Wrote this story for my writing class recently...figured you guys might get a kick out of it. I'm sure there's some historical inaccuracies, but I've never been one for letting fact stand in the way of a good story. Enjoy.
The young man who had been born Nalfyndir Laufinsson stood, tall and lean, on the deck of the Silver Lady, looking out on the ocean. He was wrapped in a thick fur cloak and his long red hair whipped his face in the breeze. The Englishmen on deck avoided him, avoided looking at him, and only when he was surely out of earshot did they whisper and chuckle that the barons adopted nephew was in a fit again because he was not allowed to wield a sword.
If he did not hear them, the man in the cloak certainly knew what they were saying. His eyes were icy, and his face was pale from more than just the cold. He did not look like the sailors and soldiers on deck. His eyes were too large, his nose too long, his face too rough-hewn. It is for those reasons, and for what they signified, that the Englishmen kept their insults behind his back.
The son of Laufin the Oathbreaker clenched his fists and breathed in the cold air deeply. He stared across the ocean at the distant sillhouette of what could only be a Viking ship. He knew there were preparations for battle behind him, glorious battle that stirred the blood that ran in his veins. Blood that, for the last thirteen years, he had been taught to hate.
The same blood will pour on the decks this day, he thought. The blood of the marauders in the wolf-headed ship; for they faced the crew of Baron Arthur Yorkton, a man who had devoted his life to slaying Viking raiders as they threatened his people. A man whose sister had adopted a child of that same race, an abandoned boy sitting at the foot of twin gallows that held the raven-pecked bodies of his mother and father.
Nicodemus! shouted that same Arthur Yorkton as he strode across the deck, burly and clinking in his chain-mail.
The red-haired man turned at the sound of the name he had answered to since his eleventh year. Yes, Uncle? His voice spoke in clipped, precise English tones, but there was a flowing quality to it, a sound of rolling waves.
You should get below soon, lad. Were closing in on them. Its a matter of an hour - less, even. There was genuine concern in those words, perhaps unexpected from a warrior of Yorktons stature and reputation.
Uncle - I ask you once more, let me fight. Yorkton opened his mouth, but his adopted nephew kept speaking. Im twenty-four years old, and Im sick of being known as nothing more than a damned translator. I can wield a sword as well or better as any of your men.
Lad, you may have been trained, but these are Vikings - theyre bred for war. Your mother would kill me.
My mother was one of them, hissed Nicodemus. Yorktons face blanched, then purpled. I was bred for war from the cradle, and Im no weakling to stand idly by while lesser men march to glory and -
There was a sharp crack. Nicodemuss head whiplashed to the side, but he kept his feet. He looked at his uncle with a pale face that did not just sting, but hurt - hurt badly. Arthur Yorkton was a strong man, and even an open-handed slap carried immense power.
Yorkton sighed. Im sorry, lad. I just...it frightens me when you talk like that. Frightens us all. You were starting to sound like, like one of them. Like a Viking. Dont speak like that, please.
A dozen emotions warred on Nicodemuss face, and then, most chilling of all, a completely expressionless gaze. Then he finally lapsed into contrition. Im sorry too, Uncle. I just...its...they call me a coward. The men. And Im tired of it.
I understand. Listen - I cannot let you fight. But from now on, you can stay on deck and watch the battle instead of staying safe in the hold.
Nicodemus smiled. Thank you, Uncle. Ill stay out of harms way. Yorkton nodded brusquely and strode off to make more preparations. His nephew went back to leaning on the railing, sneering as he looked out over the water. Stay out of harms way indeed! he thought dismissively. Im a warrior, and Ill damn well prove it today.
The eastern wind was strong and the waves were choppy, but the Widowmaker cut smoothly through the water under the hands of Stjeinborn Woldirsson, expert navigator. Thirty men labored at the oars below, commoners from Rugërs home of Trelleborge sworn to his service. On deck were thirty-six proud Viking warriors, armed with all manner of instruments of pain and death. They were scarred and battle-hardened, and carried the clear favor of the gods. Had a raven, the holy symbol of Odin, not sat on the mast as they prepared to go to sea two weeks ago? It was an obvious sign of the Spear-gods blessing.
Yet for all this, Rugër was worried. He recognized the flag of the English ship from this distance - the flag of Yorkton, scourge of the Norsemen for the last twelve years. Rugër the Dour did not fear death; why should he? He was a Viking, one of Odins chosen, and when he fell in battle he would ascend to eternal glory in the halls of Valhalla. But he feared defeat, and defeat was a definite possibility at this moment. Yorktons ship, infamous among the men of the North, bore somewhere around sixty of the best English fighting men to found, each of them quite nearly a match for a Viking. And though the Englishmen were nowhere near the shipbuilders Rugërs people were, that cursed ship was one of their best, sleek enough for tight turns and difficult maneuvers.
Rugër mulled over the odds, and the likelihood of defeat. Of course, there was no possibility that the Widowmaker would flee, so it was sort of a pointless exercise. But he did so anyway, and came to the conclusion that the most logical thing to do was to turn around and sail away, for this was a fight that no sane man would hope to win.
Thus assured that the gods would look with favor upon his choice to fight, Rugër turned around and surveyed his crew. He was aware of the enormous presence of Ulgar Skullbreaker standing off to his left side, leaning on his warhammer. Ulgar had been there by his side since childhood, a vast and vastly bearded Viking of uncertain mental stability but definite loyalty.
Several yards directly in front of him, leaning against the mast of the ship with his eyes closed, was the completely shaven-headed man who was known only as the Master of War. He had been among the first to join the crew of the Widowmaker eight months ago, but Rugër knew little more about him than he had then. He wore only fur leggings and two straps across his chest to hold the scabbards of his swords; when questioned, he said that he had more trust in his ability to dodge the blades of the enemy than in irons ability to protect him. Rugër had never seen him more than scratched, so he did not argue.
There was a clattering noise from below, steadily growing louder. Soon Frinya Stormchild emerged from belowdecks. She was a slight woman, seeming lost in her thick fur robe, but the strings of human teeth dangling from her sleeves and neck and the deadly spear she bore left no doubts as to her value in a battle. She walked with the favor of the gods; she had called on Thor, Freyja and Tyr to rain death upon three of Rugërs crew who had protested a woman joining them. Everyone stepped rather carefully around her, but nobody doubted her worth as a member of the crew.
She walked boldly up to the captain of the ship. We are very near, Rugër. If I am to bless the warriors before we join battle, it must be now. She was an undeniably beautiful woman, but the frosts of the north swirled in blizzards behind her pale blue eyes. Nobody, even Rugër himself, spoke impertinently to the witch Frinya Stormchild.
All right, then. Wothfir! To me! bellowed Rugër across the ship. Within several seconds, his lieutenant Wothfir Wolfsgrin was at his side. Where some brave men might laugh in the face of death, Wothfir would laugh, spit, and then propose a toast to their honored guest. He liked to play the drunken fool, but if he was to stride into battle with a horn of mead in one hand and a sword in the other, chances were that he would spill not the mead, but the blood of his foes, laughing the whole time. Even now, he grinned with excitement for the battle to come.
What want you with a drunk idiot, Rugër? inquired Wothfir. Would you throw me to the English ship to dispose of their weak, watery beer and send them fleeing in terror of men of such hardiness as to drink all their stores and barely stumble?
Rugër chuckled. Nothing so fun, my friend. Gather the men and have them prepare for battle and the rites of Tyr. Rugër spoke, of course, of the god of war who protected true warriors of the North in battle and strengthened their blows.
Frinya raised a palm to interrupt, the teeth of those she had slain clicking gently. The rites of Odin and Freyja, my lord. Though hearing the names of the gods who guided the dead chilled his blood, Rugërs face remained calm. But even he, named the Dour, could not hide a shudder at her next words. And of Loki.
Wothfir blinked and looked at her. Loki, Lady Frinya? He spat to clear his mouth of the taste of the name of the hated fire-god, betrayer and deceiver. Correct me if Im mistaken, but do we not wish to win this battle?
Frinya said nothing, just tapped her spear on the deck, a clear reminder of whom exactly carried the word of the gods. Wothfir looked at his leader and old friend, who nodded sternly. Do as she says. Once Wothfir had made his way across the deck, Rugër turned to the shaman angrily. The rites of Loki? What madness is this, Frinya Stormchild?
The witchs eyes flickered about, her face suddenly unsure. I...I do not know, Rugër. Below decks when I consulted the gods, the fire spoke to me. It told me to ask Odin and Frejya to guide the spirits of our warriors, for today many will fall - perhaps even all. But then, too, it told me to ask the Lie-Smith for his protection; it told me that without the aid of he who protects betrayers and kinslayers, we will fall.
Rugër spent a long moment inside himself, his eyes seeing nothing but the possibilities that lay before him. Then he nodded. Then perform the rites of Loki Lie-Smith, and let us hope that we do not court death by doing so.
Frinya smiled suddenly. We court death every day, my lord. We might as well see about quickening the process.
Ulgar Skullbreakers voice rumbled across the deck, and Frinya and Rugër both tensed and gripped their weapons before relaxing sheepishly. Better for death to come from one of our own gods - even the betrayer - than from their hypocrite God of Abraham. At least we will know who to blame.
Rugër chuckled. True, Ulgar. All right, Frinya Stormchild. Let us go and invoke the blessings of he who is cursed, and hope that the madness in that act has a purpose. He strode across the deck, knowing that if he died today, the gods would answer for it tomorrow.
Arrows swept the decks of both ships, felling a handful of men on either side.
Several fell perilously close to Nicodemus, but he ignored them, staring instead at the men across the water. They were the first Vikings he had seen since he was eleven, when his father and mother Laufin and Grayti had been hanged for betraying their lord and he was left in a small boat to the tender mercies of the ocean.
He remembered that day in crystalline detail. He had prayed to all the gods but one, and then in desperation he had prayed to that one. And Loki Lie-Smith, who his father had secretly followed, had answered his prayer - not with a flash of flame or the appearance of a mighty sea serpent, but an English ship and a burly young man named Arthur Yorkton and his sister Mary.
Now at last again he looked upon his people. Tall, fair, long-haired and long-beared, lining the decks of their trim ship with swords, axes and shields in hand, fearlessly facing the arrows of the Englishmen and taunting them in a language he still remembered.
His vigilant surveillance of the Norsemen was fortunate, for he noticed the arrow aimed at him shortly before it was fired by the completely hairless man balancing in the watchmans post atop the mast. Nicodemus hit the deck, the arrow spearing his fur cloak but missing his flesh. He rolled behind a defensive railing and pulled the arrow out of his cloak, bitterly wishing he had his own bow.
Nicodemus then wondered who he really wanted to fire at.
He nocked and fired another arrow, watched it pierce the chain-mail armor of one of the English sailors and sink into his chest. Every kill glorified the name of Tyr, the god of battle to whom the Master of War had sworn service at the age of eight. Even now, the words he had spoken at the dawn of every day rang in his head: War to us is holy. Another arrow nocked. The hypocrite Christian says it is an evil, then goes to war anyway. Another arrow fired. The lying Muslim preaches holy war, but he has no stomach for blood. Another arrow nocked. The coward Jew surrenders his home and family rather than fight. Another arrow fired. But the Norseman wades into battle with no fear of death, with a smile on his lips and a song in his heart. Another arrow nocked. War to us is holy.
The Master of War saw a flash of red hair. The betrayer had peeked out from behind the railing, doubtless thinking it was safe. He smiled grimly, thanking the gods for his good fortune, and released the arrow. What happened next stunned the normally unflappable warrior, and came very close to briefly shaking his faith in the god he followed.
The arrow burst into flame in mid-air, bright crimson flames that licked the sky. It traveled impossibly straight and quick, straight for the betrayers head. At the last second, it dropped point-down and plunged into the deck right next to the startled man. The Master of War saw him jerk to the side and stare at the arrow which burned red without damaging the ship.
The Master shook his head in disbelief. Some witchery was at work here these were the effects of the blessings of Loki, no doubt. He cleared his head of these confusions and saw that the ships were closing on each other. The Englishmen were throwing out ropes and grapples, while his own kin were ready to drop planks across the space between the vessels. Battle was to be joined.
So the Master of War ignored all these petty confusions and complications. He was a warrior, the perfect warrior, every facet of his life dedicated to slaying the enemies of Tyr. He dropped his bow, grabbed a rope tied to the mast, and prepared to fly into the face of his foes to meet death or glory.
And it spoke to him. With a quiet, reasonable voice, the kind of voice used by someone wearing a broad smirk, it spoke to him. And he listened.
The Englishmen quickly rallied and surrounded the initial Viking party, but the next group of barbarian warriors crossed the planks to join their comrades. Rugër the Dour led these men, a broad ax in one hand and a round shield in the other, his head bare as he bellowed to his warriors to sweep left across the ship and secure a position. He forged through the English, battling two at a time with tenacity and power. Just behind him was Ulgar Skullbreaker, ponderously moving through the crush and giving one hit for every five he took but that one hit, from his mighty warhammer, was always deadly. And behind the huge shape of Ulgar followed the Vikings, hacking and slashing with the names of their gods on their lips.
A knot of Englishmen, led by the<i> Silver Lady</i>s first mate Mortimer Thyme, moved across the deck to intercept the bold Viking leader. On the Viking ship, both Frinya Stormchild and the Master of War marked their approach. They glanced at each other, and the Master stayed his attack as Frinya raised her spear and began a chant. Her eyes flashed fire, and she lowered the spear and pointed it directly at Thyme. Witness the wrath of the true gods! she screamed in a voice amplified by her power, and channeled the strength of her will.
Something erupted from the point of the spear, a ghostly raven-shape of dark smoke. It sped across the deck and smashed into the Englishmen, scattering them and hurling Mortimer Thyme back to hit the mast with a sickening snapping noise.
As the English soldiers began to rise from the impact, a bloodthirsty howl split the air. The Master of War gripped his rope and swung from The Widowmakers mast towards the enemies of his gods. He released the rope as he crossed the deck of the Lady and drew his swords in midair, landing on his feet in the middle of the soldiers. Silent now, the Master of War went to work with a savage will.
But for all the might of the Vikings, they were vastly outnumbered. Now Arthur Yorkton rallied his reserves and directed them with the cool-headed logic that had bought his survival for years. Half a dozen Englishmen with long spears cornered the Master of War and kept him at bay, while eight more led a charge against the largest group of Vikings. Grudgingly, Rugër the Dour gave ground to their spearblades. For a second, he faced Arthur Yorkton himself, and lashed out with his ax. It bit into the Englishmans side and he relished the pain in the mans eyes. Then Yorkton slammed him in the face with his shield, and the tides of the struggle carried them apart.
Frinya Stormchild rose up on the deck of The Widowmaker and chanted again, her spear pointed directly at Yorkton. But a keen-eyed archer on the deck of the Lady fired his bow, an arrow sinking deep into the witchs shoulder and sending her thudding painfully to the wood. Meanwhile, Wothfir Wolfsgrin fought alone, his initial boarding party all slain; he was painted in both his blood and the blood of his foes, and he was tired. With a huge effort, Ulgar Skullbreaker crushed through to his side, but an arrow caught him in the chest and staggered him.
Rugër looked around, absently deflecting a spear-thrust with his shield. He snarled in frustration, then raised his voice in a bellow. Back to the ship! he roared. Let them face us on our own ground! He cut his way through the spearmen, accepting a vicious wound, and held them off while Wothfir stumbled across the planks. The Vikings fell back grudgingly, killing and dying as they went.
There was a brief pause as both Rugër and Yorkton considered the situation. There were maybe twenty-five Vikings left, most of whom were wounded in one way or another. Forty-four Englishmen remained, though four of them were occupied keeping the Master of War backed up against a cabin wall. Yorkton raised his bloody blade and roared For God and the King, charge!
The English approached the Viking ship much more slowly than had their foes, the spearmen in the lead and archers covering them. Yorkton himself, the shallow ax-cut in his side aching, directed from the deck with a longbow in hand. The Vikings rallied and faced their foes in bitter hand-to-hand combat. They were not used to fighting defensively, but a battle was a battle. Ulgar Skullbreaker was their hero, tirelessly marching across the deck, ignoring savage wounds as his mighty hammer swept the Englishmen back time and again. But he was only one man.
Rugër stepped back to rest, his arm weary. Frinya Stormchild staggered up behind him, her shoulder bleeding but her spear held firm. Their God is with them today, observed Rugër morosely.
Ours are always with us, countered Frinya with a half-smile. Have faith, my lord we are the chosen of Odin. It is not our place to wonder about our survival and question the power of the gods. We simply fight, and our questions will be answered when we go to meet them in Valhalla.
Rugër nodded grimly, and they plunged back into battle together to find their answer.
The man who had been called Nicodemus for the last thirteen years looked up. He saw his uncle, the man who had protected him and perhaps even loved him, standing on the deck of the ship, a bow in his hand. He walked towards Yorkton slowly, the words of the fire burning in his mind.
Arthur, he said quietly. Yorkton was surprised, and his arrow missed badly. He turned on his nephew, frustrated. Nicodemus! What the hell are you doing?! Get behind cover, theres still a battle going on!
The fact that theres a battle going on, man who is not my uncle, is precisely why I am not behind cover. Again the clipped British tones, but the flowing Norse accent was stronger now. His voice ran with a dark current. Yorkton looked at him, standing there with his hands hidden within the folds of his fur cloak. It dawned on Arthur that though he knew his nephew was quite a bit taller than he was, he had never really thought about it.
Nicodemus?
My name is Nalfindyr, hissed the son of Laufin the Oathbreaker. His hands lashed out of his cloak, holding a long knife he had kept on his person for years but had never found occasion to use. I dedicate this death to the true gods, he said grimly, and before the stunned Yorkton could react he reached out with his left hand, pushed the Englishmans head back, and drew the knife across his throat.
Blood spurted out in a wide arc, and Yorkton stood for an instant before dropping to the deck in a heap. Nalfindyr was already in motion, darting across the deck with knife in hand. Several of the English archers aimed at him, but something caused the boat to rock and spoiled their shots. He came up behind the English spearmen who were still holding the Master of War back against the wall; they were watching him intently, having lost two of their number. One of the archers shouted a warning, but it was too late his knife slipped into the unprotected space between the bottom of a spearmans helmet and the top of his chain mail, felling the man instantly.
The other Englishmen were shocked for a moment, and if any man on Earth at that moment was perfect for taking advantage of the situation, it was the nameless Master of War. He struck out with one long sword, carving a massive wound in a spearmans chest; with his other he casually severed the steel tip from anothers spear. He spun and delivered an overhand stroke to the third spearman with his left sword, splitting the mans head in half, then stabbed out behind him with the other sword to impale the one he had disarmed. Then he looked at Nalfindyr, casually deflecting an incoming arrow
Nalfindyr looked back, then smirked and bent to pick up a spear (and duck an arrow). Well, kinsman? Arent you going to apologize for trying to kill me before we go cut down those bastards?
The Master of War stood staring at him as another arrow glanced off his flashing sword-blade. Then he smiled faintly, picked up the other spear, and charged the archers with Nalfindyr running behind him.
More Christian blood stained the deck.
On the deck of the Lady, Nalfindyr speared those Englishmen who managed to dodge the whirling dervish of murder that was the Master of War. His face was stained with blood from an arrow that had grazed him, but he grinned savagely at the delight he felt in this battle. This is what I was born for, he thought to himself, and laughed as another fleeing Englishman died on his spear.
Then, finally, it was over. Frinya Stormchild walked oddly demurely onto the Silver Lady and raised her hand, chanting under her breath. There was a series of wet popping noises as one tooth departed from the mouth of each of the Englishmen and flew to her hand. Ulgar Skullbreaker went about the grim business of making sure, delivering a hammer-blow to each and every corpse just in case.
And Nalfindyr Laufinsson dropped his spear and strode across the planks to Ruger the Dour, who stood firm and calm despite his many wounds. The red-haired Norseman spoke in his half-English voice. The gods hail. You killed well, lord - ? He looked inquisitive.
Rugër the Dour. As did you he trailed off impassively.
Nic Nalfindyr. Nalfindyr Laufinsson. A murmur went through the assembled survivors, and even the Master of War raised an eyebrow. Rugër was unmoved, though.
Son of Laufin the Oathbreaker? Nalfindyr nodded. You are the banished child, then. How came you to end on an English ship?
They found me, said Nalfindyr grimly. Arthur Yorktons sister raised me as his own son, and he treated me as family. He protected me. He cared for me.
And you killed him. Nalfindyr again nodded. Why?
There was a moment of silence. All assembled watched silently. Then Nalfindyr opened his mouth and spoke. Because I am of the north, and so are you.
Again, there was silence. Then Rugër nodded. It is unseemly for you to bear the name of a betrayer, be he your father or not. He looked about.
Wothfir Wolfsgrin, pale from blood loss but smiling anyway, stepped forward. I watched this Nalfindyr in battle, quick and deadly, always delivering both the first strike and the last. He fought like the hound of Hel.
Rugër glanced over at Frinya, who nodded her approval. It is fitting. We asked for the blessing of Loki, and he delivered to us a man who is betrayer and kinslayer, yet worthy as a warrior of The Widowmaker. The gods approve.
Then welcome to the Widowmaker, Nalfindyr Hel-hound, pronounced Rugër. He cracked one of his rare smiles. Your first task is to start cleaning the ship.
Nalfindyr was so overwhelmed by the moment, he did not even say anything sarcastic. He kneeled to his new leader. I will serve you loyally, Lord Rugër. Ive had enough of betrayal for one lifetime.
Good. Now, start scrubbing. Rugër turned and walked away, his wounds smarting. Frinjya, healing!
As the wounded of the ship lined up to receive the rites of healing, Nalfyndir looked around at the ship, stained with blood and decorated with corpses. He looked at the savage, uncouth men and ice-eyed woman who were his new family. He looked at his hands, wet with the blood of his uncle.
He smiled again. This was where he belonged.
Comments? Suggestions? Death threats?
The young man who had been born Nalfyndir Laufinsson stood, tall and lean, on the deck of the Silver Lady, looking out on the ocean. He was wrapped in a thick fur cloak and his long red hair whipped his face in the breeze. The Englishmen on deck avoided him, avoided looking at him, and only when he was surely out of earshot did they whisper and chuckle that the barons adopted nephew was in a fit again because he was not allowed to wield a sword.
If he did not hear them, the man in the cloak certainly knew what they were saying. His eyes were icy, and his face was pale from more than just the cold. He did not look like the sailors and soldiers on deck. His eyes were too large, his nose too long, his face too rough-hewn. It is for those reasons, and for what they signified, that the Englishmen kept their insults behind his back.
The son of Laufin the Oathbreaker clenched his fists and breathed in the cold air deeply. He stared across the ocean at the distant sillhouette of what could only be a Viking ship. He knew there were preparations for battle behind him, glorious battle that stirred the blood that ran in his veins. Blood that, for the last thirteen years, he had been taught to hate.
The same blood will pour on the decks this day, he thought. The blood of the marauders in the wolf-headed ship; for they faced the crew of Baron Arthur Yorkton, a man who had devoted his life to slaying Viking raiders as they threatened his people. A man whose sister had adopted a child of that same race, an abandoned boy sitting at the foot of twin gallows that held the raven-pecked bodies of his mother and father.
Nicodemus! shouted that same Arthur Yorkton as he strode across the deck, burly and clinking in his chain-mail.
The red-haired man turned at the sound of the name he had answered to since his eleventh year. Yes, Uncle? His voice spoke in clipped, precise English tones, but there was a flowing quality to it, a sound of rolling waves.
You should get below soon, lad. Were closing in on them. Its a matter of an hour - less, even. There was genuine concern in those words, perhaps unexpected from a warrior of Yorktons stature and reputation.
Uncle - I ask you once more, let me fight. Yorkton opened his mouth, but his adopted nephew kept speaking. Im twenty-four years old, and Im sick of being known as nothing more than a damned translator. I can wield a sword as well or better as any of your men.
Lad, you may have been trained, but these are Vikings - theyre bred for war. Your mother would kill me.
My mother was one of them, hissed Nicodemus. Yorktons face blanched, then purpled. I was bred for war from the cradle, and Im no weakling to stand idly by while lesser men march to glory and -
There was a sharp crack. Nicodemuss head whiplashed to the side, but he kept his feet. He looked at his uncle with a pale face that did not just sting, but hurt - hurt badly. Arthur Yorkton was a strong man, and even an open-handed slap carried immense power.
Yorkton sighed. Im sorry, lad. I just...it frightens me when you talk like that. Frightens us all. You were starting to sound like, like one of them. Like a Viking. Dont speak like that, please.
A dozen emotions warred on Nicodemuss face, and then, most chilling of all, a completely expressionless gaze. Then he finally lapsed into contrition. Im sorry too, Uncle. I just...its...they call me a coward. The men. And Im tired of it.
I understand. Listen - I cannot let you fight. But from now on, you can stay on deck and watch the battle instead of staying safe in the hold.
Nicodemus smiled. Thank you, Uncle. Ill stay out of harms way. Yorkton nodded brusquely and strode off to make more preparations. His nephew went back to leaning on the railing, sneering as he looked out over the water. Stay out of harms way indeed! he thought dismissively. Im a warrior, and Ill damn well prove it today.
* * *
Rugër the Dour, six feet four inches tall and over two feet across the chest, long hair whipping and beard bristling in the wind, stood at the prow of the Widowmaker with battle on his mind.The eastern wind was strong and the waves were choppy, but the Widowmaker cut smoothly through the water under the hands of Stjeinborn Woldirsson, expert navigator. Thirty men labored at the oars below, commoners from Rugërs home of Trelleborge sworn to his service. On deck were thirty-six proud Viking warriors, armed with all manner of instruments of pain and death. They were scarred and battle-hardened, and carried the clear favor of the gods. Had a raven, the holy symbol of Odin, not sat on the mast as they prepared to go to sea two weeks ago? It was an obvious sign of the Spear-gods blessing.
Yet for all this, Rugër was worried. He recognized the flag of the English ship from this distance - the flag of Yorkton, scourge of the Norsemen for the last twelve years. Rugër the Dour did not fear death; why should he? He was a Viking, one of Odins chosen, and when he fell in battle he would ascend to eternal glory in the halls of Valhalla. But he feared defeat, and defeat was a definite possibility at this moment. Yorktons ship, infamous among the men of the North, bore somewhere around sixty of the best English fighting men to found, each of them quite nearly a match for a Viking. And though the Englishmen were nowhere near the shipbuilders Rugërs people were, that cursed ship was one of their best, sleek enough for tight turns and difficult maneuvers.
Rugër mulled over the odds, and the likelihood of defeat. Of course, there was no possibility that the Widowmaker would flee, so it was sort of a pointless exercise. But he did so anyway, and came to the conclusion that the most logical thing to do was to turn around and sail away, for this was a fight that no sane man would hope to win.
Thus assured that the gods would look with favor upon his choice to fight, Rugër turned around and surveyed his crew. He was aware of the enormous presence of Ulgar Skullbreaker standing off to his left side, leaning on his warhammer. Ulgar had been there by his side since childhood, a vast and vastly bearded Viking of uncertain mental stability but definite loyalty.
Several yards directly in front of him, leaning against the mast of the ship with his eyes closed, was the completely shaven-headed man who was known only as the Master of War. He had been among the first to join the crew of the Widowmaker eight months ago, but Rugër knew little more about him than he had then. He wore only fur leggings and two straps across his chest to hold the scabbards of his swords; when questioned, he said that he had more trust in his ability to dodge the blades of the enemy than in irons ability to protect him. Rugër had never seen him more than scratched, so he did not argue.
There was a clattering noise from below, steadily growing louder. Soon Frinya Stormchild emerged from belowdecks. She was a slight woman, seeming lost in her thick fur robe, but the strings of human teeth dangling from her sleeves and neck and the deadly spear she bore left no doubts as to her value in a battle. She walked with the favor of the gods; she had called on Thor, Freyja and Tyr to rain death upon three of Rugërs crew who had protested a woman joining them. Everyone stepped rather carefully around her, but nobody doubted her worth as a member of the crew.
She walked boldly up to the captain of the ship. We are very near, Rugër. If I am to bless the warriors before we join battle, it must be now. She was an undeniably beautiful woman, but the frosts of the north swirled in blizzards behind her pale blue eyes. Nobody, even Rugër himself, spoke impertinently to the witch Frinya Stormchild.
All right, then. Wothfir! To me! bellowed Rugër across the ship. Within several seconds, his lieutenant Wothfir Wolfsgrin was at his side. Where some brave men might laugh in the face of death, Wothfir would laugh, spit, and then propose a toast to their honored guest. He liked to play the drunken fool, but if he was to stride into battle with a horn of mead in one hand and a sword in the other, chances were that he would spill not the mead, but the blood of his foes, laughing the whole time. Even now, he grinned with excitement for the battle to come.
What want you with a drunk idiot, Rugër? inquired Wothfir. Would you throw me to the English ship to dispose of their weak, watery beer and send them fleeing in terror of men of such hardiness as to drink all their stores and barely stumble?
Rugër chuckled. Nothing so fun, my friend. Gather the men and have them prepare for battle and the rites of Tyr. Rugër spoke, of course, of the god of war who protected true warriors of the North in battle and strengthened their blows.
Frinya raised a palm to interrupt, the teeth of those she had slain clicking gently. The rites of Odin and Freyja, my lord. Though hearing the names of the gods who guided the dead chilled his blood, Rugërs face remained calm. But even he, named the Dour, could not hide a shudder at her next words. And of Loki.
Wothfir blinked and looked at her. Loki, Lady Frinya? He spat to clear his mouth of the taste of the name of the hated fire-god, betrayer and deceiver. Correct me if Im mistaken, but do we not wish to win this battle?
Frinya said nothing, just tapped her spear on the deck, a clear reminder of whom exactly carried the word of the gods. Wothfir looked at his leader and old friend, who nodded sternly. Do as she says. Once Wothfir had made his way across the deck, Rugër turned to the shaman angrily. The rites of Loki? What madness is this, Frinya Stormchild?
The witchs eyes flickered about, her face suddenly unsure. I...I do not know, Rugër. Below decks when I consulted the gods, the fire spoke to me. It told me to ask Odin and Frejya to guide the spirits of our warriors, for today many will fall - perhaps even all. But then, too, it told me to ask the Lie-Smith for his protection; it told me that without the aid of he who protects betrayers and kinslayers, we will fall.
Rugër spent a long moment inside himself, his eyes seeing nothing but the possibilities that lay before him. Then he nodded. Then perform the rites of Loki Lie-Smith, and let us hope that we do not court death by doing so.
Frinya smiled suddenly. We court death every day, my lord. We might as well see about quickening the process.
Ulgar Skullbreakers voice rumbled across the deck, and Frinya and Rugër both tensed and gripped their weapons before relaxing sheepishly. Better for death to come from one of our own gods - even the betrayer - than from their hypocrite God of Abraham. At least we will know who to blame.
Rugër chuckled. True, Ulgar. All right, Frinya Stormchild. Let us go and invoke the blessings of he who is cursed, and hope that the madness in that act has a purpose. He strode across the deck, knowing that if he died today, the gods would answer for it tomorrow.
* * *
The battle began with an arrow from the deck of the Silver Lady. It skipped off the shoulder of a young Viking warrior, who held his ax tightly and pondered uneasily the blessings of Loki. All nervousness vanished with the firing of the arrow, and his voice rang over the ocean. Your god will not save you, men of the cross!Arrows swept the decks of both ships, felling a handful of men on either side.
Several fell perilously close to Nicodemus, but he ignored them, staring instead at the men across the water. They were the first Vikings he had seen since he was eleven, when his father and mother Laufin and Grayti had been hanged for betraying their lord and he was left in a small boat to the tender mercies of the ocean.
He remembered that day in crystalline detail. He had prayed to all the gods but one, and then in desperation he had prayed to that one. And Loki Lie-Smith, who his father had secretly followed, had answered his prayer - not with a flash of flame or the appearance of a mighty sea serpent, but an English ship and a burly young man named Arthur Yorkton and his sister Mary.
Now at last again he looked upon his people. Tall, fair, long-haired and long-beared, lining the decks of their trim ship with swords, axes and shields in hand, fearlessly facing the arrows of the Englishmen and taunting them in a language he still remembered.
His vigilant surveillance of the Norsemen was fortunate, for he noticed the arrow aimed at him shortly before it was fired by the completely hairless man balancing in the watchmans post atop the mast. Nicodemus hit the deck, the arrow spearing his fur cloak but missing his flesh. He rolled behind a defensive railing and pulled the arrow out of his cloak, bitterly wishing he had his own bow.
Nicodemus then wondered who he really wanted to fire at.
* * *
The Master of War scowled. He had hoped to hit that thin red-haired youth, the one with the face of a Norseman who sailed with the English. To the Master, nothing was more hideous than the face of a betrayer. And a Viking on a Christian ship was undoubtedly that.He nocked and fired another arrow, watched it pierce the chain-mail armor of one of the English sailors and sink into his chest. Every kill glorified the name of Tyr, the god of battle to whom the Master of War had sworn service at the age of eight. Even now, the words he had spoken at the dawn of every day rang in his head: War to us is holy. Another arrow nocked. The hypocrite Christian says it is an evil, then goes to war anyway. Another arrow fired. The lying Muslim preaches holy war, but he has no stomach for blood. Another arrow nocked. The coward Jew surrenders his home and family rather than fight. Another arrow fired. But the Norseman wades into battle with no fear of death, with a smile on his lips and a song in his heart. Another arrow nocked. War to us is holy.
The Master of War saw a flash of red hair. The betrayer had peeked out from behind the railing, doubtless thinking it was safe. He smiled grimly, thanking the gods for his good fortune, and released the arrow. What happened next stunned the normally unflappable warrior, and came very close to briefly shaking his faith in the god he followed.
The arrow burst into flame in mid-air, bright crimson flames that licked the sky. It traveled impossibly straight and quick, straight for the betrayers head. At the last second, it dropped point-down and plunged into the deck right next to the startled man. The Master of War saw him jerk to the side and stare at the arrow which burned red without damaging the ship.
The Master shook his head in disbelief. Some witchery was at work here these were the effects of the blessings of Loki, no doubt. He cleared his head of these confusions and saw that the ships were closing on each other. The Englishmen were throwing out ropes and grapples, while his own kin were ready to drop planks across the space between the vessels. Battle was to be joined.
So the Master of War ignored all these petty confusions and complications. He was a warrior, the perfect warrior, every facet of his life dedicated to slaying the enemies of Tyr. He dropped his bow, grabbed a rope tied to the mast, and prepared to fly into the face of his foes to meet death or glory.
* * *
Nicodemuss first though was to smother the flaming arrow with his cloak; indeed, he had begun to move when he glanced into the fire. He stared at it in silence while the Norsemen began their attack.And it spoke to him. With a quiet, reasonable voice, the kind of voice used by someone wearing a broad smirk, it spoke to him. And he listened.
* * *
Wothfir Wolfsgrin led the charge of the Vikings, leaping across the deck with his broadsword in the air. They smashed into the Englishmen and the blood began to fly. Wothfir fought without finesse, with nothing but sheer speed, strength and enthusiasm. This was not a battle that could be won by technique and style, but by simply hacking your way through the foe.The Englishmen quickly rallied and surrounded the initial Viking party, but the next group of barbarian warriors crossed the planks to join their comrades. Rugër the Dour led these men, a broad ax in one hand and a round shield in the other, his head bare as he bellowed to his warriors to sweep left across the ship and secure a position. He forged through the English, battling two at a time with tenacity and power. Just behind him was Ulgar Skullbreaker, ponderously moving through the crush and giving one hit for every five he took but that one hit, from his mighty warhammer, was always deadly. And behind the huge shape of Ulgar followed the Vikings, hacking and slashing with the names of their gods on their lips.
A knot of Englishmen, led by the<i> Silver Lady</i>s first mate Mortimer Thyme, moved across the deck to intercept the bold Viking leader. On the Viking ship, both Frinya Stormchild and the Master of War marked their approach. They glanced at each other, and the Master stayed his attack as Frinya raised her spear and began a chant. Her eyes flashed fire, and she lowered the spear and pointed it directly at Thyme. Witness the wrath of the true gods! she screamed in a voice amplified by her power, and channeled the strength of her will.
Something erupted from the point of the spear, a ghostly raven-shape of dark smoke. It sped across the deck and smashed into the Englishmen, scattering them and hurling Mortimer Thyme back to hit the mast with a sickening snapping noise.
As the English soldiers began to rise from the impact, a bloodthirsty howl split the air. The Master of War gripped his rope and swung from The Widowmakers mast towards the enemies of his gods. He released the rope as he crossed the deck of the Lady and drew his swords in midair, landing on his feet in the middle of the soldiers. Silent now, the Master of War went to work with a savage will.
But for all the might of the Vikings, they were vastly outnumbered. Now Arthur Yorkton rallied his reserves and directed them with the cool-headed logic that had bought his survival for years. Half a dozen Englishmen with long spears cornered the Master of War and kept him at bay, while eight more led a charge against the largest group of Vikings. Grudgingly, Rugër the Dour gave ground to their spearblades. For a second, he faced Arthur Yorkton himself, and lashed out with his ax. It bit into the Englishmans side and he relished the pain in the mans eyes. Then Yorkton slammed him in the face with his shield, and the tides of the struggle carried them apart.
Frinya Stormchild rose up on the deck of The Widowmaker and chanted again, her spear pointed directly at Yorkton. But a keen-eyed archer on the deck of the Lady fired his bow, an arrow sinking deep into the witchs shoulder and sending her thudding painfully to the wood. Meanwhile, Wothfir Wolfsgrin fought alone, his initial boarding party all slain; he was painted in both his blood and the blood of his foes, and he was tired. With a huge effort, Ulgar Skullbreaker crushed through to his side, but an arrow caught him in the chest and staggered him.
Rugër looked around, absently deflecting a spear-thrust with his shield. He snarled in frustration, then raised his voice in a bellow. Back to the ship! he roared. Let them face us on our own ground! He cut his way through the spearmen, accepting a vicious wound, and held them off while Wothfir stumbled across the planks. The Vikings fell back grudgingly, killing and dying as they went.
There was a brief pause as both Rugër and Yorkton considered the situation. There were maybe twenty-five Vikings left, most of whom were wounded in one way or another. Forty-four Englishmen remained, though four of them were occupied keeping the Master of War backed up against a cabin wall. Yorkton raised his bloody blade and roared For God and the King, charge!
The English approached the Viking ship much more slowly than had their foes, the spearmen in the lead and archers covering them. Yorkton himself, the shallow ax-cut in his side aching, directed from the deck with a longbow in hand. The Vikings rallied and faced their foes in bitter hand-to-hand combat. They were not used to fighting defensively, but a battle was a battle. Ulgar Skullbreaker was their hero, tirelessly marching across the deck, ignoring savage wounds as his mighty hammer swept the Englishmen back time and again. But he was only one man.
Rugër stepped back to rest, his arm weary. Frinya Stormchild staggered up behind him, her shoulder bleeding but her spear held firm. Their God is with them today, observed Rugër morosely.
Ours are always with us, countered Frinya with a half-smile. Have faith, my lord we are the chosen of Odin. It is not our place to wonder about our survival and question the power of the gods. We simply fight, and our questions will be answered when we go to meet them in Valhalla.
Rugër nodded grimly, and they plunged back into battle together to find their answer.
* * *
At long last, the fire fell silent. The man who had been born Nalfindyr Laufinsson blinked and then looked about. He had been crouching behind the railing for quite some time, and the deck was wet with blood. A dead body lay several feet away. He stood and walked over. It was a Viking, a tall man who gazed sightlessly at the sky with one pale blue eye. The other had an arrow buried several inches into the socket. His face was fixed in a grimace of rage.The man who had been called Nicodemus for the last thirteen years looked up. He saw his uncle, the man who had protected him and perhaps even loved him, standing on the deck of the ship, a bow in his hand. He walked towards Yorkton slowly, the words of the fire burning in his mind.
Arthur, he said quietly. Yorkton was surprised, and his arrow missed badly. He turned on his nephew, frustrated. Nicodemus! What the hell are you doing?! Get behind cover, theres still a battle going on!
The fact that theres a battle going on, man who is not my uncle, is precisely why I am not behind cover. Again the clipped British tones, but the flowing Norse accent was stronger now. His voice ran with a dark current. Yorkton looked at him, standing there with his hands hidden within the folds of his fur cloak. It dawned on Arthur that though he knew his nephew was quite a bit taller than he was, he had never really thought about it.
Nicodemus?
My name is Nalfindyr, hissed the son of Laufin the Oathbreaker. His hands lashed out of his cloak, holding a long knife he had kept on his person for years but had never found occasion to use. I dedicate this death to the true gods, he said grimly, and before the stunned Yorkton could react he reached out with his left hand, pushed the Englishmans head back, and drew the knife across his throat.
Blood spurted out in a wide arc, and Yorkton stood for an instant before dropping to the deck in a heap. Nalfindyr was already in motion, darting across the deck with knife in hand. Several of the English archers aimed at him, but something caused the boat to rock and spoiled their shots. He came up behind the English spearmen who were still holding the Master of War back against the wall; they were watching him intently, having lost two of their number. One of the archers shouted a warning, but it was too late his knife slipped into the unprotected space between the bottom of a spearmans helmet and the top of his chain mail, felling the man instantly.
The other Englishmen were shocked for a moment, and if any man on Earth at that moment was perfect for taking advantage of the situation, it was the nameless Master of War. He struck out with one long sword, carving a massive wound in a spearmans chest; with his other he casually severed the steel tip from anothers spear. He spun and delivered an overhand stroke to the third spearman with his left sword, splitting the mans head in half, then stabbed out behind him with the other sword to impale the one he had disarmed. Then he looked at Nalfindyr, casually deflecting an incoming arrow
Nalfindyr looked back, then smirked and bent to pick up a spear (and duck an arrow). Well, kinsman? Arent you going to apologize for trying to kill me before we go cut down those bastards?
The Master of War stood staring at him as another arrow glanced off his flashing sword-blade. Then he smiled faintly, picked up the other spear, and charged the archers with Nalfindyr running behind him.
More Christian blood stained the deck.
* * *
The English were demoralized by the death of their captain and the disappearance of their cover fire, and the Norse took full advantage of that. Wothfir Wolfsgrin summoned the strength to charge back into battle, sending the head of Yorktons lieutenant flying with his second cut. Frinya Stormchilds spear and Ulgar Skullbreakers hammer forced the Englishmen back where the Master of War waited for them with death in his eyes and steel in his hands.On the deck of the Lady, Nalfindyr speared those Englishmen who managed to dodge the whirling dervish of murder that was the Master of War. His face was stained with blood from an arrow that had grazed him, but he grinned savagely at the delight he felt in this battle. This is what I was born for, he thought to himself, and laughed as another fleeing Englishman died on his spear.
Then, finally, it was over. Frinya Stormchild walked oddly demurely onto the Silver Lady and raised her hand, chanting under her breath. There was a series of wet popping noises as one tooth departed from the mouth of each of the Englishmen and flew to her hand. Ulgar Skullbreaker went about the grim business of making sure, delivering a hammer-blow to each and every corpse just in case.
And Nalfindyr Laufinsson dropped his spear and strode across the planks to Ruger the Dour, who stood firm and calm despite his many wounds. The red-haired Norseman spoke in his half-English voice. The gods hail. You killed well, lord - ? He looked inquisitive.
Rugër the Dour. As did you he trailed off impassively.
Nic Nalfindyr. Nalfindyr Laufinsson. A murmur went through the assembled survivors, and even the Master of War raised an eyebrow. Rugër was unmoved, though.
Son of Laufin the Oathbreaker? Nalfindyr nodded. You are the banished child, then. How came you to end on an English ship?
They found me, said Nalfindyr grimly. Arthur Yorktons sister raised me as his own son, and he treated me as family. He protected me. He cared for me.
And you killed him. Nalfindyr again nodded. Why?
There was a moment of silence. All assembled watched silently. Then Nalfindyr opened his mouth and spoke. Because I am of the north, and so are you.
Again, there was silence. Then Rugër nodded. It is unseemly for you to bear the name of a betrayer, be he your father or not. He looked about.
Wothfir Wolfsgrin, pale from blood loss but smiling anyway, stepped forward. I watched this Nalfindyr in battle, quick and deadly, always delivering both the first strike and the last. He fought like the hound of Hel.
Rugër glanced over at Frinya, who nodded her approval. It is fitting. We asked for the blessing of Loki, and he delivered to us a man who is betrayer and kinslayer, yet worthy as a warrior of The Widowmaker. The gods approve.
Then welcome to the Widowmaker, Nalfindyr Hel-hound, pronounced Rugër. He cracked one of his rare smiles. Your first task is to start cleaning the ship.
Nalfindyr was so overwhelmed by the moment, he did not even say anything sarcastic. He kneeled to his new leader. I will serve you loyally, Lord Rugër. Ive had enough of betrayal for one lifetime.
Good. Now, start scrubbing. Rugër turned and walked away, his wounds smarting. Frinjya, healing!
As the wounded of the ship lined up to receive the rites of healing, Nalfyndir looked around at the ship, stained with blood and decorated with corpses. He looked at the savage, uncouth men and ice-eyed woman who were his new family. He looked at his hands, wet with the blood of his uncle.
He smiled again. This was where he belonged.
Comments? Suggestions? Death threats?
