The Last Berserker

by Angus Donald

‘A gift, is it?’

  ‘Yes! Of all the warriors in the world, only a handful find their gandr. You have the divine spark inside you – you have been touched by the gods.’

  ‘In Francia, they call it possession by an evil demon. They say that something wicked takes control of a Rekkr’s body and corrupts his soul.’

  ‘Francia? What do they know? Nothing. Their hectoring priests see everything as either good or evil, nothing in between, either sanctioned by their ridiculous Christ god or benighted and vile. They even try to deny the existence of the other gods. How insane is that? How would it be if I said that only Tiw was real – and that all the rest of the gods were imaginary? You would laugh at me. But this is how they see the world. Their god and only their god can be allowed. No other deity may be worshipped – on pain of death. And you, Bjarki, you know for sure, for certain, that there are other unseen forces in the world. Your gandr has come to you – does it speak to you? Yes? And is that not real? Is it not holy – a sacred thing. A gift, I say.’

  ‘So that is my fate, is it?’ said Bjarki, his temper was beginning to fray, his usual restraint loosened by strong ale and bone-deep exhaustion. ‘Because the gods say so, because I have been chosen—’ he spat out that last word ‘—because of that I am destined to fight and kill and kill until…’

  ‘All life is struggle,’ said Valtyr. ‘We’re born, we fight, we die. Folk will always struggle for power and land, for silver, for fame, women and slaves. The gods know that; they show their favour by bestowing courage and strength on those they chose to uphold the old ways. You have been chosen, Bjarki. You’re special. You must fight for what you know is right.’

  ‘And because I’m so fucking special—’ Bjarki was red in the face now, and loud, and he was beginning to draw looks from the other tables in the inn ‘—I must wade in a lake of blood, on and on, till it closes over my head.’

  There was a long and painful silence.

  ‘I think Bjarki is right,’ said Tor, breaking it. ‘We need to rest properly before we make any decision about what we should do next.’

  Valtyr nodded. ‘Let us get all your gear up to my room. A few days of good food and rest, Bjarki, and you will see the world in a whole new light.’

  * * *

  Valtyr was right. When Bjarki had slept for fifteen hours, and eaten some more, and slept again, he did feel a good deal better.

  The next day, a little before noon, he rose from the big mattress that they were sharing in the small room in the attic of the inn and went out to look at the Spring Market of the town of Brenna. He wandered the busy main street alone, stopping only briefly to greet Valtyr at his stall on the jewellery quarter, and to enquire where Tor was.

  ‘She went to see a master tanner of my acquaintance, took the bear cub with her too,’ said Valtyr.

  ‘What does she want with a tanner?’

  The old man shrugged. ‘We are meeting tonight at sundown, in the inn for a feast,’ he said. ‘I leave tomorrow and I’ve asked the landlord to cook us all something special as a last decent meal before I go back on the road.’

  Bjarki nodded vaguely, and wandered off down the street. It was a warm day and he was feeling good in himself. He had slept well and was well fed, his wounds hardly troubled him at all, nobody was trying to kill him, so far as he could tell, and after such a long period tramping alone in the woods with only Tor and the little bear for company, Bjarki relished the sensation of being in a noisy, jostling crowd of his fellow human beings.

  He looked at the numerous stalls set out in the sunshine outside the shops. He admired the bright bolts of cloths on display outside the drapers – vivid blues and greens and bold reds, even a rare roll of jet black cloth that the stallholder indicated was more expensive than all the rest put together.

  He contemplated buying a new sword with a gold-inlaid ivory handle that he greatly admired – they still had a number of Frankish coins from the purse they had been given before departure from Aachen – but when the stall keeper made him understand the full price in his rough Frankish dialect, Bjarki recoiled in genuine shock and quickly walked away empty handed.

  He waved at Hufnar, who was standing beside a pile of salt sacks and weighing out a small cupful of his product on a set of scales for a customer. But the man frowned at him and did not bother to wave back. Bjarki then bought himself a big bag of sweetmeats – hazelnuts baked in honey – for a copper coin and crunched them as he walked along. He realised he was enjoying himself, for the first time, in… well, he could not remember since when.

  His eye was arrested by a painting on a wooden board, as wide as both his outstretched arms, and by a man with extremely long brown hair – it hung in a thick shining curtain well below his belted waist – who sat below the board on a stool, a stack of parchments on a table at his elbow.

  The image on the painting was of a longhouse with a humped roof, thatched with straw, and there was a figure sitting outside, with a jug of ale at his side and a cup in his hand. Smoke was rising from the wind-eyes at either end of the dwelling. The seated figure had stretched out his long legs and was looking over a small garden, apparently filled with cabbages, onions and leeks, with a happy-looking pig tethered in a small hut at the end of the patch. Beyond that were several large fields, neatly ploughed and planted, and beyond them a forest of oak and beech, a swathe of greens and browns. On the other side of the longhouse, just glimpsed, was the silvery blue flash of a stretch of sea, and a one-masted fishing boat drawn up on the sand.

  Bjarki stopped dead and stared at the painting. It was a bewitching scene and he found he could not take his eyes off it. He could well imagine himself sitting there after a long day’s work, legs stretched out, sipping good ale, surveying his own well-ordered lands. He would fatten the pig in those woods in the autumn on beech mast and acorns, slaughter it in the early winter and have bacon and salted pork all through the cold season. And he would take that little boat out to sea to fish, for a change of diet, mackerel and herring, he reckoned those rich seas would be full of them, and, in the season, he would harvest his own cabbages and leeks, and maybe plant—

  ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ said the long-haired man sitting below the picture.

  Bjarki agreed; he could have looked at the picture for hours.

  ‘And it could all be yours, you know,’ said the fellow. ‘All of it.’

  That got Bjarki’s attention. ‘What do you mean by that, sir?’

  ‘I mean there is free land on offer. East, up on the coast, for any man bold enough to take up Duke Leszko’s generous offer.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Bjarki. ‘This fellow is giving away land?’

  ‘My name is Goran, why don’t you sit down with me and we’ll talk.’

  He used his leg to hook out another wooden stool from under the table, and Bjarki thumped down next to him. Goran handed the warrior a piece of parchment, which was covered with black writing and had a large red wax seal dangling from the bottom of the page. Bjarki looked at it blankly. He glanced at the table; there were dozens of other similar pieces of parchment.

  ‘Not a reader, eh?’ said the man, sweeping the hair away from his face and tucking it behind his ear. His accent was Svearlander. ‘It’s a charter; it says who owns a particular stretch of land, once it’s witnessed and sealed.’

  Bjarki gave him back his piece of parchment. He had never learnt his letters as a boy, his master, Thialfi, seeing no need for reading in a fisherman.

  ‘Allow me to explain what that parchment represents,’ said Goran. He had produced a jug and two cups from somewhere and was pouring out ale.

  ‘Leszko’s lands are rich and vast,’ he began. ‘But his territory has few people, at present. And this troubles the Duke of the Polans. That is his first problem. His second is that the northern parts of his lands are plagued by wild tribes of Pomeranians, Prussians and Lithuanians, savage brutes, little better than wild animals, who plunder our people’s farms without mercy.’


  Bjarki shifted uncomfortably on his stool. He’d heard this song before – in Francia. Every lord, it seemed, claimed his enemies were less than human.

  ‘So the wise duke has come up with a plan,’ said Goran. ‘He is willing to offer land and title to any warrior who has the strength to hold it.’

  ‘Anyone?’

  ‘He must be brave and strong, and willing to fight for his lands but, yes, anyone. Leszko will grant any man a hundred acres, and make them a druzyna – that is a sort of hersir – if they will swear to hold the land for the duke, and come and do homage before his throne in Poznan every spring. By the look of you, you are no stranger to a good hard fight. Am I right?’

  ‘So I’d have to swear an oath?’ said Bjarki. He got up from his stool.

  ‘It’s a simple homage ceremony,’ said Goran. ‘Just a few moments.’

  ‘I’ve sworn too many already. I don’t think I can make any more.’

  ‘This new oath of fealty would supersede all others. Your slate would be wiped clean by this one act. Whatever oaths you’ve made in the past, they would count for nothing. Duke Leszko would be your sovereign and your only lord, and you would hold lands of him, and owe loyalty only to him.’

  Bjarki took one long final look at the picture, sadly shook his head, and began to walk away.

  ‘Hey, where are you going?’

  Bjarki did not turn his head but he lifted a hand in farewell.

  ‘Think about it, young man,’ called Goran. ‘Just think about it. I’ll be here for the next two days. Just imagine: the chance of a wonderful new life in the vast expanse of the east. Free land! You could bring your father, bring your brothers, your friends, too, the Duke of Polans has land for everyone.’

  But Bjarki had already disappeared into the market crowds.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The long road back

  The landlord gave them a suckling pig for supper that evening. A neat little animal with crisp brown skin, and its belly stuffed with boiled grains and dried fruit and seasoned with saffron. It was a dish fit for a royal table, and best of all, in Tor’s opinion, Valtyr was paying, which made it all the tastier.

  Bjarki was still in the strange humour of the day before, silent, almost sullen. But, she noted, he ate with a wolfish appetite, which was a good sign.

  ‘You asked yesterday about the Groves of Eresburg, Bjarki,’ said Valtyr, when they had demolished most of the piglet, and were sitting back picking scraps of pork meat from their teeth, ‘and I have received some news, specifically about the Fyr Skola, since we spoke. The Spring Market is an excellent place for gossip and news of all kinds, as you can imagine.’

  Tor watched Bjarki’s expression. He said nothing but he cocked his head respectfully, as if to invite Valtyr to continue speaking.

  ‘Yes, a marvellous place for gossip, is Brenna, in the springtime.’

  ‘Are you going to tell me your news or not?’ said Bjarki.

  ‘I’m trying to gauge your mood, Bjarki; the news may not please you.’

  ‘Just tell me, old man.’

  ‘You remember Ivar Knuttson, the Boar Lodge Rekkr.’

  ‘He’s not a Rekkr,’ said Bjarki. ‘He’s a fraud and a coward.’

  ‘Be that as it may,’ said Valtyr, ‘he is now Father of the Boar Lodge.’

  Bjarki sucked a scrap of pork from one of his molars and swallowed it.

  ‘I don’t care,’ he said. ‘If they were so stupid as to choose… I don’t care. What do you think, Tor? Does it make your piss boil – a sham Rekkr as Father of a Lodge? That’s what Valtyr’s trying to do. Make us both angry.’

  ‘What do I think? I think fuck the Groves. They kicked me out for trying too hard to become a Rekkr.’ Tor suddenly realised that she was, in fact, very angry. ‘Whatever happens in the Groves, whether they pick that idiot Ivar Knuttson or another idiot, doesn’t change a thing. Fuck them all.’

  ‘Why do you believe I want you to be angry, Bjarki?’ asked Valtyr.

  For a long time, Bjarki did not answer. Then he said: ‘Who are you, Valtyr Far-Traveller? A man who sells trinkets across the world. A gatherer of gossip. A recruiter of likely young folk for the Fyr Skola. Who are you?’

  ‘Who do you think I am?’

  ‘For a while I thought you were the Old One. You have one eye, as the god Odin has, and you are a great wanderer. I don’t think that any more.’

  ‘What do you think now?’

  ‘I think you should stop answering questions with questions and give me some truth: what do you want? What do you seek in this life? Why do you try to make us angry with silly tales about a nithing like Ivar Knuttson?’

  Bjarki glared defiantly across the table at Valtyr.

  The old man held his gaze. ‘Obviously, I am not a god, nor am I some sorcerer or shape-shifter or anything like that. I am just a man. A trader in trinkets, as you said. But I am also what is called a Guardian of the North, a life-long servant of Odin and all the ancient gods of our people.’ He said this very quietly but there was a definite ring of immense pride in his voice.

  ‘I live to serve our people – all the folk of the Dane-Mark, Saxony, Svearland and Vestfold, and elsewhere – I fight to preserve our way of life, our ancient customs and beliefs. I have spent my life defending the freedom that you and Tor and many thousands more people just like you enjoy.’

  ‘A Guardian of the North? What is that?’ Tor was frowning at the old man. ‘Are there more of you?’

  ‘It is like a guild, a small fellowship of dedicated men and women of knowledge, ability or power, who are committed to the cause of the North. I do not think you know any other Guardians, except Skymir the Mikelgothi, of course, who was once my wife. And Duke Theodoric will not object if I tell you that he is also one. But we seldom reveal who we are to outsiders.’

  Neither Bjarki nor Tor knew what to say to this odd revelation.

  ‘You asked why I tried, so clumsily, to make you feel anger, Bjarki,’ said Valtyr. ‘It was a crude attempt at manipulation. I am sorry for it. But the North, and its way of life, our way of life, is in terrible peril. The danger is immense and comes from the Franks, from the Christians, who are a threat to all our people and to our whole world. They would crush us, enslave our people, or make us bow to their god – unless… unless we can resist them.’

  Valtyr had fixed Bjarki with his one eye, which seemed to blaze like an icy blue jewel in the candlelight of the inn.

  ‘Our civilisation is balanced on the edge of a crumbing cliff, one good hard stamp and we fall to our ruin,’ said Valtyr. ‘I mean to strike back with all my strength, all my powers, at those who would shove us into the void.

  ‘I hope to gather the North in battle array against the king of the Franks, to defeat him, and force him to leave us in peace. But I need every fighting man and woman to stand in the shield wall beside me. I had hoped you would be such a man, Bjarki. I had hoped that you would spend your strength and courage in our cause; that as a Rekkr, you would choose to use your holy gift to protect your own people. I can see now that I hoped in vain.’

  Tor said: ‘I’m with you, old man; I will fight for the North with all the strength in my bones. How could I not after such a heart-squeezing speech?’

  ‘Thank you, Tor. I accept your offer and rejoice that your courage and battle skill will be ours,’ said Valtyr. ‘We are the stronger with you beside us.’ He looked across the table. ‘We stand for the North, Bjarki Bloodhand. Tor and I believe in our folk and our way of life. What do you stand for?’

  They both looked at Bjarki, who could feel their combined will almost physically pushing up against him. He, too, had been moved by Valtyr’s speech, but he instinctively sought to resist the old man’s invisible pressure.

  ‘I met a long-haired man today,’ he said.

  Tor frowned.

  ‘I met a man today who offered me the perfect life; or rather the dream of a perfect life, if I would only swear an oath to his master, a great Polans
lord of some kind, a duke, he said, and go east and take up new lands in this lord’s domain. I refused him. I refused immediately. I refused him because he wanted me to make a solemn promise. And I know that I have broken the last three solemn oaths I made – which shames me deeply. So I said no to him. I turned my back and walked away. No more oaths, I thought. I decided I’d had enough of people trying to bind me to their will. I’d had my fill of people trying to use me to achieve their own ends – I thought of you then, Valtyr, and the Mikelgothi, and Karolus. I told myself I wanted to be free to choose my own path and not be fettered by more oaths and obligations.’

  ‘What oaths you have broken?’ said Valtyr.

  ‘I will tell you, although it is painful for me to admit my shame. I broke my oath to Freya. I swore to love and protect her all the days of my life. And only one day of my life later, I was expelled from the village of Bago. I have not seen her since. The second oath I made under the One Tree in the Groves of Eresburg. I swore I would not speak of the secrets of the Fyr Skola to others and, as you may remember, I did not make that choice in any great haste. Yet, in Aachen, I was so grateful to have a friend, to have anyone speak to me in a kindly way, that I spilled out much of what I knew about the Fyr Skola and the Groves… to the king of the Franks. I knew I should not be speaking of these things to him, yet I could not stop myself. Karolus is a good friend, I told myself, and at the same time I knew that he was not.’

  There was a painful pause at the table. Valtyr cleared his throat loudly and said: ‘Please carry on, Bjarki.’

  ‘The third oath I swore,’ said the young warrior, ‘was to that same man – to Karolus. I promised to be his faithful vassal. And I broke my oath to him, too. I plotted with Tor against his person – we spoke together in secret about murdering him – then I fled Francia, after killing his servants.’

  ‘Men do break oaths, Bjarki,’ said Valtyr. ‘It is regrettable but true.’

  ‘I know that. But that does not make it acceptable. You speak about the customs of the North, Valtyr, and how you wish to defend them with all your strength. Are oaths not a central part of our way of living; are they not, in fact, the core of what it means to be us? We swear oaths to our kings and jarls, we promise to serve them faithfully. We swear to our wives, to our friends. To the people we trade with. A man’s word is sacred. If a man is a known oath-breaker, all shun him. He is no true man; he is a mere nithing.’