Vikingr: Hellraiders

Mouldy grainy bread. Hard Cheese. Salted gammy fish.

It’s all the men have had to eat for the past nine days of rowing from their home in Iceland to the north to the island settled by the Christians. An island long rumoured to be teeming with riches, of gold forged in their holy city in the hot south, gold in their crosses, chalices and icons.

Nine days is good though. Nine was the divine number. Nine days was how long the chief of all gods, of war, poetry, mead, songs, the dead and wisdom, Odin, spent hanging from the neck from the Yggdrasil World Tree, with a spear thrust in his right side, dangling until he learnt the secrets of runes, symbols that could grant magic and blessings, that he taught to the gods and to the few mortals who were worthy.

They were sailing for nine days. The island wasn’t far. And if they landed on the island, drug their longship up the sandy or stony shores on the ninth day, than by Odin, their raid would be blessed. Fortune would be theirs and they would go home on their longship fit to burst with riches and slaves to make strong their already mighty clan.

That was what fifty year old silver maned, grey bearded Chieftain of the Bear Clan, Hjallmar Ulfsson believed. Yes. This was a relatively easy journey compared to others he had taken before, and he was still strong, still mighty and powerful in sinew and form despite his years. The chiselled lines about his eyes only and the wrinkles about him only added to the burly, aged look about him with his grown beard, moustache and braided silver hair. Save for both his eyes intact, Hjallmar favoured himself to be Odin come again. All old chieftains favoured themselves to be like Odin, wise, mighty and strong. Odin was said to have sacrificed one of his eyes to the well of Knowledge guarded by Mimir, his uncle in Jotunheim, a small price to pay for boundless knowledge and wisdom beyond the nine realms that sprung from the roots and branches of the World Tree.

For his younger warriors, of differing ilks and builds and strengths, there were others to idolise too. The storm god Thor for his hammer and his strength showed himself in the fiery red haired, red bearded Magnus, who wielded the sword and shield, as well as in his older brother, the shaven pated, thick bearded and axe wielding giant Bjorn. The shrewd and cunning Loki, the trickster god whose cursed children would one day bring the end of all the realms come Ragnarok, showed himself in the scraggly black haired Olaffur Olafsson, who wielded a sword in his right hand and a dagger in the left. The fair faced Freyr for his bravery and skill with his sword, and Heimdall for his vigilance and unwavering loyalty showed their qualities the most in Ulf Ulfforsson, the grey haired and gaunt cheeked tower of strength and discipline, and the eldest and most solemn member of the raiders. Each of his men, some to a passing resemblance, others as clear as day emulated these warrior gods and half giants who dwelled in the realm of the Gods in Asgard.

And then there was Tyr. None of the raiders emulated the one-armed god of justice and war, but Hjallmar had always liked him. Tyr was different. In that while Thor saw to the annihilation of giants and beasts with his brute force, and Odin won his battles by guile, meddling with mortal and giant affairs as well as his strength, Tyr was known for his honour and his nobility.

It was Tyr who Hjallmar enjoyed hearing his tribe's skald sing of as a child. Tyr who loved wolves and was a god of war like Odin, but also of the law and justice. Tyr who never shied from the right thing, from doing what was honourable. No matter how grave the price. No matter how severe the cost.

Tyr was what all chieftains strove to be. It was Tyr, who Hjallmar also hoped to emulate much as Odin, in his rule as Chieftain.

Hjallmar came to be chieftain when he entered his thirties. The old Chieftain, Hreidmar Fafnirsson, who claimed himself to be the son of a dragon, brought about the end of his own violent and cruel reign when he led a costly attack against the Huns to the east, seeking plunder and further glory for the clan. The campaign was costly, and too many young men died. It was this son of the dragon who believed that he was Sigurd reborn, destined to avenge his unjust death and the betrayal of his Valkyrie Brynhild, as sung of in the Volsunga Saga, by pre-emptively seeking out the Huns and raiding their lands.

Hreidmar hoped for glory. Instead all he did was kick the bee's nest and watch as like the infuriated swarm, the Huns, descended on his men to avenge their lands and women, hacking them down and torturing the survivors to death.

Hjallmar admired Hreidmar. He liked his vision, his imagination, his desires and dreams. To him, Hreidmar was like a father to him, like many of the clan’s elders were, and he was honoured to be his second, his right-hand man.

But this time Hreidmar had gone too far. When Hreidmar proposed to launch a daring raid at the war camp of the Hun’s most powerful general, hoping that the audacity of their attack would win them the favour of Odin and therefore grant him victory, Hjallmar had to take a stand.

He challenged Hreidmar to a holmgang, single combat to the death clothed with naught but shield and a sword in hand for the right to lead the clan. It was a brief and brutal fight. Hreidmar had gone mad for glory like a dog gone mad, and to him anyone who stood against him and his path was an enemy, regardless of their kinship to him. Bloodbrother or not, protégé or not, Hreidmar fought Hjallmar with ferocity and fierceness, with his wooden shield and sword in hand. Their fight was so fierce that sparks clashed from their swords when they met, and splinters flew from their targes as their swords bit into their shields.

In the end, for all the love he bore to his former chieftain, Hjallmar knew he could only grant the man he saw as father the death he deserved. In this battle, Hjallmar would be given the honour he deserved, for all the risk he posed of losing it in this bloody minded campaign so needlessly sought. Hjallmar’s sword struck hard through Hreidmar’s haired breast, cutting cleanly throug flesh and bone, up to the hilt.

“Valhalla…” was Hreidmar’s last whispered words, before he fell away from Hjallmar’s eyes. He blamed the smoke from the burning village nearby for his tears, as he closed Hreidmar’s eyes for ever.

Then, with his supporters behind him, Hjallmar took his men home, and became chieftain of the Bear Clan.

Since then, Hjallmar made sure to make many changes to his raiders. No women, children, babes at the breast or the elderly would be killed in raids. No girls or any woman of any age was to be ravaged when his raiders won over the villages and lands in their conquests. And finally, no clan or enemy realm was to be attacked without provocation, ever again.

Hjallmar had ruled the clan well and led a good life. He found a purpose for all of his men no matter what their ability. If women wanted to fight and raid too, he let them, provided they were in strength equal to a man. The slaves he took in his conquests were treated with dignity and respect, regardless of the colour of their skin, the tongue they spoke or the gods they worshipped, provided that they followed the rules and did not murder or steal. Those slaves, if they lived as peaceably and respectfully as the rules desired, soon lost their chains and became a member of the clan, being allowed to marry and have land of their own, and join his men on their raids.

Hjallmar soon earned a wife, and by her he had three sons and a girl, now almost full grown and ready to marry and raid. He had raised them well, and held no regrets about his fatherhood and how well he kept them disciplined. He thought of them, thought of their faces and their voices, and held on to them as he huddled by the fires and trekked through treacherous lands, hoping only to return to them with his spoils and hold them in his arms in the warmth of their hearth and home.

But first he would have to win this next raid first.

He looked to his men. Hardened faces under their grey helms and hauberks stared ahead as they rowed their longship, with the scaled dragon on the prow, cutting across the cold sea like a blade.

He saw Ulf, long of beard and thin of build, but the most skilled swordsman he knew. Ulf was his elder and his best friend, who often counselled him on matters of war and wisdom.

He saw Bjorn, the axeman, who wore a bear skin and the top of a brown bear’s head as his helm. A berserkir he was called, for the bear shirt he wore, along with his shorter brother, Magnus who wore a black wolf skin and upper head in a similar fashion on his mane of red hair, and so was named an ulfhednar.

In his small party, owing to the small size of the island, Hjallmar only needed his best. He had fair-haired Petur, his best archer and tracker, and Olafur his fastest scout, who he paired together to scout the lands when horses weren’t available. These were his elite men, atop his small company of polemen, axemen and sword and shield wearers. The plan for this small Christian island to the North of the land of the Picts would be a lightning raid. In and out, kill any who take arms in worthy battle and take as much plunder as possible.

Hallbjorn had no interest in slaves today. They had plenty at home earning their freedom and their right to start a new life in his clan. This time it would only be gold, stolen from the cold stone-paved buildings where the priests huddled with their men like frightened sheep while he and his wolf pack came and took what they pleased, and woe be to any who tried to stop them.

As if the gods has heard Hjallmar’s unspoken prayer, the clouds parted and the land they has spent days rowing for appeared before their eyes. A great cheer came up amongst the men. They would be done with this raid and home to their fires and mead within the fortnight.

But when they did arrive, and pulled up their longship so that its prow sat snugly in the stony pebbled beach, no resistance came. On the sentry posts, gating the entrance into the green pastures beyond, no shivering sentry cried out in alarm or shot his arrows at the party’s feet to force them to state their business. The braziers were long burnt out, and the flags of the outpost hung limp and still in the air. No wind seemed to blow on the island, and indeed the sail of their ship did fall slack once they had reached the island.

Hjallmar looked to Ulf, searching the old man’s weathered face for any expression that betrayed suspicion or doubt. Ulf was an experienced man who was a warlord in his time before stepping down to let Hreidmar take the mantle of Chieftain. He had tried to council the son of the dragon for caution and restraint, and ending up befriending Hjallmar in their mutual hopes to abandon the senseless campaign against the Huns. Since Hjallmar became chieftain, he kept Ulf close for his much-valued wisdom and judgement.

“What say you, old friend? A trap?”

“No.” murmured the solemn old warrior. “The fires would be freshly dampened and still smoking, as if the watchmen rushed to conceal themselves. It is careless to leave them completely extinguished at any time, especially on a day as foggy as Niflheim. Unless they spied us through the mist, and had ample warning to prepare a deception, I can only conclude that their guard is down, or they have no guards to begin with. I have been wrong before though. Only way to know for sure, is to keep going.”

“And spring the trap.” Brown haired and bearded Bjorn growled. “Perfect.”

“We’ve fought our way out of worse, brother.” Magnus spoke, rolling his shoulders, his red beard burning bright in the foggy sun. Much of the island was indeed covered by fog, making any attempts to scout ahead futile.

“Stay close. Keep an eye out for any tricks.” Hjallmar growled, and with his winged helm doffed, his black cloak ringed with wolf fur secured and his spear couched, he led his men into the misty lands.

Despite initially keeping their ears peeled, the group and men soon descended to talking amongst themselves.

“The church should be further inland. Only monks with their sceptres and metal clubs to stop us if we are lucky.” Black haired Olaffson suggested.

“So much for being peaceful.” Blond bearded Petur sneered. “They preach weird words and teachings, like to turn the other cheek and forgive a man his slights. Weaklings and fools with hearts like women.”

“And yet they wield clubs and have holy sceptres like maces. Not all monks are just gonna lie down and let us take their treasure.” Olaffur replied.

“Probably because other clans kill the monks who surrender their treasure anyway. Only so long a peaceful people can be bloodied before they decide to bloody their foes back.” Bjorn whispered over his shoulder.

“Quiet!” Hjallmar growled and raised his spear to halt his men. “I see the church's spire through the fog. Ready yourselves. Bear, Wolf, do not unchain yourselves until I say so. We will not invite the disfavour of the Christian God if we can avoid it by shedding the blood of his sheep.”

“As you say, Chieftain.” Bjorn growled.

To unchain was to let loose his berserkers. Bjorn and Magnus had been especially trained as shamans, to enter a frenzied, bloodthirsty state that was truly mighty and terrifying to behold. This berserker trance would help them stave off injury, and inflict the mightiest of blows before falling to their enemy’s blows, taking as many with them as they can.

Hjallmar used the word ‘unchain’ appropriately. It was in relation to the myth of Fenrir, the great wolf destined to kill Odin in the End Times. He was said to be chained in a cave, struggling against the bonds that hold him fast, until one day he will break free, and swallow the sun and the moon in his wrath.

Such days, Hjallmar hoped, were as such that he hoped never to see in his lifetime, but he would be ready for it, nonetheless.