Ulf and the Sword of Thor

Chapter 1

In the dark of night, the Viking ship sailed the North Sea waves. The wind pounded on the hull of the boat and filled the sails. With a fierce look and wide open mouth, the wooden dragonhead on the bow floated above the waves, fending off evil spirits on its journey across the water. Joining in strength, the Vikings pulled the oars, growled and ground their teeth in their effort to keep the ship on the right course, while rain and seawater lashed their faces endlessly. Creaking at the seams from the pressure of millions of tons of water, the longship progressed steadily through the sea towards the north.

At the back of the boat, Harald held his hand at the helm, and stared, his heart full of pain, at the dead body of his best friend, bound to the mast of the longship. From the time they were teenagers, he and Erik had pillaged the coastal villages of England together. They fought back to back, and looked out for each other in their battles against the English. It had always been so easy! The cargoes of slaves and gold they had robbed and taken to their homeland had made them and the other warriors into wealthy men.

With a deep sigh, he turned away from Erik Steinarsson’s dead body, and looked at the treasures they had plundered. Although the contents of the carefully tied bags would make it easier for the people in his village to survive the coming winter, Harald considered the life of his friend a high price to pay.

The leather bags with food, fabrics, gold and silver were strapped to the thwarts on both sides of the vessel to prevent them from rolling across the deck or falling overboard. On the other side of the ship, the prisoners huddled together seeking comfort and warmth. Their wailing and sobbing began to irritate Harald, and he wondered how much more he could take before he threw one of them over board.

He turned his head toward the slaves and caught a glimpse of two blue eyes full of hate. Harald wondered how old the boy could be. The strength in his spindly body was that of a grown man, but judging from his bony arms and legs, the English boy had been a child not too long ago. Harald ignored him, and, as he had done so often in the past day, tried to relive the events in the village wondering if there might have been a chance to prevent the tragedy, and to spare Erik’s family their horrible suffering.

The initial attack had gone smoothly. The morning mist had made them invisible to the coast guards and they had quietly landed on the sandy beach. The Vikings had jumped into the shallow waves and then quietly crept into the center of the village. From there, they had spread out to invade the cottages. The sleeping villagers, all farmers except for one priest, had been taken completely by surprise and were easily overpowered. All resistance was violently nipped in the bud so most of the villagers surrendered immediately, or were easily rounded up and tied down. Then they slayed the cattle and loaded everything of value onto the longship. Huts, barns, houses and the church were ruthlessly set on fire and the prisoners herded onto the ship. The Brits had screamed for mercy, whimpering and falling at the feet of the Vikings, but the latter felt only scorn for their cowardice and laughed in their faces.

Harald, however, was unlike other Viking chieftains who did not hesitate to slaughter an entire village of English men, women, and children. He did not see the point in killing or maiming potential spoils of war. Besides, it was against his principles to kill for no reason; a human trait for which he was scorned by many Vikings and which in the North had led to his nickname: Harald the Soft.

He had given the order to kill as few Englishmen as possible, knowing that those survivors who were not sold on the slave market could work in the fields. And perhaps that was where he had made the big mistake for which he would undoubtedly be held responsible one day. Perhaps they should have followed the lead of other Viking crews and shown no mercy, killing everyone and stealing what they could. Harald should have known that one day they would face someone brave enough to fight back. This time, they had met that person, and by Thor’s beard, he wasn’t even a grown man.

Once again, Harald ran through the events of the previous day in his mind. Somewhere in an out-of-the-way corner of the village, out of sight of the other Vikings, he and Erik were hunting for the loot the villagers often hid in remote huts or underground caves. They torched the empty houses and stables after they had searched through them. Once they were sure that everything of value had been found, Harald wanted to join the others. He called to Erik who threw his burning torch on a thatched roof of a hut. It immediately caught fire, blazing brightly.

Out of nowhere a skinny Englishman emerged from the smoke in the doorway, intent on revenge. The spindly man swung a shovel in front of him like a weapon, but he was no match for Erik, who was twice his size. A few strokes of Erik’s axe killed him, and Erik himself seemed surprised at the bleeding corpse, wondering what had driven the man to seek such a cruel death when he clearly hadn’t had a chance. His axe was stuck in the man’s chest, and when Erik leaned forward to pull the weapon out of the body, he dropped his guard for a moment, turning his back to the door of the hut.

Quiet as a mouse, a boy with red hair and a freckled face crept out of the burning house. He growled like a wolf and ran towards Erik with a pitchfork in front of him, his face contorted with hatred. Completely surprised by the attack, Erik fell on his back. Before Erik or Harald realized what was happening, the boy shouted at the top of his lungs, and with all the power in his body, he thrust the pitchfork into Erik’s chest. Harald ran towards the scene where the horrified boy was staring at Erik’s body convulsing. He slapped the boy against the head, rendering him unconscious, then he fell on his knees in the grass, now red with Erik’s blood, grabbed the hilt of the fork and pulled the weapon out of his friend’s flesh with one mighty wrench.

Erik moaned and faltered: ‘Harald! This is not a glorious end. Valhalla ... the Valkyries ... where are they…?'

‘Hush Erik, save your strength. I'll take you to the Sea Snake. You’ll recover!’

‘No my friend ... too late for me. Niflheim[1] is waiting for me ....’

In the agony of death, Erik’s body shook in spasms, and he coughed out clots of blood. His lungs were punctured and he was choking to death on his own blood.

‘Harald ...’ with wheezing breath, he grabbed the arms of his friend and pulled him closer. Harald leaned over to hear his friend’s last words.

‘Bury me ... my ship... our fjord.’

The lump in his throat nearly prevented Harald from answering, but he pulled himself together and stammered:

‘Of course, Erik. I will not leave you here. You're going home with us!’

Then, Erik smiled and the light faded from his eyes. Harald grabbed his friend by the shoulders and tried to shake life back into him, but it was no use. The Norns[2] had clipped the thread of Erik Steinarsson’s life.

Harald closed his friend’s eyes and slid his arms under the body to lift him. With deep reverence, he carried the body of the Viking between the burning houses of the village and past the slaves to the longship.

All the other men, stunned, stopped loading the loot and watched Harald the Soft carry Erik to the Sea Snake as if he weighed no more than a feather. They all wondered how in Odin’s name this could have happened. Never before had one of them been slain on one of their raids.

Harald walked onto the sandy beach and into the bitter cold sea. At the ship, he lifted the corpse above him so the men could pull Erik’s body aboard. With the greatest respect, the dead Viking was tied to the mast. Harald did not want to lose Erik to the waves of the North Sea. He would honor his friend’s last wish.

Harald shivered and pulled his woolen coat tighter. With his free hand he wiped the brine from his face and peered through the night darkness looking for the stars which would guide him home. A few hours of hard rowing lay ahead, but if the storm ceased and the day stayed clear, Harald reckoned he would reach their fjord by noon.

Chapter 2

‘You’ve got to kill me, Ulf! You're strong enough. I will give you a sword! Please, give me your word you’ll kill me!’

In a fit of coughing, the old Viking grabbed the boy's arm and pulled him towards his grimy face. His eyes shone with the brightness of fever: the look of a desperate, dying man. Ulf smelt the stench of his grandfather’s ill breath and tried to pull his arm free, but Steinar insisted and held on to him.

‘Listen to me, Ulf Erikson! I'm your grandfather; you’ve got my blood flowing through your veins. You owe it to our family honor to give me a glorious death.’

He coughed again, splattering tiny drops of blood on Ulf's tunic. Ulf wiped them away with his hand.

‘If I want to sit at Odin’s table in Valhalla for eternity, I must die fighting like a real man, not like a coward in my bed. You know the fate of men who die the straw deat[3]h ; they go to Niflheim, the land of Eternal Mist!’

Exhausted, he fell back onto the bed.

‘But afi[4] , you're not a coward. You are a famous warrior. And you can’t expect me to just kill you! I won’t! Can you not ask my father?’

Embarrassed, the boy used his sleeve to wipe away the tears filling his eyes.

‘Your father has left on a raid, and I have no more time to wait for his return. My days are numbered, Ulf. And stop that silly girl behavior, you're too old for that now!’

His breath rattled and, seeing the boy’s sadness, he continued in a slightly milder tone: ‘Don’t you understand that when I die, I want to see the Valkyries[5]. All my life I have fought for our village and I have brought home treasures. I've always courageously sought battles. Is it my fault that I won every fight? I want to cross Bifrost[6], boy. I beg you to fulfill the wish of a dying man.’

Suddenly, the wooden door opened with a hard thump, and for a moment, the faint morning light shone into the dark, smoky house. Ulf's mother, Gudrun, carried a large wicker basket full of firewood and plopped it down next to the fire burning in the middle of the house.

As she wiped her hands on her apron, she glared at the old man on the bench against the wall. Her eyes flashed and with a menacing finger in his direction she yelled: ‘By the beard of Thor! Stop it, Steinar! Do you really think I can’t hear you? You're asking the impossible of the boy. How in Odin’s name could you possibly believe a fight with a child would be remotely heroic? As if Odin would ever allow you into Valhalla for such a pathetic fight!’

Scornfully, she threw a log on the fire, setting sparks flying up into the air. She was finding her sick father-in-law and his nagging more and more irritating. Ever since he had become seriously ill more than half a year ago, she had nursed him with love and care. After all, he was Erik's father, and for her husband, she was willing to do anything, even nurse a needy old man who actually belonged on a sick bed in the hut with the other ill people. All those weeks that Erik was on the rampage, she had cooked for him, cleaned up his dirt without a complaint, listened to him gasping and coughing, but the delusions he had begun to share with them about his fate after death she thought were too much. In her eyes, it was nothing but cowardice and fear of eternity in Niflheim that was driving him to ask his only grandson to kill him in combat. She would never allow it! If Ulf killed his grandfather, he would appear before the Ting[7] and chances were he would be condemned and banished from the village, leading almost certainly to death for her only son. Therefore, she was determined to kick the old man out of her house, if he made his cruel request again.

‘Ulf is no longer a child, Gudrun, you have to understand me.’

Steinar tried desperately to sit upright and convince his daughter-in-law, but she gave him no chance. Furious, she walked towards him.

‘What I don’t understand is why you cannot accept your destiny. The gods decide and you must accept. You're not the first warrior to go to Niflheim. How can you even believe your plan will succeed? Stop it or I'll kick you out of my house and you can die with the other sick people in the barn!’

Gudrun laughed bitterly.

The fire blazed and smoke filled the house. From the bed, Ulf could hear an offended grumble, followed by a deep sigh of despair. Uncomfortably, he shuffled around and when he looked from his grandfather to his mother, Gudrun barked at him:

'You! There’s wood that needs chopping! Come on! Make yourself useful!’

Ulf decided to disappear quickly.

Steinar stared at the wooden wall. Gudrun’s remark was certainly no idle threat. The sick in the village were left to their fate and had to look after themselves in a separate barn. The only reason why he was still in the