“Forged in Fire” A Viking Saga Amy Wallace Northerners “Current popular representations of the Vikings are typically based on cultural clichés and stereotypes, complicating modern appreciation of the Viking legacy.” I played the tip of my dagger in the outskirts of the flame, as if guarding it from the ice that crept around our camp. The heat fought off waves of chills, but didn’t seem to reach my toes, curled defensively inside the brown leather of my boots. Tufts of snow were blown from the peaks to the West; the flakes scattered downwards were obliterated by our fires. I turned over my dagger, transfixed by the way the light moved against the brass handle. The flames danced as those off-duty across camp bellowed old war songs into the night. A light mist rushed past my cheek as a smooth voice came close to my helmet. “All drunk no doubt. I don’t blame ‘em – not in this weather. I’d join ‘em if I could.” I sniffed a laugh and nodded. “I always find a good ale keeps out the winter.” I didn’t want a ‘good ale’ though; I wanted to go home. I detested being this far North. We’d been at this post for two months with not so much as a mention of battle. Tensions between the North and South had divided our country for the last 30 years; both my father and grandfather lost their lives fighting off invaders. I had been sent off to be part of an aggressive push from the Western mountains. All of us swore our lives and swords to the cause that day, a cause called for by the Southern powers. But there was to be a new King and we’d hoped the fight wouldn’t be long. Now, it seemed we were fighting with the cold – and it was on the North’s side. I shuffled closer to the fire, feeling my cheeks turn red. I wiped my nose into my palm and onto the back of my hand, pushing the edge of the blade into the dirt beside me. Our chief, Bjorn, grunted his way over towards the five of us and kicked a pile of leathers in frustration before exclaiming, “Fuckain Norfuners!”
51
