Hello and welcome to this very special post on Track of Words, where I’m delighted to publish a fantastic piece of original fiction from a wonderful author – Valkyrie by Danie Ware. A bleak tale of the Viking invasion of England, it’s a powerful story that hearkens back to the oral tradition of storytelling – try reading it out loud for full effect!
“In the names of Frey and of Freya,” he said, “tell me where the creature lies.”
***
There was a time under the stars, my Lord, under the Eyes of Thiazzi, when we were a warlike people, proud of bearing and unforgiving of sword-arm. In the name of our own strength, we raided lands of warmth and fertility. Borne by dragonships, we came first to Lindisfarne, a place of the White Christ and of peace, and there, the words were first spoken that later soaked our history in blood: ‘From the fury of the Norsemen, O Lord, deliver us’.
But the monks of Lindisfarne were not without strength of their own. Facing us, they called upon their ‘Christ’, and they fought us fearlessly with staves and hoes, and, when those weapons were broken, with their bare hands.
One among them fought with more.
We remember the name as ‘Caradoc’, Lord, and he was honoured as bard and warrior, yet he bore no blade. Invoked, perhaps, by the prayers of those we slew, he was a beast, savage and terrible, as powerful as a giant of Jotunheim. His rage rent the very sky. Before him, the fury of the Norsemen was less than a breath of wind.
With a single swipe of his great claws, he tore the head from Thorgrimn’s father, Jarl and dragonship captain. With the chanting ranks of monks behind him, he advanced upon the Jarl’s barely bearded son.
His hand white upon his spear, the young Thorgrimn stood fast, denying the fear that unmanned his shipmates. He was but a youth, unbloodied in battle, yet he faced the beast unflinching. It drew nigh, its breath reeking, and the cold of Hel was in its eyes.
Then, light blinded the boy. Recoiling, he saw…
He saw a maiden, Lord, the most beautiful of his young life. She stood strong, armed and armoured; she stood between himself and the beast. Standing astride his father’s body, she fought the creature as if she were lightning itself. And the beast drew back from her. It quailed at her presence. The young warrior’s heart burned at the sight of her; she turned, and for a moment, her eyes of light met his. Then she held out her hand to the soul of his father, his Jarl, and was gone.
And lo!, the beast was but a man, his garments plaid and his legs bare. Still bedazzled, Thorgrimn’s spear slipped from his hand. He wavered, not from fear of the fallen creature, but from the Valkyrie’s glory. And even as Caradoc fled, Thorgrimn did not land the killing blow. Before he had recovered his weapon, the beast had gone.
And so, the Vikings came to England.
The slaughter of Lindisfarne was followed by more and greater victories, years and decades. Thorgimn grew from that bedazzled youth to a man of great strength, Jarl and captain as his father had been. He fought always at the forefront of his men, hurling himself into battle with a fearlessness that seemed Gods-given. His sword was an icon of might to his foes, his shield a great wall that defended his friends and kinsmen. They sang songs for him, and named him ‘Earthshaker’ as he strode colossal, slaying foes to left and right. All stood in his shadow. Guided by his inspiration, his men became ‘bare-sark’, frenzied; they matched his rage and bloodlust.
But Thorgimn’s saga-might was not born of courage; it was not glory he sought. Desperation spurred him. A fire burned within his soul and the only blood to slake it would be his own. For while his sword-arm belonged to Odin, and his body was shared by many, his heart dwelled still at the monastery of Lindisfarne, and with the Valkyrie that, even now, waited upon his father in Valhalla.
He had wavered before her. He was unworthy.
His thoughts bitter, Thorgrimn grew older. He fought in many battles, and bore many great scars, but death did not find him. He was hailed as ‘Sigurd’, unslayable. Many times, as his knees stiffened and his eyes blurred, he dreamed of the great beast Caradoc, and of the death of his father. And with the creature, as if intertwined, there came the blazing light of the Valkyrie, her shoulders as strong as his own. And when the dreams troubled him beyond bearing, he went to his Godi, and pleaded with him for guidance. “In the names of Frey and of Freya,” he said, “tell me where the creature lies.”
So did Alfin Godi, priest and seer, consult the wisdom of his runestones. And so did Thorgrimn Sigrunson make his final raid – into the open desolation of Gwynneth, Lord, to the land we now call Wales.
In the twilight of his life, and with twilight surrounding him, Thorgrimn came at last to the wild lands. The air was cold and thin; a great cairn rose before him and sharp, grey stones split the darkening sky. For the second time, fear coiled in his heart – all his life, he had striven to be worthy of this moment.
Thus, he stood finally before the great stones of Bryn Cader, and he cried his challenge to the emptiness. He had the voice of a Hersir, Lord, a commander of men. His power echoed from the very rocks.
And the beast came forth from the cairn.
It was terrible to behold, half-man, half-animal; it was a creature of filth and darkness. In the half-light, the red of its fur had been leached to shadow, but its eyes still burned unhallowed. It did not fear the blade that Thorgrimn bore. It bared its great, yellow teeth and revealed to him a bloodlust that far surpassed his own. And Thorgrimn’s hand upon his sword shook, his shield wavered. Beneath him his knees shivered like a child’s.
Yet he defied his terror. He raised his blade, and called upon his battle-father. His sword and shield were as friends to him, he knew their movements and their strengths; he knew how to wield them.
The great beast crouched, snarling. It came closer and he saw that its muzzle was greyed, its fur touched with frost, its claws split and broken. Perhaps they had aged together.
He struck! There were none to see him, only the beast’s orange eyes, whetted as a keen knife. Caradoc fought with the strength of Fenris himself; the lindenboards of Thorgrimn’s shield were rent and broken, his arm ached from the blows. Yet Thorgrimn’s broadsword was as swift as his thoughts. He slashed, and slashed again. He tore great wounds in the creature’s shoulders and belly.
They strove as the moon rose, full and white. Thorgrimn shouted aloud, exhilarated by his own strength and skill-at-arms, and impassioned by the glory-dance of the fight they shared. Here was a foe that could take the full force of his unleashed wrath; here, he could prove his worth to Freya’s maidens, the collectors of the slain. He did not fear death, only unworthiness. The sounds in his ears were the wind, crying wild across desolation, the snarling of the creature, the pounding of his own heart. The combat-lust was as a lover to him, he knew how to ride its wave, to exalt at its glory. He roared back at the creature.
But the beast’s wounds closed, their edges melting together as if the stones themselves had healed it. It showed no sign of weakness; it only raged higher, and its claws slashed at him again. It drew in a great breath, and exhaled its foul stink in his face.
Its claws tore his splintered shield from his arm.
Unable to stand under its power, he fell back, drawing his scramasax from his belt. His blade showed the lifeblood of the creature, black as its heart, but it rose unhurt and it snarled its victory through froth-drenched fangs. Thorgrimn’s lungs strained.
Then his knees failed him. He fell before it, his mortality betraying him at last, but his sword still raised. And he looked for her – was he enough? Had he done enough? Would she come for him? But all he saw was the beast, rising in the darkness, bearing the moonlight about it like a great cloak. Its first blow tore his sword from his hand; its second ripped out his throat.
Falling, failing, the despair broke over him like his own blood. He had lost her, she had not come. And true, cold terror closed like a fist about his heart – the terror of the path to Hel. He was unworthy. In the voice of the wind, Garmr the wolf, Hel’s guardian, bayed his name. “Come to me”, the great wolf said. “For I am your eternity.”
In the utter horror of that moment, he knew a great truth, like a white light: without true fear, there can be no true courage.
And her callused hand caught him, Lord, and she took him home.
***
Valkyrie copyright © 2021 by Danie Ware
I’d like to say an enormous thank you to Danie for her generosity in contributing this brilliant story to Track of Words! I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did!
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Great story!