Forged in Fire

Amy Wallace A Viking Saga

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!”

Having travelled with Bards on the road for some years as a young boy, I understood a wide range of accents, but I must admit that his was strange to me. His face was twisted between cold and rage and on his helmet sat the furs of a bear, with its teeth hanging over his forehead. The bear’s eyes glinted with the flame’s reflection as if it burned with the frustration Bjorn felt. His fists were balled up, his knuckles poking up white ridges along his tanned hands. He plucked his commanding brooch from his tunic’s collar and tossed it to the soldier sitting across the fire pit from me. The soldier looked up with a frown before Bjorn grumbled a deep breath,

“Gi’ it uh cleen.”

And then he continued his grunting strides until he disappeared behind the flap of his tent.

The silence he left was soon filled with the final verses of the other soldiers’ songs. Those around our campfire looked towards me expectantly. I looked back at each of them in turn and met their grins. I chuckled. “Alright, alright. I’ll give them some competition.” Clearing my throat, I sat up straighter and slid my dagger back into the sheath on my boot.

“Suðrœn, vér nálgask inn norðri (From the South, we came up to the North)

“Suðrœn, vér nálgask inn norðri (From the South, we came up to the North)

At reyna várr víg-djarfr; (To prove us bold in battle);

Vér munu ræna grið (We will deprive them of peace)

Eða róa órr lið við valhöll. (And row our people towards Valhalla). Þórr ok Óðinn standa í suðr-æt (Thor and Odin stand with the South)

Sem vér stefna at sigr. (As we advance to victory).

Vér munu taka hvat vér eiga (We will take possession of what we own)

Hinn nótt eða æ. (This night and always).

Dauði at inn norðri! (Death to the North!) Ágæti at inn suðri!” (Glory to the South!) From around the camp, soldiers let out war cries, feeling a sense of unity in this place of desolation. Through the furs of his tent, Bjorn’s voice roared.

“Some men’r tryin’ te get some sleep!” Around our campfire, the men sniggered and I bowed before excusing myself to my own tent; though I could not sleep, for the air of war clung to my skin and my heart settled in my throat.

Southerners

“A typical bóndi (freeman) was likely to fight with a spear and shield, and most also carried a seax as a utility knife and side-arm.”

I dragged my feet through the snow the entire way to the gate. There were many better ways to spend your time than standing guard. Nobody ever approached the gate during the night and only a few soldiers ventured out during the day. This time, I had the night duty; small fires in basins beside the path lit my way to the camp’s entrance. If I was alone, I could spend my time singing, but solitude had been a luxury since marching North. I lifted my fist and gave three hard knocks, equal in rhythm, against the thick wood of the gate. Several planks slid across, rumbling the ground beneath my feet. Once the gate was opened, the faces of the two guards washed with relief and they nodded gratefully before shoving each other to reach camp first. I felt a sturdy grip on my shoulder and turned to meet the smirk of Fel. He let out a short laugh before striding past through the gate.

“Looks like you’re stuck with me tonight.”

I grunted a reply and set about barricading the gate again. He picked up the other end of the plank I was holding and I hesitated before allowing him to help me slot it into place. He immediately began tending to the fire and shouted over his shoulder.

“Your song was nice this evening. Do you sing often?” The heat may have been from embarrassment or from the fire, I couldn’t tell. “Sort of. I travelled with the bards for some years.”

The fire began to spit at the snow around it and I approached to be closer tothe heat. He threw some more kindling on the flames, followed by a few larger sticks.

“I’m guessing you weren’t planning on being here then?”

I glanced around before removing my helmet and placing it on a rock halfburied in snow.

“I wanted to travel more, hoped to become a merchant at some point. I couldn’t see myself living on a farm forever.” My hair fell in front of my eyes, the red darkened to brown by grease and dirt. I took the leather strip from my wrist and pulled it back from my face before posing a question. “What about you then?” I tied the leather around my hair and his gaze turned dark.

“Well my father was exiled – long story. My mother didn’t want me around, apparently I look just like him.” His mouth twisted into a bitter smile. “I had nobody and nothing, so I ran to Brant before we set off for this… War, I suppose you could call it.”

I nodded before feeding the fire myself. “I think stalemate is the word you’re looking for.”

Various amounts of pacing and sighing later, Fel spoke up again, “You know why Bjorn is known as ‘the Brute’?”

I did not. “No, do you?”

He nodded and came to sit next to me by the fire, “He’s been fighting this… stalemate, for twenty years. The first battle he was involved in, an arrow pierced him in the chest.” He poked me to illustrate and I frowned in response. “It only just missed his heart. Legend says he ripped out the arrow before entering a battle rage never seen before. I heard somewhere that he slaughtered half an army.”

My eyes widened and then I raised an eyebrow. “You must be joking.”

He chuckled before bringing his fist to his chest powerfully. “On the Gods, I’m being truthful”.

I couldn’t help but smile in response. I guess I preferred this to the silence everyone else gave me. He got up and brushed a dusting of snow from his thighs. “I need to piss”.

The word seemed unnatural, as if he had to force the phrase to fit in amongst all these unmannered men. I almost felt offended that he’d place me in the same category.

He returned a while later, producing a pile of flint from behind his back. He lumped down beside me again and pulled a dagger from his boot, smaller and more serrated than mine. He glanced sideways at me before selecting a piece and dragging the blade over the edges. I’d never been good at making arrowheads, so I was entertained by it for a while. Then my eyes wandered up to his face; his jawline was much more sharp than those of the other men and the shadows from the fire made it even more so. His nose was disjointed, realigned after battle I expected, and a deep scar separated the arch on his eyebrow on the side facing me. His hair was dark, shaved off on one side to reveal the rest of a tattoo that began on the outer corner of his eye. It swirled over and behind his ear, jutting out at various angles along the way, like the edges of a rich man’s blade. His eyes blazed umber and the middle of his brows arched down towards his nose in concentration. His lips were pursed as he judged the skill of his hand, pulling his nostrils wider. A trail of mist pushed out of them as he turned to me again and his face became neutral.

“What?”

I snapped my gaze back to the fire. “Nothing, nothing.”

He shrugged and lined up the flint, “One down, twelve to go.” * * * * * Twelve arrowheads later, the sky began to tint a pastel lilac, signalling the early hours. We leaned our backs against the gate, eager for the changeover. Standing in silence, we stared out across the ice plains, until dawn stood upon the horizon and the snow-burdened clouds drifted further East.

The Fire

“The warfare and violence of the Vikings were often motivated and fuelled by their beliefs in Norse religion, focusing on Thor and Odin, the gods of war and death.”

My soles slipped on the frosted earth as I pushed myself up from the floor. Small stones and shards of pottery pricked at my hands and knees, some of them burrowing under my skin. The heat chased at my heels; pushed me forwards through the blazing streets. Unwelcome warmth embraced me from all angles and I struggled against it, limping towards the cart of goods we had piled up from the village. Everything was untouched, still ready to be taken back to camp. Beneath the crackling of wooden frames, the screams of women and children merged with the roar of bloodthirsty men. I reached the cart and leaned against it, focusing my eyes on a dark lump in the shadows beside it. And there he was.

His tunic was stained with blood in a slash across his stomach and it hadspilled out into a pool around his arm, with his axe still tightly gripped in his hand. 55

His ragged breathing spewed out uneven white mist. I knelt beside him and pulled his furs tight over his chest, turning my ear towards him.

His grumbled tones trembled, “This war… This fighting.” He took a few quick breaths. “All it will ever do is bring misery… Many men will die for nothing, Trygve.” His breath caught in his throat and his voice strained further. “Leave me.” I sat upright, searching his eyes for further instruction. His lips drew back over his teeth, pulling bloody spit across the opening. “Go, now.

The clanging of spears on shields rang out, echoing between the houses. Outlines moved among the flames, scampering to escape their deaths. Panic set in and I pushed myself against the cart, accepting that I had to leave him behind.

The weight of the cart groaned as it churned up the soil. My nails scraped against the oak while I shoved against it with everything I had. The ash began to clog up my throat and the top of the hill seemed forever away. I buckled once. I pushed with my back, with my shoulders. I tried pulling it. I buckled twice. The flames caught up with me, bringing down the remaining structures around my sides. Looking at the food and blankets on top of the cart encouraged my legs to keep their strength. But I buckled again.

A long time had passed before I got the cart to the top of the hill. The taste of death and disappointment lingered in my mouth. When I looked back, most of the village was only smouldering bones of what it once was. I sat against one of the wheels, my chest heaving. The North’s blizzard swirled around my cheeks while I listened to the chants of the enemy.

“We are the North! The North! The North!”

A sickening feeling took hold of my stomach, tugging at my conscience. My eyes stung with smoke and tears. We had come to take from the village, but the Northerners had been watching. And I knew that my brothers were dead.

The Passage to Valhalla

“Afterwards, a round barrow was built over the ashes, and in the centre of the mound they erected a staff of birch wood, where they carved the names of the dead chieftain and his king.”

An entire day was spent recovering their bodies and cutting down a good amount of a nearby forest. The Jarls of the South were attending the burial and we were ‘going to build the biggest pyre the North has ever seen’. Narrow stones were lodged into the damp soil in the formation of a ship’s outline.

I stood at the bow, and Bjorn’s body lay – covered with furs – in the centre of the ship. In front of the stones, holes had been dug for the bodies of the soldiers lost that day - nine holes for nine lives. The stones were odd. Uneven. Casting my eyes over them, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there should have been a stone for me. Fel stood beside me and smiled weakly, knowing that I had been dreading this day.

He had been there every night since I returned with the wagon, heaving and stuck with churned up mud. He was there every time I awoke from my recurring nightmares. I know that I kept him awake, but how can anyone stay sleeping through hours of being attacked relentlessly by Draugr?

Soldiers carried forward the bodies of the slain and slumped them into their graves, wrapped in Southern flags. They then returned, passing the stones to lay some items around Bjorn’s body – ale, fruit and the lyre he attempted to play if he was drunk enough. One of the soldiers carried over his axe, barely able to hold its weight, and set it at an angle across his chest. An old woman knelt beside him, tucking a cushion under his head and laying some of his jewellery around him. While she leaned her forehead onto the ground and mumbled prayers to all of the Gods, soldiers brought piles of wood around them both. She moved behind Fel and I, continuing to pray in a feeble but resilient voice. I watched as a pyre was made from wood over Bjorn’s body, carefully placed, and creating a point. They were right; the pyre was much bigger than usual, for a much bigger issue than just mourning the dead. This was a symbol of our determination to win this war, and we all hoped the North knew it.

Bjorn’s family moved with the shift of the wind, his widow, Agerta, bearing a torch set aflame. She knew that he was loyal to her. Even in his twenty years of war, he had never taken a Thrall. His two teenage sons followed her to the pyre, walking with the same sense of pride but ready to buckle with pain. The torch flame jumped at the grounding of the pyre, snaking around the base until it caught the kindling. His family reached the line of archers, stopping in front of Fel and I. We nocked our arrows and soaked the end of the cloth in a bowl of boar fat. Agerta blessed us as she set alight our arrows and we tilted them upwards. The sky seemed bland against the flame, the silver clouds rolling and twisting with grief. We drew back our bows, holding the string taught between our fingers. Fel was the one to break the silence, competing with the wind.

“Lauss!”

Our arrows struck the top of the pyre, connecting the line of flame, sending it roaring upwards. The fire licked against the heavens, carrying his soul to the Gods. We lowered our bows, listening to the cracking of the flames and the cry of the wind around us. Fel’s palm warmed the top of my back and we stood in solemnity until the great pyre melted to ashes.

Sjaund (The Ritual Drinking)

“It was important to bury the dead in the right way so that he could join the afterlife with the same social standing that he had had in life, and to avoid becoming a homeless soul that wandered eternally.”

I followed Fel into the Southern embassy’s hall, not far from our camp on the Northern border. Great rectangular oak tables spread most of the length of the hall and an orange hue from fireplaces lit up the sides, while a larger fire roared in the centre of the oak table. We took our places with the other soldiers across from Bjorn’s family and other Southern generals, while the Jarls of the South sat at the head of the table. The elderly lady sat in the corner, playing a lyre whilst captured slaves poured an ale for each of the men with shaky and frostbitten hands. The hall slowly filled with the hum of men’s voices and Fel’s struck my ear. “Do you think they’ll ask you to sing?” I’d thought about this since the raid and I pulled out a few small stone tablets from my satchel.

“I’m not sure if I want to, honestly.”

“I’m not doing it for you,” he chuckled, “You know I can’t sing.” I looked through the tablets and pushed them aside.

“Course you can, you just sound like a screaming boar.” His lips puckered like a child tasting mead for the first time.

“Well, that was cruel.” I drummed my fingers on the table, distracting myself from the need to laugh. Looking around the room, I noticed two of the officers speaking with Jarl Falker-dalr, but the lyre’s notes obscured their conversation. The burlier officer, Gunnar, came striding towards where we were sat and stood proudly, grinning at me before barking out,

“The Jarl wants the fífl to sing a song before we can drink!”

He gripped onto my shoulder tightly, forcing my brooch into my collarbone. Fel gave me a cautious glance – it was even less common to insult each other in the South. Gunnar’s palm smacked against my shoulder blade and the Jarl’s sharp eyes fell upon me. 58

“Gunnar, let the boy entertain us.” He stepped back from me, dragging his feet back to his chair further up the table.Fel’s brows relaxed and he gazed at me expectantly as I stood. I flickered my eyes between the etched tablets and the fire-lit faces opposite for a moment and then pushed them towards Fel. Before he could think I was suggesting he should do it, I let my voice carry through the hall. It echoed around the ceiling beams, opposed only by the spit of the flames.

“Vér munu muna inn (We will remember the) Ævi ór yfimaðr; (Life story of our Chieftain); Nakkvarr ríkr seggr (A great warrior) Hinn norðanverðr folk taka. (The Northern people took). Hann grr bardagi hraustliga (He made battle bravely) Unz inn enda, (Until the end), Með breið-øx í mund, (With axe in hand), Við deyja otta-lauss.” (To die without fear).

The hall seemed to grow more still, only the Jarls daring to look around.

“Hann grr inn líf (He made the life) Til nakkvarr ríkr seggr: (Of a great man): Með elska eða staðr at suðr-æt (With love and respect from the South) Ok æðra innan órr fjándmaðr. (And fear within our enemies). Hann veita mannvirðing (He gives honour) At inn skuldalið (To the family) Eða at sik, (And to him), Vér skulu drekka hinn nótt.” (We shall drink this night).

All eyes were on me then. I could see the eagerness in them– my words rang true. Almost every man was nodding, leaned forward in their seats. I glanced around, meeting their gaze before continuing.

“Lofa hvat þeir eiga vera (Let what they have done) Brenna inn bruni í þú. (Set alight the fire within you). Órr borg sýna mikill, (Our pyre seemed big), Eða órr hugr es meiri þan þeir vita. (But our spirit is bigger than they know). Vér munu flugr (We will be strong) Eða vér munu ekki hvíla. (And we will not rest). Inn Norðri munu vita. (The North will know). Þeir munu vita.” (They will know).

My voice rose on the final line and, unexpectedly, it was shouted back at me – first by Fel, followed by the rest of the hall. My heartbeat matched the pace that the soldiers were banging their fists against the oak. The Jarls raised their hands to silence us and a horn sounded once, signalling the beginning of the Sjaund.

My vision wavered at the edges as I looked into the fire. The vicious shades of amber writhed and dissipated into smoke that passed through the roof and into the bitter air. The fire still spat above the noise of the music and men, giving off waves of heat that pricked under my skin and crawled their way along my spine. It amazed me that something that could destroy so much was so close to man. Something so pleasant, but so cruel; the fire that cleanses and disfigures, wielded and repelled by the Gods. The screams of the innocents echoed in my mind again as the flames whirled, spitting out embers that fell against the ash of the fire pit. Across the room, the wavering outlines of Bjorn’s children approached the Jarls, leaning closer. Their eyes shot towards me and Jarl Falker-dalr nodded slowly, as if in understanding. Fel spoke into his tankard, beginning to slur, “I bet his eldesht son ish going to take over.” He slumped his tankard onto the table with a heavy arm, sloshing dregs of mead over the table, which dried up almost instantly from the fire’s heat. The Jarls stood. Silence swept over the hall. Jarl Falker-dalr spoke first.

“As I’m sure you are all aware, now is the time to select a new Chieftain.” He looked over towards Agerta. “I have been asked by Bjorn’s family to make a specific selection on their behalf…” He pulled a commanding brooch from a leather pouch and placed it on the table in front of him. “In Bjorn’s memory, it is my duty and my honour to declare Trygve Völlr as your new Chieftain.” Applause rattled around the hall and Fel shoved my shoulder in excitement.

“Well, go on then!”

I waited a bit longer – waited for the laughter, for the Jarl to admit his mistake or chuckle at his cruel joke. Fel shoved me again and I stood with weak legs, not feeling the floor beneath me as I walked to the head of the table. The Jarls stood to greet me and the brooch was pressed into my palm, the brass struck cold and unnatural against my fevered skin. Gunnar’s chair tipped when he stood with his arms tensed and nostrils flaring like a horse.

“Veslingr!” He spat phlegm into his tankard and eyes flew back and forth between him and I. Fel got up from his chair, folding his arms across his chest and smirking at Gunnar. 60

“I think I speak for most here when I tell you that if you don’t shut your mouth, I will gladly deliver you to the Northerners’ gates myself.” He leaned forward on the table, with his eyes seeming sharper than before. “Is that understood?”

Gunnar huffed, wafting the fire with his furs as he turned and left.

Fel opened the door to the longhouse we were staying in and bowed as I walked through, making me grimace.

“Please stop doing that.”

“What? You’re a Chieftain now.” He followed me through and began lighting the fire.

“Yes, a Chieftain, Fel. Not a King.”

“Not a king yet.” I drew in a stale breath between gritted teeth. “I couldn’t even lead myself to that door. What makes you think I’m fit to lead people?”

“You are the only reason that we were able to survive. Without that cart, we’d all be dead. What you did was very bra-”

“I ran away, Fel!”

Confusion took hold of his sharp features, restoring a sense of childlike innocence.

“That… Doesn’t matter. You don’t need to be a great warrior to lead.”

“Gunnar is right about me.”

“No, he is not.” With the fire going, he stood and walked to me. “And if you don’t feel like you can do it alone, I’m always here.”

His optimism was both inspiring and irritating. I lowered my gaze. “Don’t waste your time on a bard.”

Fel gave a soft smile and rested his hands on my shoulders. “You’ve always been much more than a bard to me.”