Viking Warrior

by Judson Roberts

  As we stepped out of the door of the longhouse, Mother put her hand in mine and gripped it tightly. She held her chin high and looked straight ahead as we walked. As we took that final walk together I glanced frequently at her, at the ground, at the people who were gathering on the hill above—anywhere except at the death ship that awaited us.

  The sun still shone brightly outside, though the shadows were beginning to deepen and lengthen as the sun dropped toward the horizon and the afternoon waned. A light breeze rustled the grass as Mother and I climbed to the top of the hill. In the sky above, two gulls circled, calling to each other in their harsh voices, their curiosity no doubt aroused by the gathering on the hill.

  Most of the folk of the village were already up on the hilltop, standing together on the landward side of the stone ship, looking across it out toward the sea. As my mother and I made our way with slow, deliberate steps up the hillside, a few stragglers from the village hurried past us, on their way to join the gathering. They stared at us, but did not speak. At the summit their paths parted from ours. The latecomers moved to join the crowd of villagers and folk from the estate. Mother and I walked toward the entrance of the death house. My legs felt disconnected from the rest of my body, and my steps slow and awkward, like movement in a dream. I wished it was but a dream, a bad dream, and that I could awake from it.

  Harald and Sigrid awaited us at the entrance. With them was Ase, Ubbe’s wife. She was a shaman, and the local priestess of the goddesses Freyja and Frigg. In one hand she held a staff carved with magic runes and symbols, and something was wrapped around her other hand. After a moment I realized it was a knotted cord. I glanced at my mother, and saw that she, too, was staring at the cord.

  “Ase must go,” she said. “I will not die strangled like some sacrifice to your pagan gods.”

  Ase looked at Harald questioningly. He nodded, and she left, joining the crowd standing around the stern of the stone ship. “Safe journey, Derdriu,” she said, softly, as she passed us. “Fair winds.”

  My mother took a deep breath and spoke. “Men say, Harald, that there is no one in the district, and perhaps in all of Denmark, who is as swift and sure with a blade as you are. As a parting gift, to one who loved you as a mother, will you help me on my way?”

  “I am honored by your request,” Harald replied, smiling gently at her. I did not understand how he could smile. I knew his heart must hold some kind feelings for my mother, because she had raised him when he and Sigrid were young. Sigrid had told Mother she loved her. Yet now Harald must kill her. His face showed nothing, though. Harald was a true warrior, who feared nothing. I could never be such.

  My mother turned to me and we embraced for the last time.

  “Mother…” I whispered.

  She put her hand over my lips to silence me, then said simply, “I love you, Halfdan.”

  I wanted to tell her not to go, but it was too late.

  Mother turned and with her back straight and head held high, she walked to Harald and Sigrid. Each embraced her in turn.

  “It is a fine day,” Harald said. “A good day for sailing.”

  They turned together and began walking toward the doorway of the death house, Sigrid on my mother’s right side, her arm about her waist, Harald on her left and slightly behind. As they walked, I saw Harald slip his knife from its sheath with his right hand and hold it down close beside his leg, out of sight.

  “Do you remember the day, Derdriu,” he asked, “when we still lived up north, on the Limfjord, and you took Sigrid and me down to the big rocks along the shore, and she and I went fishing for the first time in our lives? You were still carrying Halfdan in your belly. Sigrid hooked a fish and you helped her pull it in. Do you remember? It was a beautiful day, sunny with a light breeze, much like today. It is a joyful memory that I carry to this day. Do you recall it?”

  They stepped down into the doorway of the death house and passed out of sight. I thought I heard a gasp, and Harald stopped talking. I ran to the doorway and looked inside. Harald was holding my mother in his arms, lifting her onto the platform of the bier. Hrorik’s body had already been placed there, his shield at his head and his helm at his feet. When Harald slid his arm out from under Mother’s back, after he’d laid her body beside Hrorik’s, I saw a smear of blood on his sleeve. Sigrid glanced back and saw me watching from the doorway. She stepped in front of something lying on the floor, and Harald bent over and picked it up.

  When Harald turned to face me his knife was back in its scabbard. Sigrid smoothed my mother’s hair around her face.

  “She sleeps now for a while,” Harald said. “She and Hrorik are resting in preparation for their voyage.”

  Harald was wearing a horn slung on a leather strap over his shoulder. It was this horn that had summoned us to the hilltop. Now, as he exited the death house, he lifted the horn to his lips and blew two long, slow notes.

  At Harald’s cue, a procession began to move toward us from among the crowd gathered on the top of the hill. Most were folk of the household who lived in the longhouse, but many also were from the village over which Hrorik had presided as chieftain. All who approached were bearing gifts, save a few who led or carried beasts.

  Harald indicated that I should stand with Sigrid and him at the doorway of the death house, to greet the procession of gift bearers.

  “It is our duty to receive the gifts and give thanks for the honor they convey,” he explained. “We are Hrorik’s children.”

  First in the line was Gunhild. She was bearing, folded in her arms to form a square cushion, Hrorik’s heaviest winter cloak. It was a magnificent garment, thick wool dyed a deep green, with a red silk border sewed around the edge. She also bore, lying across the top of the cloak, Hrorik’s sword in its scabbard, plus other of his personal items, including a silver comb with ivory teeth, a fine silver goblet, and a small leather pouch of the type men use to carry flint and steel for fire starting.

  She stopped in front of the three of us, but looked only at Harald as she proclaimed her speech.

  “I am Gunhild, wife of Hrorik Strong-Axe. I bring my husband his sword, that he may wear it proudly in the halls of Valhalla. And I bring other gifts, for his comfort on his sojourn there.”

  I watched through the doorway after Gunhild entered the tomb. She laid the sword along the top of Hrorik’s body. His one remaining hand she raised and rested on the hilt, clasping it to his chest. The folded cloak she used to pillow his head, then she placed the other items she’d brought on the platform between his body and that of my mother. Even in death, it seemed, she sought to separate them.

  “Goodbye, Hrorik,” she said, in a low voice. “You were not the best husband a woman might wish for, but you never raised hand against me, and, thanks to you, our life has always been well comforted. Safe journey, and may the mead be sweet and strong in Valhalla.”

  After she exited the death house, Gunhild walked to Harald’s side, and stood with him to help greet the rest of the procession. Sigrid took my hand and stepped down through the door and into the death house, then indicated I should stand in the doorway. As the other gift-bearers came forward one by one, Harald received their offerings and handed them to me, and I passed the gifts to Sigrid, who arranged them around the bier.

  There were many gifts. Astrid, Sigrid’s maidservant, who also worked in the kitchen, carried as gifts from Sigrid and herself two wooden platters, piled with two pottery cups, a small knife, a large wooden spoon, and a small iron cooking pot. She sighed and shook her arms wearily after Harald took the gifts from her.

  Several of the villagers bore chickens and ducks—and one a goose—all presented with their necks already wrung. Others brought cheeses or slabs of butter wrapped in cloth, or pitchers of fresh milk. Gunulf, a carl who owned a large farm in the village and was locally renowned for his brewing skills, brought a small cask of ale. Hrorik had loved his ale. I thought he would appreciate Gunulf’s gift far more than milk.

  Ingrid, a kitc
hen thrall in our longhouse who’d been one of my mother’s closest friends, brought the only gift for Mother—a small sewing kit, wrapped in a scrap of cloth, consisting of two bone needles and a few lengths of yarn and thread. For a thrall who owned next to nothing, it was a fine and generous gift. Although it earned me a disapproving glare from Gunhild, I let Ingrid enter the tomb herself and place her gift in Mother’s hand. She bent and kissed Mother goodbye on her cheek. I saw that her eyes were brimming with tears when she turned to leave.

  Each gift-bearer, as they presented their offering to Harald, pronounced, “Good winds and safe voyage, Hrorik Strong-Axe.”

  Always Harald replied, “I thank you. Your gifts and wishes will speed his journey.”

  The beasts were brought last, in a short procession led by Ubbe the foreman. Ubbe had a knife—a seax with a long, thin blade—in a scabbard hanging from his belt. At his approach, Sigrid exited the death house, and stood watching from just outside the ring of stones, off to the side of the doorway. I joined her.

  First came the thrall Hrut, leading a sheep by a short length of rope. He half led, half dragged the poor creature bleating in fearful protest, down into the death house. Ubbe followed closely behind. After a moment the sheep fell silent. A moment later Hrut hurried out.

  Ubbe limped into view in the doorway, holding the long knife, its blade now dripping blood. He motioned to Ing, who was cradling a squirming and squealing piglet in his arms. Ing stopped at the threshold of the doorway, fear visible on his face, and would go no further. The young pig was wriggling furiously in his arms, and nuzzling at his beard. Impatiently, Ubbe took the pig, holding it under one arm, and turned back into the tomb. I heard a single, brief squeal from inside.

  Kark, a house-thrall and Hrorik’s servant, led one of Hrorik’s hounds by a short length of rope. I saw that it was Clapa, a clumsy, good-natured clown of a dog that was Hrorik’s favorite. Kark knelt beside him and scratched the fur behind his ears. I reached over and patted Clapa on the head, and he panted happily. Ubbe reappeared in the doorway of the death house and whistled. Kark released the rope and Clapa bounded to Ubbe, following him into the tomb as Ubbe backed inside. There was a brief yelp, then silence.

  The last beast to be brought forward was Hrorik’s favorite horse. He was led by Fasti, he who had been my childhood friend, the thrall from Svealand. Fasti tended the horses and loved them, each and every one, as though they were his family. He’d raised horses, he’d told me, on his farm in Svealand before he’d been captured and enslaved. Misery was visible on his face as he brought the horse forward.

  Ubbe hobbled up out of the death-house. His arms and the front of his tunic were splattered with blood. I knew from experience that there was no way to escape the spurting blood when beasts’ throats are cut in a slaughter-house.

  “This one will be difficult,” Ubbe said, studying the horse.

  As if on cue, the horse, a shaggy brown animal with wild eyes, caught the scent of the freshly spilled blood, and began neighing nervously and jerking its head back and forth against the rope. Harald and Ubbe ran forward and pulled down on the halter. Ubbe snapped at Fasti, “Quick, fool, cover its eyes.”

  Fasti pulled a length of cloth from his belt and tied it around the horse’s head, covering its eyes so it could not see. Then he stroked its neck and whispered in its ear until it quieted.

  Ubbe led the horse, which was still trembling but now under control, through the stones of the death-ship’s side and over beside the death-house, in front of the doorway. “Boy,” he said to me, “come here. We need your help.”

  We arrayed ourselves along the horse’s side: Fasti at its flank, I in the middle, and Harald at the front shoulder. Ubbe, at the horse’s head, was holding the halter.

  “All together,” Ubbe said. “When Harald strikes, we push, so it topples against the doorway. Watch for the hooves.” I put my hands against the horse’s side. Its skin trembled under my touch.

  Harald eased his long sword out of its scabbard. I’d wondered what Ubbe had intended. A horse is not an easy animal to kill quickly. Its neck is too thick to cut cleanly with a knife.

  Harald drew back his arm. The sword’s polished blade caught the sun and flashed like fire in his hand. In one swift movement he lunged forward, thrusting with his whole shoulder and body, and plunged the sword’s blade deep into the horse’s side, piercing its heart. The beast screamed in pain and terror, and I could feel its muscles clench under my hands.

  “Now,” Ubbe shouted, and jerked down on the halter, throwing his shoulder against the beast’s head and twisting it down to the ground. Fasti and I leaned forward and pushed against the doomed creature. It staggered one step sideways and tried to brace its legs against us. Then, suddenly, they buckled, and it toppled sideways against the wall and doorway of the death house. Harald stood as still as a statue, his arm extended, and as the horse fell, his sword slid free from its body and blood gushed from the gaping wound.

  The four of us stood for a moment, breathing hard, staring at the fallen creature. Its chest heaved as it gasped a few final breaths, and its eyes began to cloud as its spirit left its body. It occurred to me that when Hrorik had died, he’d spawned an ongoing chain of death. Beasts had died—and even my mother—to honor his passing.

  It was the way of things, I knew, for even in the afterworld chieftains must have beasts and followers and possessions to ensure their comfort, and the passing of great men always changes the lives of those left behind. Still, I hoped that the path that led from Hrorik’s deathbed would not be stained with any more blood. I hoped that now the deaths were ended.

  “Fasti…” Ubbe was panting. “You and the other thralls—take the extra wood and lay it over the horse and in the doorway behind. The flames must eat its body, too.”

  I edged to the doorway and gazed beyond the horse’s carcass one last time upon my mother. She looked at peace. I hoped she was.

  Fasti stepped past me and threw an armload of brush and cut branches into the doorway, blocking my view, and she was gone.

  Harald reached down and pulled free from around the horse’s head the strip of cloth that had served to blind its eyes. He used it to wipe the blood from his sword’s blade before he sheathed it, then tossed the now bloody rag onto the stacked brush and wood.

  “We must move to the other side now,” he said, and set off around the stone ship. Gunhild, Sigrid and Ubbe followed him. I followed, too, though I did not know what we were doing. As we walked, the free men of the household and village moved forward from the crowd and formed a circle around the stone death ship. They left a gap in the circle directly behind the stern. We took our places there, completing the circle, and stood looking out across the ship toward the sea, sparkling and glinting in the distance below us as its choppy surface caught the waning rays of sun.

  All who formed the circle were men. Gunhild and Sigrid stood nearby. At their feet were several large pottery pitchers, and the silver-bound drinking horn that Hrorik had used at feasts.

  On the ground beside the tall stone sternpost lay two torches, each made of a long branch, with twigs and moss, soaked with seal oil, tied in a bundle at one end. Harald knelt beside the torches and, taking flint and steel from a pouch on his belt, struck sparks onto one until the oily moss ignited. From its flame he lit the second torch, and handed it to me.

  “We are the sons of Hrorik,” he said. “It is for us to launch his voyage.”

  Harald and I circled the death house in opposite directions, periodically thrusting our torches into the cut wood and brush stacked against its walls. There was much small, dry kindling stuffed among the larger pieces of wood, and it caught the flames eagerly. By the time we met on the far side, flames were beginning to lick as high as the roof, and the fire was beginning to speak in a low roar.

  When Harald and I reclaimed our places in the circle, Sigrid lifted one of the pottery pitchers, and Gunhild held the drinking horn while Sigrid filled it. She passed the filled h
orn to Harald.

  Harald held the horn in both hands and raised it above his head. In a loud voice that all could hear, he called out to the sky, “This is mead, the drink of the gods, and one of their many gifts to men. We offer it back to you now, that you may join us in toasting Hrorik Strong-Axe and Derdriu, and grant them safe journey. Welcome this warrior, All-father Odin, into your feast-hall.”

  Harald poured some of the mead onto the ground, then raised the horn again. “I drink to Hrorik Strong-Axe, a chieftain of the Danes, a fierce warrior and a cunning leader. In battle, his axe smote his foes like Thor’s thunderbolts thrown from the sky. His wise counsel led many successful raids, and won us all much plunder. To Hrorik first fell Dorestad, trading center of the Franks, a great victory and a rich prize. I drink this cup in honor of Hrorik, my father, and to Derdriu, his consort, a princess of Ireland, a woman of great beauty, and a beloved foster mother.”

  Harald put the horn to his lips, and as he drained it, the men in the circle shouted, “To Hrorik and Derdriu.”

  Harald passed the horn back to Gunhild, and Sigrid refilled it. This time Gunhild herself held the horn aloft and said, “I pray, you Gods, grant fair winds and safe voyage to this ship.” Then as Harald had done, she poured some of the mead onto the ground.

  “To Hrorik,” she said as she raised the horn again. “Wise chieftain and fierce fighter who feared no man; successful in battle and generous afterwards dividing the spoils. Long will it be before the Danes again see such a man.”

  When Gunhild offered her toast, I thought the words she failed to speak revealed the shape of the bitterness that lingered still in her heart. She described Hrorik as a great leader, a fierce warrior, and a bold and cunning raider. From her words, one might have thought she was one of his warriors, rather than his wife. She spoke no words of love, nor wifely affection, nor did she praise him as a father, though for a time he had sheltered and raised her own son by her first marriage. And of my mother, who’d died so Hrorik, Gunhild’s husband, would not be alone at the Gods’ hall in the afterworld, she spoke no words at all. A more gracious woman would have expressed gratitude for Mother’s gift to Hrorik, but Gunhild did not.