Olvarsson: A Short Tale

Frode stood on the cliff edge and watched over his home. The village he’d grown up in had changed a lot over the last 15 years. As he looked down on the little piece of Midgard that he called his own, Frode began to notice something wasn’t right. The wind blew harsh and, using his hand as cover for his eyes, he tried to get a better view.

It slashed through the air as a hot knife does in butter. The axe found itself buried in a shield maiden’s skull in a split second, and was pulled out just as quickly. The village was under attack. Ulf blew his horn, signalling for his men to start ransacking the homesteads of the dead and the surrendered. Frode heard the horn too and, for him, it was a signal to rush home. He mounted his horse with unbelievable speed and spurred it into a rapid gallop.

“Men, do not let anyone live. Frode Olvarsson will pay with the blood of his people for what he did to my father.” Ulf barked before he, and his men, breached the village defences. Frode was halfway down the mountain when the screams of the innocent began. His fists tightened around the reins.

Ulf let his men attack whoever they please. They weren’t kind. They didn’t respect Frode’s people. But Ulf ignored everyone. He had his sights set on a specific target and was making his way to the longhall.

As he stood before it, he smiled and let out a little chuckle. He readied his sword and kicked in the wooden door. “Astrid! Do not be afraid. I’m only here to pay your husband a visit and teach him a lesson!” Ulf walked into the dark hall and looked around. He checked under each table to ensure that Astrid wasn’t hiding there from him. “I do need your help though. If you would do that for me… I might stop my men from touching you when I hold your husband’s head in my hands.” Ulf called out. There was no response. “Astrid!” Ulf bellowed, getting fed up with her hiding, “Come out!” Almost instantly after speaking, he heard several quick and quiet footsteps rush towards him from behind. He turned just in time to be caught by the head of an axe. The iron crushed his nose and he stumbled to the floor. His blade flew across the floor as he landed. “Argh!” He cried out as wiped the dripping blood from his face. “You will not kill my husband. He’ll kill you.” Astrid stood over Ulf with an axe in her hands. Ulf sniggered at her comments. He admired her optimism but he was determined to kill Frode and not even the Gods could stop him from doing so. “We’ll see.” He swept her legs from under her and caught her as she fell. He pinned her against the wooden floors of the hall. His blood dripped slowly onto her face. Ulf smiled as he held her in place, despite her squirming. “It’s a shame you had to act as you did, Astrid. Now your husband won’t be here to witness the butchering of his wife.” Ulf moved Astrid’s hands together above her head and used one hand to hold them both. With his free hand, Ulf slowly reached for Astrid’s axe. He smiled all the while.

Frode finally reached the village. As he rode through, Frode swung his sword and killed all of Ulf’s men that were in his way. Some were decapitated by his blade, others sliced open, and the rest were skewered. Frode knew Ulf’s game and rushed straight to the longhall: his home.

As he burst through the doors, he saw the horror that Ulf had left for him. His wife lay in a pool of her own blood, missing her limbs. Frode’s lip quivered as his brow furrowed. He was filled with conflicting emotions of sorrow and rage. His grip became tighter on his sword as he knelt by Astrid’s corpse and gave her a final kiss. “Olvarsson.” A voice from the shadows spoke. Frode stood up and scowled. “You took my father from me, so I took your wife. All that’s left is for one of us to rob the other of our own lives now.” Frode stayed silent. He took a few small steps closer to Ulf. “She begged for you to save her, do you know that?” Frode only got angrier at Ulf’s words. “She begged for you to crash through the doors and kill me. You were only a few minutes late. You could’ve saved her, Olvarsson.” Frode finally snapped. He jumped over the table and swung his blade at Ulf, who caught it with Astrid’s axe. Ulf chuckled as he came face to face with a fiery Frode. “Did I finally get to you?” He threw Frode back and charged. Their blades clashed and sparks flew as the iron collided. Frode continued swinging and slashing relentlessly. His rage fuelled his attacks and the adrenaline pumping in his veins stopped him from tiring. The same could not be said for Ulf. With each blow of Frode’s that he defended, Ulf got more tired. His arms became worn down and his defence broke, but Frode’s strikes didn’t land. Ulf rolled out of the way and to the foot of Frode’s throne.

“You put up a good fight, Olvarsson.” Ulf chuckled. “Now, finish it.” He dropped the blood-stained axe and closed his eyes. A smirk slowly crawled onto his face. “Kill me. End all of this.” Frode stood silently and tightened his grip. He wanted to do it so badly. He wanted to cut Ulf’s head off there and then. Slowly, painfully, driving his blade from one side of his neck to the other. Maybe, he thought, he’d stop in the middle when Ulf was still alive and maim him in another manner to prolong his pain. But as he raised his blade to deliver this gory end, he stopped himself. “Your men are all dead, Ulf.”

Outside was a bloody graveyard. The village’s defenders had killed the few attackers that remained after Frode’s slaughter. Ulf was all that remained.

“I’m not going to kill you here.” Frode threw his sword down, and it found a place in the centre of Ulf’s foot. His breaths sped up as he tried to hide the immense pain that was shooting through his body. “You’re going on trial. The people will decide your fate.” And so they did. The surviving villagers of Austurthviet came together in the longhall and voted upon Ulf’s fate. Unsurprisingly, he got one of the worst imaginable. He and his men had slaughtered fathers, husbands, sons, brothers, sisters, wives, mothers and children. They didn’t care. They wanted to irk Frode and they did.

“People of Austurthviet, today, I bring you here so you can see justice for those that Ulf…” Frode went quiet for a moment before debuting Ulf’s new name, “the Butcher killed when he attacked our settlement.” Flames illuminated the night as Frode prepared the ceremony. This wasn’t a necessity for something like this, but Frode felt it was necessary this time. He spread the pig’s blood across his face like warpaint before picking up the red-hot axe. A smile graced Frode’s face as he knelt beside Ulf the Butcher. “I pray to the Gods that you suffer now and cry out in pain. You don’t deserve Valhalla. No, the Gods have reserved a special place in Hel.” Frode got back to his feet and made his way behind the tied up Ulf. His arms were stretched out wide and his bare back was exposed. No more words were spoken. Frode raised the red-hot axe and pressed it along Ulf’s spine. He dug it in deeper and began to cut him open.

Ulf tried his best not to show his pain but, as Frode began to shatter his rib cage from behind, he broke. Ulf yelled and yelled before passing out. This brought a sick smile to Frode’s face. “To Odin. We offer Ulf the Butcher.” He whispered as he cut out Ulf’s lungs and finished the blood eagle ritual.

Ulf was strung up high with his back opened as if wings of an eagle. Frode stood beneath him, covered in his blood, and chuckled at the sight. He turned to the people of his village and raised his arms. “Justice has been served! A sacrifice to the Gods has been made! May we celebrate! Skål!” The crowd cheered. Frode and the villagers went off to the longhall to celebrate, leaving Ulf strung up, cut open, and free for the birds to feast on. The moon cast its pale light on Austurthviet that night as Mani watched over them.