The Twilight Warrior (The Drengr Røkkr Sagas Book 1), page 2
“You’re lucky he ate that herd of goats before we arrived. Otherwise, he would make his supper of your head,” I joke.
“C-C-Call him off, please,” the man pleads, his voice shaking and barely audible.
I start to call Fenrir’s name but stop myself. It will be difficult enough to explain a monstrous, blue wolf, but to tell these men, men I do not intend to kill, that this is Fenrir, the Hound of Helheim, the Bane of Odin, would be laughably ill-advised. They will forget me soon enough, but I doubt they will forget coming face to face with the Wolf-God.
“Blarulf! Release him!” I command.
Fenrir steps away, clearly displeased with my lack of cleverness, his disgruntled look saying, “Blarulf? Blue wolf? That is the best you can come up with? You are a moron.”
“How did you come by such a monstrous beast?” the man says as he comes to his feet.
“We met fighting the Franks.”
“You were at the Battle of the Sees? It was a great victory. That will teach the Franks not to cross the Elbe!” says the other.
“So, you fought in the battle, too?” I say, lowering my sword from his neck but keeping it at the ready.
“Well, no. We are billeted here. But if I were there, I would have killed Charlemagne myself. Is it true that he fell in the battle?”
“Charlemagne was not even there. But the Franks will come again, and perhaps Charlemagne will be leading them. You may yet get your chance,” I laugh. “You should probably help your friend before he bleeds to death,” I add, pointing my sword to the third man still lying on the ground clutching his thigh.
“But what of your wolf? Blarulf you call him?” the other asks. He is a bit too persistent for my liking.
“Like I said, we met in the battle. He comes from the east, I think. I understand there are vast packs of them, larger than him, roaming the steppe lands feeding on Rus. In fact, I think Blarulf may be a runt.”
“What’s he doing this far west?”
“Following the blood, I should imagine. A big battle means lots of dying men to feast on. And not just the flesh, he devours their souls as well.”
The man’s face turns white. Fenrir erupts in a chuckling growl.
“Now, if you could direct me to the nearest olstofa, I could use a drink.”
The man points me to a long, timber hall across from a livery stable. “You never gave us your name,” he says as I walk away.
I turn and say, “I am called Asger. Remember that name.”
As I continue toward the tavern, I overhear the men discussing their encounter saying, “Did you see the size of that wolf? And the blue fur? … I heard those things live in the east. What was it doing here? … And what of that poor soul it was chasing. Probably a farmer … It must have killed his family … Good thing we ran it off. It could have slaughtered everyone in town … What farmer?”
Hel’s curse is certainly effective. I held a sword to a man’s throat, yet he forgot me in seconds. “A farmer,” I laugh, shaking my head. Will Inger remember me? I must believe she will. My wife, my beautiful goddess, she will remember me. Love is stronger than any curse. And, if Inger remembers me, then perhaps the curse will be over.
I have Fenrir hide in the livery and tell him not to kill any horses. I enter the olstofa and order an ale from a buxom, young woman with ratty, blond hair and a scar across her cheek. I search the room and see a table of Norsemen, soldiers like me, clothes still stained with the blood of battle. I recognize one of them as Eric Halvorsen, the seventh son of Jarl Halvorsen. We’ve known each other since we were boys and have raided together on several occasions. Eric would know me if anyone would.
I sit on the bench across from Eric. He is regaling the others with a story of his bravery in the battle. Eric is always one for embellishment. He has a gift for storytelling, and all around him are enthralled by his tale, erupting in boisterous praise and laughter as he recounts in detail how he cut down twenty-two Franks. I always thought he would have made a good skald were he in any way versed in the history and traditions of our people.
“Last time I heard that story, it was only seventeen Franks,” I say, making my presence known to the group, who burst out laughing.
“And next time it will be thirty-five,” one of them laughs.
“I think forty-four,” Eric says. “It is a much more lyrical number.”
“And much less believable,” another says, evoking another round of hearty laughter from us all.
“It’s good to see you, my friend,” Eric says to me. “I thought you were lost.”
“You know me, Eric?” I ask, hopefully.
“Yes, I know you. Of us all, you were always the most cunning,” Eric responds, having heard my question rather more as a statement. “When we were boys, the lot of us would get into so much trouble. Once we took a boat and sailed all the way to Skien. We broke into a store house and stole everything we could carry, candles, skins, tools, and gold, a ton of gold, gold coins, gold goblets, gold trinkets, like this one,” Eric continues and pulls a gold crescent moon from under his shirt that hung on a chain around his neck.
“We each got one, see?”, I say, holding up mine, finding it had been hooked into a crease on the breast of my leather armor, the chain broken and dangling. It is a precious charm of good luck. I am fortunate not to have lost it. “And don’t forget, a barrel of fish,” I add. Eric’s eyes light up.
“Yes! And a barrel of fish!” Eric laughs.
“You see, Eric told his father, the jarl, that we were going fishing,” I say. “It’s a good thing Bjorn remembered to get the fish.”
“It didn’t matter much. Father found out soon enough. ‘We don’t steal from our own,’ he said. Then he whipped me soundly and made us take everything back. Well, not everything.” Eric twists his golden trophy in his fingers.
“We kept the fish, too,” I laugh. “Our first raid. To the Clan of the Crescent Moon!” I say hoisting my glass in a toast. Everyone joins in, laughing and drinking to our adolescent hijinks.
I feel truly alive again. Eric remembers me. The curse is not real, and soon I will be home with Inger, Gyda, and Brant. I know it has all been a dream. Hel, Fenrir, and the curse have all just been the machinations of an addled brain. I think, perhaps, that I suffered a blow to the head in battle. That would explain everything I have experienced all these days since. Tomorrow I shall board a boat, sail down the river, and then, home.
CHAPTER THREE
Blarulf!
A monstrous dragon head emerges from the morning mist, then vanishes. A second, even more hideous head, and a third, eyes gleaming with bloodlust, appear for a nightmarish moment before retreating into the hazy shroud. The great hydra glides in near silence, its many heads bobbing in and out of the fog searching for prey, its advancement marked only by the faint, rhythmic splashing of its hundred legs upon the river. I sit in the belly of the beast, pulling hard on my oar, as my drakkar longship and thirteen others make their way down the Peene, past Anklam toward the Szczecin Lagoon. From there, we will head north through the Peenestrom and enter the Baltic Sea at Peenemunde.
My friend, Eric, captains the rudder. To my despair, he does not remember drinking and laughing with me in the tavern. He knows me as a childhood friend only by the moon charm around my neck, but he doesn’t know my name, even though I have told him a dozen times over the last several days. Likewise, the other men I am sailing with, some with whom I stood shoulder to shoulder in the shield wall, do not recognize me and even question whether I am truly a Norseman. I was so sure I was free of Hel’s curse, but I know now that even those I have known all my life, those I have drank with, raided with, bled with, have no memory of me. I can only hope against hope that Inger will know me, but I am beginning to fear that perhaps she won’t.
Fenrir has taken a place in the bow, his enormous head resting on the gunwale, his mouth hanging open, his tongue flapping in the headwind. At least one of us is enjoying the journey. I recall as we were leaving, a Norseman complained that having Fenrir in the bow would cause the ship to ride too low at the head, making for difficult rowing and potentially foundering it. Fenrir removed his tongue with a lightning strike from his claw before biting the man’s arm off. No one else said a word.
At Anklam, six more ships join our flotilla, laden with riches from Charlemagne’s decimated army, booty raided from the local populace, and the recompense from Dragowit, the king of our Wendish allies. We have nearly two hundred slaves, many of which have been put to the oars. The women are passed around like skins of ale.
We are among the last of the victors of the Battle of the Sees to leave for home. A hundred of our number are remaining behind to build forts in the west along the Elbe. I know it is a fool’s errand. Charlemagne has already established fortifications as far east as Lubeck in his continuing war against the Saxons. The battle we just won was against an advance guard of Franks who we vastly outnumbered. Still, two thirds of our army fell, most of them Wendish tribesmen. Should Charlemagne decide to move against the Wends again, he will surely conquer them.
At the Szczecin Lagoon, Eric decides to sail east across the lagoon and raid some trading skiffs. He loves raiding more than ale and women and never misses an opportunity to secure more riches, and more importantly, increase his reputation. He takes three ships, offloading much of the cargo onto those heading north. Fights break out among the men for whom should get to sail on this expedition, but I suspect much of it is for show. The men are weary from the battle, and none want to sail with Fenrir, for I have decided to go along as well, telling everyone I wish to release Blarulf, as he is known to my comrades, back into the Rusland to roam among his kind. In truth, I believe spending more time with Eric may jog his memory of me.
We take two trading skiffs within an hour, piled high with skins and silver, but the treacherously shallow lagoon is proving difficult to navigate, even for our shallow-draft longships. Our ship runs aground on a shoal, the bow driven deep into the muck. Perhaps the armless, tongueless Norseman was right – Fenrir’s huge size is proving to be a detriment. Fenrir jumps from the ship and immediately sinks deep into the mud. He growls and snaps about angrily at his dilemma, biting off the dragon bowpiece as he struggles to free himself. The force of his blow shudders the ship loose and the oarsmen pull it clear of the shoal.
We are so focused on freeing our ship, we do not notice eight skiffs approaching, four of which are pulling two large, flat-bottomed barges full of soldiers. We sailed into an ambush. We pull hard on the starboard oars, while the rowers on the port side push forward on theirs. The other two ships do the same. Our longship turns like a grist wheel, but we are too slow. A skiff collides with our drakkar amidships, splitting the port side with its metal ram and killing an oarsman. Our ship lists heavily to starboard from the impact, and Eric is thrown overboard. Men from the skiff board our longship, swords and hammers flailing, as our ship rights and begins filling with water.
I draw my sword and enter the fray as another skiff pulls a barge alongside us. The soldiers jump onto our stern and attack my comrades from behind. I hack my way aft, but there is little room to maneuver on such a narrow ship, which is violently rocking in the pitch of battle. I duck a blow from one of our attackers and thrust my sword upward through his belly. A torrent of blood squirts from the wound as I pull my sword out, his heart discharging its contents with its last beat. I push him overboard as a sword comes down on my shoulder, cleaving deep into my chest. The blow knocks me backwards, and my blood sprays my enemy in the face. He stands over me, wiping his eyes clean so he can gloat over his kill. The surprised look on his face when I rise up, unhurt, will be a lasting memory. I separate his head from his body with a backhand stroke.
I glance momentarily at Fenrir. He is still stuck in the mud but is snapping and flailing at another of the skiffs, the soldiers of which are hacking at him with swords and shooting him with arrows. A net flies from the skiff and ensnares Fenrir. As he struggles to free himself, I see Eric swim to him and start cutting the net away with his knife. I chuckle silently as I think of what the immortal, blue wolf will do to those men once he gets loose.
I return to the battle, but it is clear we are losing. Most of the Norsemen are trapped between two groups of attackers, and they can’t even form a shield defense since most of their shields are still hanging on the side of our ship. I see an opportunity to turn the tide, so I jump onto the skiff that rammed us, and then to the barge, bypassing the mass of battling men. My gambit works, and I cut down three soldiers on the barge before anyone realizes I am there. Another Norseman duplicates my feat, and together we move through the enemy like a scythe. I am wounded many times, but I keep pushing forward. My comrade dies gloriously doing battle with four men, but he is replaced by two more Norsemen with shields who managed to board the barge.
Though vastly outnumbered, we now have the advantage of putting our attackers in a vice. Many of them, believing there are more than just three of us on the barge to their rear, foolishly turn their backs on the remaining Norsemen in our longship. My comrades grab up their shields and begin pushing back against the horde, throwing many of them overboard. Within seconds, it becomes a rout, as the skiffs pulling the barge cut their ropes and start rowing away. The skiff that rammed us likewise tries to pull away, but we overtake it quickly. My remaining comrades and I board the skiff and we retreat, leaving our foundering drakkar and the barge piled with dead. Several enemy soldiers remain, but they are stranded.
We row our skiff toward the other two longships which are engaged in a heated battle. From a distance, it appears the others are barely holding their own against the horde, but our arrival will soon change their fortune. We ram our skiff into the other barge, causing many enemy soldiers to stumble and fall. We don’t give them a chance to get back to their feet as we pour onto the barge and hack them to pieces. We form a small shield wall and push the few remaining on the barge into the water. Their barge being captured, our enemies have no choice but to retreat. They swarm onto their skiffs like roaches and row away.
A blue blur flashes above our heads as we celebrate our victory. Fenrir has extricated himself from the muck and is bounding, ship to ship, into the battle. He lands on a retreating enemy skiff and rampages through it. Twenty or more men are decapitated instantly, their heads popping into the air like a juggler’s balls. The enemy dispatched, Fenrir leaps for another skiff. It is a magnificent jump, sixty yards at least, but he falls short, splashing into the water. He starts to swim after his prey, but our jubilant laughter at his failure stops him short. He turns and swims toward us, his eyes glaring. I have seen that look before; Fenrir is not amused by our mirth. I hope he returns to his normal state of disgruntlement before he reaches us. If he kills everyone, there won’t be anyone left to row.
“Blarulf! Blarulf!” a spontaneous cheer goes up. “Blarulf!” The men, taking account of Fenrir’s actions, have decided he’s one of us. “Blarulf!”
As Fenrir approaches, I still see the sternness in his furrowed brow, but his eyes are softer, and he is trying very hard not to smile. I think maybe this is the first time anyone has ever paid him homage. “Blarulf!” I shout with the others, pumping my fist in the air.
Our victory comes at a cost. One ship is lost, and the other two are severely damaged; thankfully, they are both still seaworthy. We’ve lost almost a third of our number, mostly from my longship. We recover Eric, who was standing on what was left of the skiff that attacked Fenrir. From the condition of the enemies’ bodies, it is clear Fenrir did not take kindly to being attacked and netted. We recover what valuables we can from the wrecked ships, enslave the surviving enemy soldiers, gather our slain brethren onto the enemy barges, and set them afire. They will be feasting in Odin’s great hall this evening while we make our way to Peenemunde to rejoin the rest of the fleet.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Traveler
A giant snake, a quarter rôst in length, its ragged, gray scales hanging loosely on its rusted, iron spine, slithers up a muddy road toward the gates of the city. Its progress is slowed by fear and exhaustion as it struggles to climb the dike that marks the perimeter of the city’s defenses. Each rib of its emaciated body holds a head hung in defeat, the visage of each etched with the miserable foreknowledge of a future of harsh servitude. The slaves, chained together by collars which cut bloody grooves into their necks, pass through the gates on their way to the auction block.
Peenemunde is our final stop before our journey home across the Baltic Sea. Eric says he wants to sail out in two days, but I suspect it may take a bit longer, our ships having been damaged and in need of repair. There are some thirty-seven drakkar longships and at least as many trading knarrs assembled here, most of which are already rigged and crewed, but have been held back while the jarls argue about the division of the spoils. Eric, though not a jarl, will be representing his father, Jarl Halvorsen at the Thing. His older brother, Olin, was supposed to have been there, but had been mortally wounded in the battle and succumbed to his injuries the day before we arrived. Out of respect for Olin and Jarl Halvorsen, the other jarls and sons of jarls have waited for Eric’s arrival.
Eric barely takes notice of his brother’s death, requesting only that the body be wrapped for transport back to Lagarvik; he doesn’t even wish to see it. I am not surprised by Eric’s reaction. There has always been great competition between all of Jarl Halvorsen’s sons, and Eric has been chasing Olin’s legacy his entire life. Perhaps now Eric will find favor with his father, but I doubt it. Eric’s reputation is damaged with his ill-advised foray into the Szczecin Lagoon, and the men don’t trust him now.
Strangely, in his near defeat, Eric gained the admiration of one of us – Fenrir. It seems the Wolf-God is thankful for Eric’s intervention when he was trapped in the net and now follows Eric around like a puppy. Occasionally, he looks at me from Eric’s side, saying clearly that this is a man worthy of his company, whereas I am not. It does not matter; Fenrir is bound to me, and he knows it. He must go where I go, and his petty sideways glances only make me laugh.
