Will
seized his opportunity.
“What
are you doing?” he asked Foothark. The old man turned to face him and Will
noticed he had a deep gash on the side of his face.
“I
am killing this man’s sword,” the old warrior said. The deceased man was on his
back, with his dry, dead eyes staring up at the sky. Blood had dried as it had
trickled from the side of his mouth. Around his neck, attached with cheap
looking string hung a clumsily carved wooden crucifix.
“Chreest
man?” asked Will. The old man nodded. He held the dead man’s sword with the tip
in the ground whilst he placed his foot onto the middle of the blade and pushed
with all his weight. With a metallic groan, the sword began to bend and then
snapped.
Foothark
threw the weapon onto the snow where it lay beside the other broken half.
“Cheap metal,” he said with disgust.
“Why
do you kill their swords?” Will asked.
“I
should not be offering you this knowledge as it is sacred, but seeing as you
are not of our culture I will explain.” Foothark tentatively touched the wound
on his cheek. Wincing, he cleared his throat. “When a man dies in battle, he is
looked upon as a hero. But to be a true hero, he must have his sword in his
hand in order to be welcomed into the Hall of Heroes. These….men,” he spat,
“are not heroes, nor do they deserve a hero’s welcome. When we kill their
weapons they are left without anything and any credibility they had in life…if
any, is lost to them and they will wander the afterlife lost and weaponless.
They will be shunned by better men and disowned by the Gods. The weapon is also
imbued with the spirit of the owner. When our weapons are created, we cut our
master hand and let our blood drip onto the blade when it is created by the
blacksmith. The name of the weapon is spoken as this happens, breathing life
into it. When a weapon is killed, this spirit is also destroyed.”
Will
nodded. “What about them?” he asked, pointing to the wounded enemy warriors who
had been neatly lined up one beside the other, weapons in hand. Some were
whimpering, others screaming or writhing in agony. Still others lay down with
their eyes screwed up and teeth clenched in pain.
“Will
you help them or kill them?” Will asked, as Foothark made his way to the next
dead warrior, taking up the deceased man’s axe. “Neither. It is not for us to
know the will of the Gods. We leave them for the wrath or forgiveness of the
Gods. If they fought bravely, then Teer the War God will convince the Father
God to give them back their life. They will heal, take their weapon and be gone
where they will. But seeing as they have cast aside the Gods, denied their
existence and placed their belief in falsities then I doubt any of them will
walk away from here. Once they are dead then we will kill their weapons too.
But not before.” Foothark threw the broken axe away and moved onto the next
lifeless body.
It
took several hours before the Ulfor people had finished. Nine of their number
had been killed. Their bodies were carried carefully from the valley with their
weapons strapped to their arms so as they were not dropped. Thirty-one warriors
were wounded, six seriously. These were helped out of the valley. Matt had done
what he could for them with the limited supplies he had. The enemy dead were
stacked carelessly and left to rot. None of the dead bodies had been looted,
nothing had been stolen. Taking a man’s possessions in life or in death was
against the will of the Gods, Foothark informed Will.
In
the time it had taken the Ulfor warriors to gather their dead and wounded,
three enemy wounded had died. Their weapons were also killed and their bodies
dumped on the pile in the middle of the valley.
Steve
felt a pang of guilt as he followed the large group of Ulfor warriors into the
forest. He turned one last time to look out over the valley. A light snowfall had
started and the wind had picked up, masking the cries from the dying enemy
warriors left lying on the ground. The snow was stained scarlet around them. A
boom of thunder rolled ominously across the sky and a light snow began to fall.
CHAPTER
12
The
journey back to Ulfor was slow, and quiet. Gone were the laughter and jokes,
gone were the light heartedness and excitement. Several of them, like young
Kettle, were men who had just come of age. They had never seen a battle before,
but like any young men who returned from the front line of battle, they would
be changed forever. Never again would they be as innocent as they were before.
The
dead warriors were passed around regularly amongst the group as men became
tired. It would be a long day and an even longer night. Never had they lost
this many warriors in a single battle. When the raiders came to Ulfor a-viking
the battle was fought around, and sometimes inside, buildings. Only small
groups of Norse warriors fought fragmented sections of Viking raiders, so the
casualties were usually light. This had been different. This had been a pitched
battle and although it was something for which they had all trained, none of
the Ulfor men had fought behind the shield wall in a real battle before.
“Catch
it,” someone cried. Will turned to watch a sword begin to slip from the arm of
a dead warrior. One of the men steadied the sword while another tightened the
belt that attached it to his arm. There was a mixture of bitter sweetness in
the air. It seemed that the warriors of Ulfor were both happy and sad if that
were possible.
They
seemed happy that all the men who had died today had done so in battle, as they
all hoped to do one day. They had not died falling from a horse or at the hands
of some accident. These men had died defending those they loved. There could
not have been any greater honour. But the Ulfor warriors were also sombre that
these men had departed to the halls of the Father God, leaving their families
behind.
At
last the warriors emerged into the open and looked out over the Ulfor
settlement. Scott had never taken the time to look properly at the village
before. It was a powerful sight. The houses resembled upturned longships, so
even this far inland the ocean played a significant role in the psyche of the villagers.
Behind
the houses rose a monstrous mountain that was blanketed in thick white snow.
The lower half was covered in forest and sections of bare rock partially hidden
under a fine layer of snow.
“Mount
Skane,” said Thormdall, coming alongside. “She is beautiful is she not?”
Scott
had never thought of mountains as beautiful, but admitted it was certainly a
powerful sight.
“She
watches over us,” Thormdall said.
It
was always difficult for Thormdall when he saw the family of warriors who had
died in battle. They rushed out of their houses, to greet the returned. As they
moved through the warriors and could not find their loved ones, a disbelieving
yet defiant look washed over their faces. But they continued to search. Then at
last in desperation, they looked over those who had fallen.
The
dead were laid in a neat line, one beside the other, with their swords across
their chests. Thormdall could see women and children running from their houses.
He heard relieved voices and shouting, and watched as families reunited.
But
there was one woman, now two he realised, who had not yet found their husbands.
A third had found her husband amongst the dead and a small group of people had
gathered around to comfort her.
Thormdall
closed his eyes. “Father God lend me strength,” he prayed.
The
searching women refused to look at the dead warriors. They were instead pushing
their way through the throng of happily reunited families, their faces cold
with panic. One of them began calling.
“Thorkill!”
she shouted. “Thorkill!”
Thorkill
had been a great warrior, a man dedicated to his family and his village.
Thormdall remembered the day, four summers before, when Thorkill and Thelga had
been bound together in companionship under the gaze of the gods. It had been a
happy time. Today was not so happy. Thorkill had killed his opponent, but at
the very same moment had taken a sword through the side from a nearby enemy
warrior. He had fallen and died moments later on the cold ground.
“Where
is father?” asked a young boy.
A
warrior knelt beside the boy and pulled him into his chest.
“Your
father has gone to a better place,” said the man, “a much better place.”
Thormdall
made his way towards Thelga, who was now wild eyed. The Berserker could see
that other men were doing the same for the handful of women who could not find
their husbands. She pushed her way through and walked into the arms of
Thormdall. He pulled her to him and held her tightly.
“I
am sorry Thelga. I am sorry,” he spoke holding her to him.
She
made a defiant noise and tried to struggle out of his grip. Reluctantly
relaxing, she buried her head in his cloak and began to cry.
Berag’s
words drifted into Steve’s mind. “Even today it is possible to see the burial
ships under which Orises and his father lie.” The words made sense now, for
these must be the burial ships that Berag had been talking about. There must
have been more than one hundred of them, long and short. Some of the rocks that
formed the shape of the ship were old and weatherworn. Others seemed only weeks
old.
Steve’s
eye fell on a grave that was just three feet long. It told of the terrible pain
a young couple had gone through, maybe even were still going through.
The
dead warriors were each carefully wrapped in their thick woollen cloaks. Spades
were brought out and the villagers began to dig. After several hours the graves
had been dug and Romeeros arrived with a sombre, respectful purpose.
The
ceremony took some time. The Australians
could not understand what Romeeros said. Steve asked the people
standing near him what language it was, but he was ignored; it was a sacred
moment he realised.
Romeeros
stood at the front of the gathering with his hands held high. It was almost as
if Romeeros was speaking to the gods themselves, for he did not seem to be addressing
the people at all. After a long moment of silence, Romeeros turned to the
people of Ulfor.
“Today,
my friends, the men and women who set forth on this morning did so with the
knowledge that they might not return. Battle was done and the enemy was turned
away.” He motioned respectfully to the dead warriors. “But at a terrible price.
Today we have lost nine good men, who were great warriors, but who were also
great husbands, good fathers and skilled farmers. They died protecting that
which they cared most about. Theirs was the single most powerful action of
self- sacrifice. It will, let me assure you, not go unnoticed in the Great
Halls of our Father God. Odin takes kindly to those who offer up their lives to
protect the ones they love.”
Romeeros
knelt beside each dead warrior and placed a necklace around each of their
necks. On each necklace was a piece of polished wood. Into each was neatly
carved the same rune: an ‘A’ with the crossbar running diagonally instead of
horizontally.
“What
does it mean?” asked Steve, hoping he would not be berated.
“It
is a symbol that will distinguish these men from the others in Valholla, the
Hall of Heroes,” replied a warrior. “It is one of the greatest gifts a dead
Norse warrior can receive.”
The
dead men, with their weapons firmly in their hands, were lifted into the graves
one by one. Soil filled the graves and then rocks from the base of a small
nearby hill were arranged around the graves in the shape of a longship.
Over
the next hour, the crowd began to disperse. As the sun began to sink, only
family of the dead warriors remained. Once they had said their goodbyes, they
also began to drift away. They would now have to reconstruct their lives, which
had in the space of a half-day, been pulled down around their ears.
*
* * * *
That
night a meeting was called in the great hall.
“We
lost a lot of good men today,” said Thormdall, who was standing by the door.
The people around the great table fell silent. The families, including the
children of the men who had died, sat quietly, their eyes bloodshot and rimmed
with red.
“But
we did what we set out to do. We turned the enemy back.” “And will there be
vengeance against those who killed our people?” asked Kerlon. His voice was
deep and angry.
“Aye,”
replied Thormdall, who knew Kerlon had lost a son today.
The
Berserker turned, looked outside at the light snow continuing to fall. He could
see children standing in their doorways, straining to snatch a glimpse of the
meeting.
When
Thormdall turned back, his eyes were filled with controlled anger. “That is why
we are here,” he said calmly. “Tonight, I want all of you to give gifts to the
gods, for there is a long journey ahead for some of us. We are here tonight
regarding a matter we have not yet discussed.”
In
a fluid motion Thormdall bent down and threw an axe that had been leaning up
against the wall beside him. The weapon landed on the table with an enormous
crash that made several people jump. Matt inspected the mighty axe. It had not
yet been cleaned or polished and dried blood could still be seen on the blade.
“The
matter of Berag. Early tomorrow morning a group of us will track his captors,
kill them and bring him home. Once he is safe,” Thormdall turned to Kerlon whose
eyes were still misted, “we shall launch a revenge raid into enemy territory.”
“Now
we need to decide who will go on the journey tomorrow,” Thormdall said as he
walked around the table.
Steve’s
voice rang out. “Wait,” he said as people raised their hands. All eyes turned
to him as he stood up. “Thormdall,” he said, “this is the kind of mission we
are trained for. It is what we do; it is how we make a living. The people of
Ulfor are great warriors, there’s no mistaking that, but most of the year
you’re simply farmers.”
“So
what are you suggesting?” asked Thormdall.
“Let
me explain. As I said you guys are farmers, but,” he held out his hands, “I
take nothing away from your skills in battle. My friends and I, we are
soldiers, we are warriors, it’s all we do, we train for nothing else than to
fight.”
The
people around the great table looked impressed. The ability to fight or to do
battle was something they respected. It was a hard life and the ability to
defend oneself, one’s family or one’s village from threat was a good thing,
even a noble thing.
“Having
said that,” Steve continued, “my soldiers and I work in a specialised unit. We
don’t always fight. In fact a lot of our work is observation. We sit at close
range and watch the enemy then pass this information back to friendly forces
that wait to advance or attack. But another of our specialties is hostage
retrieval.”
“What
do you mean by hostage?” asked Thormdall
“A
hostage is a captive, like Berag. We are trained to deal with situations like
this. We can find him, get into wherever he is being held, neutralise his
captors, retrieve him and get out very fast. The whole thing would be over in a
matter of minutes. It is something we are particularly good at.”
“Then
it is settled. You will lead the raid! Now who will go with these warriors?”
asked Thormdall.
As
hands came up again, Steve cut in.
“Hang
on, Thormdall, I’m not sure you understand. You see we work in small numbers.
We make less noise that way and reduce the risk of being seen. However I would
ask one thing. In order to successfully pull this off, we will need clothes
that will help us blend in.” He pointed to his own multi-cam uniform. “This
will not do. We need clothes that will not arouse suspicion in villages or
towns. Clothes that people will not take a second look at, old crappy clothes
if you have them.”
“I
do not understand what you mean when you say crappy, but I am sure we can find
some old clothes for you. Are you sure you do not require anyone to go with
you?”
“We’re
sure,” said Steve. He could see the disgruntled looks on the faces of some of
the warriors. “Remember, once you’ve got your chieftain back, a revenge raid
will be planned. You’ll get your chance for revenge,” Steve said, hoping this
would subdue them.
*
* * * *
When
the meeting was over, people moved back to their houses and began to prepare
for the night. Many of the Norse families visited those who had lost a loved
one in the battle. It would be a long night for those who would never again see
their father, husband or son.
Will
watched with interest as food, hunks of meat and bread, was carried out and
tied to the branches of a tree near the great hall. He watched Heleena pass a
loaf of bread to a man up the tree. The food dangled and swung in the breeze
like giant wind charms. These must have been the offerings that Thormdall
requested them to make. Sadness touched him as he thought of the men who had
died today. It made him remember Dave. He had been a fine SASR trooper and was
a great loss to the ranks of the regiment.
Will
went inside to find Marie fussing over Foothark as he sat with a thick cloth
bound to his head. He had been lucky. Had he not slipped and stumbled, the
sword would have cloven into his neck.