The Midgard Serpent

by James L. Nelson

  “Let’s form up into a square, back to back, all of us,” Thorgrim said. It was their only means of defense now. If they tried to run they’d be cut down for certain. But Thorgrim could hear the lack of enthusiasm in his voice. The death of Godi Unundarson seemed to have taken all the strength from him.

  The others gathered, back to back, spears held out. If they stood firm they could probably hold the riders off, but in truth the English were not likely to attack mounted. They would get off their horses and attack on foot and the little knot of Northmen would quickly be overwhelmed.

  Thorgrim was facing the riders, watching them make their charge. They were coming on at a full gallop, with not the least reticence or uncertainty. They were a hundred yards away and Thorgrim could see the flash of the sun off the blades of their swords.

  And then they stopped, the horses rearing and twisting as their riders reined them in hard. They stamped and turned in place and the warriors mounted on them looked off across the countryside and pointed with their swords.

  Thorgrim frowned and turned and looked in the direction they were pointing. More riders were coming, twenty or so, riding hard over the open country. They were a half mile away. The sound of their horses’ hooves came faintly to Thorgrim’s ears.

  “Now who by all the gods is this?” Brand said.

  “They have shields,” Starri said. “And helmets.”

  Thorgrim knew he would have to take Starri’s word for it. He could not make out that sort of detail from that distance. But if he was wondering who these newcomers were, it seemed the English riders were wondering as well. They remained where they had stopped, still seated on their restless mounts, still looking in the direction of the men heading toward them across the fields.

  Then the English made a decision. They decided that whoever these men were, they were not friends. As one, the riders turned their mounts and kicked them into a run and charged off toward the still open main gate of Winchester.

  The horsemen, the ones coming across the fields, changed course now, swerving to their left and making not for the English riders but for Thorgrim and his band.

  “Keep together, keep together,” Thorgrim said. They would keep up their defensive stand, hopeless as it was, until they knew who these riders were.

  As they drew nearer Thorgrim could make out more detail: he could see the shields now, and swords held up and helmets, or so he thought. But he could not make out any more than that.

  But the others could, apparently. He sensed Harald and Starri and Gudrid all relaxing their posture, saw them standing their spears upright and resting them on the ground. He heard Starri Deathless shout, “Ha!”

  The riders were fifty feet away when Thorgrim heard a voice call out, deep and jovial, “Thorgrim Night Wolf!”

  Twenty feet away and Thorgrim could see it was Bergthor Skeggjason, his thicket of beard split by a wide grin, as usual. And beside him, Louis de Roumois.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  May the sword not bite

  which thou drawest,

  unless it sing round thy own head.

  The Poetic Edda

  Bergthor and Louis reined to a halt and slid down from their saddles and the men behind them did the same. Thorgrim recognized them but he did not know their names. They were Bergthor’s men. Good men.

  The smile did not leave Bergthor’s face as he returned his sword to its scabbard and came at Thorgrim with arms spread.

  “Thorgrim!” he said again and wrapped his arms around Thorgrim and hugged him, and Thorgrim was too stunned to do anything but let him. Bergthor released him and stepped back and looked over the men clustered there. “I knew the gods would not let you die like dogs at the hands of the English!” he exclaimed. “Louis here said we were too late, but that’s the way these dreary Franks see things, not our people! I knew we’d make it in time.”

  “If you’d paused to scratch your ass once we’d be dead,” Gudrid said.

  “Plenty of time!” Bergthor said.

  Thorgrim looked over at Louis and their eyes met. “You betrayed your friends?” he said, nodding toward the walls of Winchester.

  Louis gave him a quizzical look. “Since when are the English friends to the Franks?”

  “They took you out of the prison. They knew your name. They’re not friends?”

  “No,” Louis said. “They are not friends. They wished to do to me the same as they tried to do to you. Or worse. It looks like you, Thorgrim, are my best friend in the world. God help me.”

  From somewhere behind the walls of Winchester they heard a trumpet sound, and then another. They turned in that direction and even Thorgrim could see the movement on top of the walls, the men-at-arms scrambling along behind the parapet. He turned back to Bergthor.

  “I don’t know how you happened to be here, but it was bravely done. Still, you might live to regret it. Or die regretting it.”

  “Ha!” Bergthor said, his big smile not diminishing in the least. “Let’s mount up! See, I have brought horses for all of you!”

  Thorgrim had noticed them already — seven saddled and riderless horses among the other mounts.

  “Godi?” Louis asked.

  Thorgrim shook his head. “He’s dead. Put himself in front of the spears so that the rest of us could get over the wall.”

  That was met by a moment of silence, then Bergthor said, “Well, he feasts with warriors now, and when it’s our turn we’ll join him there. But we had best away.”

  A trumpet sounded again from behind the city wall, and this time it was accompanied by the drumming of hooves, a low, distant sound, like thunder far off. All of them, Thorgrim’s men and Bergthor’s men, turned at once and looked back toward the main gate, a half a mile away. The riders who had fled through the gate were coming out again, and with them two dozen more, led by horsemen carrying banners aloft. But this was no stately display. They were riding hard, a full gallop, and they were coming for the Northmen.

  “They’re very determined, aren’t they?” Hall said.

  “Whoa!” Bergthor shouted. “Well that’s it, we’d best be on our way! Come, come! Thorgrim, you take the gray one there, she seems the best of a bad lot. Bunch of broken nags was all we could find.”

  Thorgrim hurried over to the gray horse that Bergthor had indicated. He slid his sword through a loop in the saddle, having no scabbard on his hip. He put his foot in the stirrup and swung himself up and the others around him did the same.

  He looked over his shoulder. The English had not broken their stride at all and they were closing the distance with notable speed.

  “Let’s go!” Thorgrim shouted, jamming his heels into the horse’s flanks. He felt the animal jump and start to dig in as it ran, and around him the other horses were likewise getting underway.

  Bunch of broken nags, Thorgrim thought.

  He owned horses, knew about horses, but he was not the greatest judge of them, being a sailor at heart. Still, it did seem to him that these were not the finest animals he had seen. Nor would he expect them to be. Bergthor and the others must have scoured the countryside to collect this many. They were farm animals mostly, taken from the people who worked the land thereabouts.

  That would not be true of the horses coming from Winchester. A mounted warrior was in all likelihood a wealthy man, maybe one of the nobles who had been sitting with the king, or part of such a man’s hird. Their horses would be the finest and the fastest. And they would not be tired from hard riding as Bergthor’s horses were.

  I’m about done with this… Thorgrim thought next. It was getting tiresome, having the gods toy with him that way. He no longer wished to flee. He wanted to turn his horse around, ride it straight into the middle of the English riders, take as many down as he was able. End it there.

  He looked behind and felt his arms tense, ready to pull the reins to one side and spin his horse around. But he knew that if he did that the others would follow. He might be ready to throw his own life away, but he could
not make that choice for his men. He turned and faced forward again and let the reins go slack.

  Bergthor was in the lead now, a horse length ahead of Thorgrim, but that was fine because Bergthor had just come that way and likely knew the best way back. Thorgrim’s eyes were watering from the wind, his ears were filled with the pounding of the hooves and the occasional whoop from Bergthor or Starri Deathless. They seemed to be moving very fast now, this band of wild Northmen tearing over the countryside, but when Thorgrim looked behind again he saw the English were closer yet. As fast as they might be going, the men-at-arms in pursuit were going much faster.

  The horses raced down the backside of a small hill, and for a moment the fields ahead of them were lost from view, like dipping into the trough between waves. And then they were up the far side and once again Thorgrim could see farms spread out around, and cows in fields and smoke rising here and there.

  It was odd. The world went on as if nothing was amiss, while he and his men, and the English behind, came charging through it, as if they were part of a different world entirely, and for that one moment the two just happened to overlap.

  Thorgrim looked behind once more and caught a glimpse of the banners the English held aloft, bright colors against the sky, and the mail and helmets of the riders, the shining breastplates on the horses themselves. They were only a few hundred yards behind now, and Thorgrim could feel his horse was slowing with the effort. He wondered if the creature would just die under him. He’d had that happen before.

  “Bergthor!” he shouted, and Bergthor twisted around, looking back at Thorgrim.

  “We won’t outrun them!” Thorgrim shouted. “We need someplace…to make our stand! Farmhouse?”

  He looked up as he said it, but there was no farmhouse near that he could see. A hundred yards away a small hill rose up like an ocean roller, blocking the view of the country just beyond it, but if there had been a house there they would have seen it. Beyond that it was just fields for a mile at least. And they would not make it another mile before the English were on them.

  “A little farther!” Bergthor shouted back. His face was red and covered in sweat from the effort of riding as hard as he was, but he was still smiling, as much as he could.

  Thorgrim gave him a quick nod and leaned forward in the saddle. It was pointless, pressing on, but he and Bergthor could hardly discuss it just then, and besides there was nothing more to do. Ride until the horses died under them, and then stand and fight until they were dead as well.

  The ground dipped at the foot of the next hill and Thorgrim could see only the green grass of the field ahead. Then they were going up the hill, Bergthor in the lead, Thorgrim half a pace behind, the rest following. They crested the hill and came down the far side and to Thorgrim’s astonishment there were men there, hundreds and hundreds of men, fifty feet away. They had shields and helmets and spears and battle axes and they stood in a long line, hidden by the hill and ready to fight.

  As the riders came flying over the top of the hill the men in their path scrambled out of the way. Bergthor gave a shout of triumph and hauled back on his horse’s reins, skidding to a stop. Thorgrim pulled the reins of his own mount back and the horse reared a bit and tossed its head, as much as the exhausted animal could muster. Around and behind him the rest of the riders came to a stop as well.

  Bergthor was already off his horse when Thorgrim swung his leg over the saddle and dropped. “How’s this for a surprise, Thorgrim?” he shouted. “You didn’t think I’d come alone, did you?”

  Thorgrim shook his head. He did not know what to say. Bergthor turned toward the men nearest to him and spoke loud enough for his voice to carry down the line. “Our English friends will be here directly!” he shouted. “Let’s be ready to welcome them!”

  They could hear the pounding of the horses’ hooves as the English riders, unseen, charged toward the far side of the hill. The Northmen lifted shields and leveled spears and hefted swords and braced themselves. Then the first of the Englishmen came galloping over the crest of the hill, sword held high, the rider to his left and just behind holding one of the bright-colored banners.

  He did not slow as he came over the top and down the other side, but sat more upright and pulled back on the reins as he saw the army arrayed before him. He was close enough that Thorgrim could see the play of emotions on his face: determination changing to surprise, changing to confusion, changing to fear. He pulled harder on his reins and his horse reared as more and more of the riders came after him over the hill.

  The first rider’s horse came down again and spun in place, the man holding his sword up, looking for someone to fight. The Northmen were coming in from all sides, surrounding him and the other Englishmen as they came charging over the top of the hill. A rider hacked down at one of Bergthor’s men, who turned the blade aside with his shield and swung with a battle ax and missed.

  “Don’t kill them! Don’t kill them!” Thorgrim shouted. He had not thought this through, was still a little stunned by the turn of events, but he did know these Englishmen were of much greater value alive than dead.

  There were knots of fighting now, the Northmen swarming around the English riders, going at them with shields raised, while the English hacked and slashed in manic desperation. But the Northmen seemed to heed Thorgrim’s words, and rather than kill the riders in their saddles they dragged them down one after another, until soon the riderless horses were running in every direction and the well-appointed English warriors were buried under crowds of bearded heathens.

  The air was filled with the shouts of the English and the shouts and laughter of the Northmen piling on. Each of the men-at-arms was at the center of his own individual scrum and Thorgrim could well imagine the eager hands liberating their purses and swords and bejeweled knives and rings and necklaces and arm bands. He could see one fellow dragging the mail shirt off of his thrashing, shouting victim.

  Bergthor was standing at Thorgrim’s side, arms folded, laughing at the sight. Thorgrim turned to him.

  “If we let this go on they’ll strip those English bastards naked, and that I don’t care to see.”

  “We can agree on that,” Bergthor said. He turned toward the fighting men. There were at least ten of the Northmen attending to each of the English riders, which meant nearly every man there was engaged.

  “Hey, you thieving whores’ sons, let those bastards up!” he shouted. “Come on, come on, let them up!”

  Slowly the struggling came to a stop as the Northmen stood and backed away. Some were bleeding where their victims had apparently landed a blow or managed to draw a weapon, but none of the wounds seemed terribly severe. The Northmen were grinning or laughing. This was the most fun they had had since the two fleets had met on the beach, which seemed like a year ago, at least.

  “Get these English to their feet, get them together here!” Thorgrim shouted. The English men-at-arms had been left on the ground but now men reached down and stood them up on unsteady legs.

  They had been proud warriors, finely fitted out, when they came over the hill, but they were not so anymore. They had been stripped down mostly to their tunics, which were torn and stained with blood and grass and mud. Some did not even have their tunics left. Their hair stood in wild array, their faces streaked with blood from noses and mouths. They had the look of men too stunned to even understand what had happened to them.

  Once the English were on their feet the Northmen pushed them toward the middle of the crowd until they were all in a cluster, a battered, frightened group, each beaten, stripped man trying to preserve some semblance of dignity and courage.

  Thorgrim and Bergthor approached and the Northmen parted for them. Thorgrim could see the English eyes turning his way. They would recognize him, of course. The man they had tried to burn at the stake that very morning. They would guess he had reason to angry with them, and that he might not feel particularly charitable.

  Thorgrim moved his eyes from one man to the next. Despite the
ir ravaged appearance he could see they were not common soldiers. They were not even elite house guards. They were more than that. They were important men, nobles, men of means and station. They had come out for the fun of running a handful of escaped heathens to ground.

  Rich men out on an afternoon’s hunt.

  He nodded his head. “Good, good,” he said. “These men will serve us well.”

  Epilogue

  We shall surely

  drink delicious draughts,

  though we have lost

  life and lands.

  The Poetic Edda

  Felix lowered his head into his hands and closed his eyes. King Æthelwulf was ranting on about something but Felix did not think it was important, or indeed even worth listening too.

  A disaster, he thought. An absolute disaster. But what did these idiots think was going to happen?

  He opened his eyes and looked up. The man standing in front of him was a young thegn named Beadurof who owned a tolerable estate in Kent, though nothing compared to what the other members of the witan owned. He had been sent by the heathens to bring word of what had befallen the others. And what must happen next.

  “That’s right, sire,” Beadurof said, in answer to the king’s query. “The whole heathen army, or most of it, was lying in wait behind the hill. We had no notion of it. We rode right over the hill and right into their arms. That’s what happened.”

  Felix had to marvel at the heathens’ insight. Beadurof was about the least important of all the men they had taken prisoner, and he was the one they had sent to bring word. The ealdormen, whose lives were of real value, had been kept prisoner. The heathens would give up nothing or no one of real value.

  How did they know? Felix wondered. Fortunate guess?