprise on the warriors’ faces and on Skorri’s face. The seas moved under Amundi’s boat and lifted it and flung it forward with tremendous force. Then it passed under and Amundi’s boat was starting to go down in the trough and Skorri’s boat was starting to lift right at the moment they hit.

  The gods, it seemed, were with Amundi. The heavy-build oak stem of his boat that formed the very bow slammed into the more vulnerable side of Skorri’s boat nearly amidships. The impact threw Amundi and the others forward, half of them landing in the bilge. The mast shuddered in a way that flashed terror into Amundi’s heart, terror that the rig would go by the board. Over the rain and wind he could hear the sound of cracking, snapping wood.

  The force of the impact had tossed Amundi to his hands and knees on the bottom of the boat. He looked forward toward the bow. His view was partially blocked by the gear stowed there but he could see no obvious damage, no water spewing in around shattered planks.

  With a hand on the sheer strake he pulled himself up. He sat down on the thwart and grabbed the tiller that was swinging wildly. The bow of his boat was still pushed hard against Skorri’s, but the point of impact was below the rail and Amundi could not see if they had done any damage.

  Skorri’s men had been tossed to the bottom of the boat just as Amundi’s had, but there were more of them and therefore a bigger pile of thrashing arms and legs to untangle. Skorri was shouting something. Amundi could hear the words but could not make them out. The fury in Skorri’s voice, however, was unmistakable.

  For a moment it seemed as if all the world was standing still, as if all the wild motion and roaring noise and driving rain had stopped, just for a heartbeat. Amundi looked at Skorri just as Skorri looked over at him. Their eyes fixed on one another. Neither spoke, neither moved.

  Then everything started again. The sea lifted Amundi’s boat up and the wind filled the sail and drove it forward as the sail of Skorri’s boat was flogging and coming aback. Amundi’s boat surged forward, pushing Skorri’s aside, pulling the bow free from where it had struck. Amundi could see the damage now. Several planks had been stove in, buckled so far that he could see clean through the gap. Not below the waterline, but close enough.

  As Amundi’s boat drove past Skorri, rising stern-first on the following sea, he saw Skorri bend over, reach down into the bilge, and come up with a spear in his hand. The move so surprised Amundi that he did not react, did not move, just watched as Skorri braced his legs and drew the spear back to throw.

  Two things happened at once. Amundi saw a blur of motion to his left. He turned his head in time to see Oleif getting to his feet, the iron cookpot in hand. He brought his arm back and flung the pot at Skorri the instant before Skorri flung the spear.

  The pot hit Skorri square in the chest and the spear flew wildly off to the right, missing the boat entirely. Skorri fell backwards, and for a moment Amundi thought he was going over the side, but instead he fell against the sheer strake and slid down to the bottom of the boat.

  And then they were past, running nearly straight downwind, and Amundi knew he had to get his boat under control. “Take up those braces!” he called. “We’re going
around again!” He could not see the distant shore through the driving rain, but he knew it was out there somewhere, and it was not where he wanted to end up.

  He looked astern at the waves coming up behind. He waited as the stern of the boat dipped down into a trough, and as it began to rise again he pushed the tiller away. The boat spun round on the top of the wave while Thord and Onund pulled on the braces and hauled the yard around.

  Skorri’s boat was already fifty feet away, broadside to the seas and drifting. The pressure of the sail coming aback had finally done for the rig. The mast and yard and sail had come down and were now dragging in the water as the boat drifted out of control. He could see men bailing like mad, using buckets and helmets. One of them was using the pot that Oleif had flung at Skorri.

  Amundi looked forward. Thord and Onund had trimmed the sail and made the braces fast and the boat was once again on course to round the headland, which was once again off the larboard bow.

  He looked astern. Skorri’s boat was a few hundred feet away by then, rising on the waves and then nearly disappearing into the troughs. It was impossible to tell how badly the side was stove in, how much water it was taking on. Amundi did not know if they would make it to shore or not. He just knew they would no longer be giving chase.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  On a wolf rode,

  at evening twilight,

  a woman who him

  offered to attend.

  The Poetic Edda

  Thorgrim woke, gasping, his hands clutching something not quite solid. He was naked and covered in a sheen of sweat. His eyes were wide, staring into the semi-darkness. He did not know where he was, or who he was.

  He sat motionless and his breathing began to subside. He felt tired, as if he had been running, and running hard. It started coming back to him: moving through the night, moving silently down narrow streets, a place unlike any place he had been. The smells were strong, smells of fire and horses and chickens and pigs, mud and dung and people.

  Wolf dream… he thought. He had had a wolf dream. It had been some time since he had had one, and it had not been foreshadowed by his usual foul temper, an inability to endure the presence of anyone at all. Save for one person.

  He turned halfway around in one direction and then the other. It was hard to see inside the dark building, though streams of sunlight were coming through the door and the gaps in the walls. They looked almost solid as they passed through the copious dust.

  Starri Deathless was not there. Usually the berserker kept him company, sitting close by, silent and protective, while Thorgrim was in the depths of one of his wolf dreams. Those were the times when some part of Thorgrim — his mind, his spirit, he did not know what — left him and moved around the countryside. It allowed him to see things others could not see. It had happened since he was a young man, though it was happening less and less often of late.

  You are getting old... Thorgrim thought, and just as the wolf dreams were coming less frequently, that thought was coming more so. Things did not work the way they had always worked, either with his body or his dreams. Even his mind, his emotions.

  He worried about Failend, and the feelings that seemed to be pulling at her. He wondered whether he was making things worse or better for her. He would make things better for her if he knew how, but he was not sure.

  He worried about Harald. He found Harald’s stubbornness and his grudging obedience annoying in a way he would not have done before. In earlier days he would hardly have noticed it, and he would have cared even less. But now he wanted it to stop. He wanted Harald to understand how grave a mistake he had made, to admit it and learn from it.

  So far the boy had shown no inclination to do so.

  Thorgrim pulled his wandering thoughts back to the present. He looked down. It was hay he was gripping, handfuls of hay from the haystack on which he was sitting. He frowned and looked at the hay and slowly the night started to come back to him. Failend, forcing him to take his rest, easing him down onto the soft bed, then coming to him. His surprise to realize that she was naked. They had not been together in that way for a long time.

  Failend seemed to be wrestling with feelings that were stirring things up in her like a wind will do when it’s blowing against the tide. Almost everything she did now came as a surprise to him.

  His mind wandered back through their time on the haystack, and the wonderful feeling of it all, which went beyond the physical. There was a connection between them that had not been there in a long time, as if Failend’s uncertainty had vanished and something had settled in her mind.

  Now she was gone. The blanket that had covered them was bunched in a heap, and there was a slight depression in the hay where she had been sleeping. Thorgrim looked at the blanket and the dent in the hay and he felt his mood start to shift, his thoughts start to move off in a direction not so pleasing as the memories of the night before.

  Wolf dream. It was starting to come back. He remembered visions of moving over the countryside, past clusters of farms. He remembered streets, tight streets with houses pressed up close. He remembered Failend. He remembered danger, terrific danger.

  He looked up again, staring into the half light, and the gasping fear that had woken him in the first place was back again. He leaped up and snatched his leggings and pulled them on, then his tunic and then he buckled Iron-tooth around his waist. He hurried out of the stable. The morning light was blinding and he blinked and felt the tears run down his cheeks as he hurried across the yard toward the hall.

  Hall and Gudrid were standing watch and they turned as he approached. They were smiling, ready no doubt to needle him for sleeping late after his night with Failend, but when they saw his face their expressions changed in an instant.

  “Where’s Failend?” Thorgrim demanded. “Has she come by here?”

  The two men shook their heads. “We haven’t seen her, lord,” Gudrid said. “And I don’t think she’s in the hall. We thought she was…” His voice trailed off.

  Thorgrim pushed past them and into the hall. Most of the men were at the big table eating porridge and bread and they looked up as Thorgrim came in.

  “Is Failend here?” Thorgrim demanded, and the men, more confused than helpful, glanced around, glanced at one another, and shook their heads.

  “Isn’t she with you?” Starri asked. “She was last night, there was no question about that. Not sure how any of us were supposed to sleep.”

  Thorgrim shook his head. He was in no mood for Starri’s silliness. “No,” Thorgrim said. “She’s not with me. She’s gone, and I’ve seen she’s in danger. Great danger.”

  This brought more silence and confusion from the assembled warriors. It was Starri, once again, who spoke, but his tone was much different now.

  “You…saw this?” he asked.

  “I did,” Thorgrim said.

  “Wolf dream?”

  “Yes.”

  Starri nodded. “Strange I didn’t see it coming,” he said. Starri, more than any of the men there, believed in the truth of the wolf dreams. Berserkers were known to have a connection to the gods that other men did not have, and Starri was certain that Thorgrim’s wolf dreams were a gift from Asgard. He did not question them. It was why he was so loyal to Thorgrim, and why he wanted to be close by when Thorgrim was in the midst of them. And likely why Thorgrim could tolerate his company.

  “Where is she?” Harald asked. “Do you know? What danger is she in?” The wolf dreams had been part of Harald’s reality for all his life, but to him they had always been something to fear: his father in a foul mood, his father gone in some other-worldly way.

  “She’s in Winchester, I’m sure of it,” Thorgrim said. “I don’t know how she got there. Walked, I suppose, in the dark. And I don’t know why. But she’s in danger now.”

  Again there was silence and Thorgrim was sure each man was considering the same thing he was: why had she done that, and how could they possibly help her now?

  “Has she
betrayed us?” Gudrid asked. “Why would she do that?”

  “No,” Louis said, “she’s not betrayed us. When we got to this place, she was talking about…” He stopped and frowned. “I don’t know what you would call it in your language. The church. The Christian church. She said she missed it.”

  That brought another moment of confused silence. “Why would she miss it?” Thorgrim asked. “If she wants to honor her gods she can honor them anywhere. Why would she miss a church?”

  Louis shook his head. “There’s only one God, and we don’t worship him the way you heathens worship your gods. To do it right we must have a man of God to help with the worship.” Louis had been a long time in the company of the Northmen, and he spoke the language passing well, but Thorgrim could tell he was having trouble finding words that would make sense. There was a divide here that was wider than just language.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Thorgrim said. “Whatever her reason, she’s gone to Winchester, I know it, and she’s in danger.”

  “Then we must get her,” Harald said. There was none of the sour, grudging tone he had used since his command was taken from him and Thorgrim was pleased to hear it. Failend was well liked by all of them, and apparently a threat to her life was enough to make Harald forget the injustice he felt had been done to him.

  “The city gates will be open, and probably not too many guards there,” Starri said, his voice tinged with growing excitement. “It would be nothing to get into the city.”

  “And then what?” Thorgrim asked, knowing that the others were thinking it. “We don’t know the city, we don’t know where to look for her. And we’re less than a dozen men.” It was cleverness that was called for now, not strength of arms.