At last a few of the bravest defenders came out to meet their foes, but they soon fell, and the draugr swarmed over the wall and into the fortress. Even from where she stood, Hildirid could hear the cries of pain and anguish and terror, and the ghastly sounds of feeding as Sveinthor’s followers feasted on quivering, still-warm flesh.
Later, when quiet had descended and the night was almost done, she took Bryn-Loki and ventured into the fort. Everywhere she looked were draugr, plundering the newly-dead and adorning themselves with medallions and arm-rings, or taking trophies of scalps and fingers and jawbones and heads. The living—the women and children and slaves taken from among Kjartan’s people—cowered unharmed and ignored.
Then she saw Kjartan himself, freed from his prison and seated upon his great wooden chair draped with bearskins. Ulfgrim’s body, bound in ropes, lay before him with a pool of blood around the stump of his neck. His head was held aloft on the point of Wolf’s Tooth, raised high by Sveinthor.
Kjartan saw her, as well. “He will not stay, Hildirid,” the king said. “He must return to the burial-mound, before dawn comes. He has fulfilled his wyrd.”
No amount of imploring by them could sway Sveinthor. As the sky to the east brightened, the draugr left off what they were doing. Almost as one, they left the fort and returned to the field, lying down again where they had died and then arisen. Eyjolf, Bork, Thrain and their women entered the tomb, followed by Bryn-Loki.
Only Sveinthor remained. He had Ulfgrim’s head knotted by the hair to his belt, and Wolf’s Tooth was finally released from his grip to be sheathed again across his back. With his one good hand, he reached out and caressed the curve of Hildirid’s cheek. Then he turned from her, and walked toward the mound.
“Farewell, lord,” Hildirid said to Kjartan, and kissed him.
“Hildirid!” the king called. “Where do you go? What do you do?”
“As you said, lord, Sveinthor has fulfilled his wyrd.” She touched the knife at her belt, and smiled. “Now I shall fulfill mine.”
So saying, she followed Sveinthor into the darkness. When the sun rose, the entrance to the mound was covered over again with planks and stones and earth. Never again was it disturbed by mortal men.
And so ends the saga of Sveinthor the Unkillable, and the beautiful Hildirid, his beloved barrow-maid.
THYF’S TALE
A wolf’s wind howled, winter snow whipping as white drifts piled, the whole world cold and dark as Hel’s domain.
Within the longhouse, behind log walls mud-plastered and beneath wet thatch moss-heavy, the folk of Jarl Hodvard’s farmstead gathered against the night.
Here around the hearths they sat, upon sleeping-platforms that lined the hall. Here were heaped furs and fleeces, thick cloaks and wool blankets. In stone-ringed pits the fires burned, shedding heat and light while smoke hung thick among the roof-beams.
Bread and cheese and barley beer had been their meal, with a broth of boiled beef and leeks and garlic. Now men passed the mead-bowls hand to hand, that sweet drink, honey-made. Voices rose as spirits did, in merriment and laughter. Children played with hounds on the rush-strewn hard earth floor, the women sewed and spun.
And they did not know how Death waited among them.
Ate and drank, spoke and laughed, among them.
Hodvard had at the head of his hall a great chair, oak-carved, antler-adorned, draped in deer-hides and bear-skins. A sword, sheathed in leather, rested above it on wooden pegs. To one side of the sword was a shield painted oxblood-red. To the other was a helm, old and much-dented.
He had been a warrior once. A hewer of men, a blood-letter, a death-bringer, a cleaver of limbs and skulls. He had plundered rich silver from cities and monasteries. He had won worthy followers to his boar’s-head banner.
He was a warrior still, for all that the years might weigh upon him. Though his shoulders might be stooped, his hair and beard grey-streaked, though a softness of paunch rolled over his belt, he would set himself against any number of foes.
He would set himself against them unflinchingly, eager for the battle-rage, the red fog that clouded the eyes yet let them see all with an eagle’s clarity.
Oh, his youthful times of raids and pillage were done, yes, and they had well served their purpose. How else could he have settled here, wealthy and content? He had fine farm-lands, the soil not thin and rough, not rocky and miserly to yield. The fields provided good pasturage, the woods good hunting.
Olrunn, his first wife, had given him six sons. His second wife, young Esja, had already borne him another. Among those of his hall were daughters and in-laws, kinsmen, grandchildren, nephews, bastards, war-brothers, guests and friends. Servants there were too, and slaves, well-treated.
Hodvard was known as a fair and just jarl. His hospitality and generosity were beyond compare. His nature was jovial, his wise judgment often sought in counsel.
Strange, it might seem, that any would wish him ill-will.
Or bring violence against him here in the fastness of his own hall.
The mead-bowls passed ’round again.
Men called for music and Erik Deft-Handed fetched down a harp. He played to them a familiar tune, an oar-song, one they knew from riding the whale road, Njord’s grey waves, in the dragon-headed ships, and they sang along heartily. When it was done, Hodvard acclaimed the harpsman, and threw to him a silver ring.
Then was another song called for and this time a girl arose, pretty Lundis, Bergulf’s sister. Her voice pure as clear-water, she sang of Brynnhild’s sorrow, the valkyrie-maid pining in her love for Sigurd.
The women of the hall found this to their liking, and Hodvard gave the girl a comb of ivory. But the rest wanted next some entertainment more to thrill the nerve and chill the blood, and so turned to Thyf.
“You have traveled far and seen much,” they said to him. “Tell us a grim tale!”
So Thyf settled himself near the fire and began to speak.
“This is the Saga of Guldi and Svarti…”
***
Once there were two friends known since birth
Babes-in-arms together, orphaned of mothers
Playmates, they were, and inseparable
Guldi as fair-haired as Svarti was dark
The both of them handsome lads, and strong
When they came of age and wished to go to war
Their fathers armored them in mail-coats
Gave them swords and shields, helms and horses
And sent them to be trained, to be made battle-ready
Proud sons to bring honor to their names
Guldi proved a bold and fearless warrior
Shrinking from no challenge
Valorous, a true leader of men
Winner of renown and rewards
Gold-girt, with rich rings thick upon his arms
But for Svarti, swift and clever
In the clash of shield-walls, the slash of sword-blades
The drumming of hoof-beats and the singing of bow-strings
Muster his courage though he would
Time and again it failed him
The others, at first, laughed and jeered
Making much mockery of his plight
Their brotherhood since boyhood,
Their long friendship, forgotten
Soon it was that none would stand beside him
Shoulder-to in the line where lime-wood overlaps
Where each man must rely upon his neighbor
Else join the dead upon the corpse-strewn field
Eyes raven-pecked, flesh cold, guts spilled
In fierce battles where men bled and died
His companions would find Svarti
Crouched and cowering, dumb-struck
Unmanned by terror, weeping
Breeches befouled in hot and stinking shame
Until he could withstand no more
Abandoning their war-band to slink away
To sell sw
ord and shield, mount and mail
To take up trade in the town, and settle there
Where he prospered, and grew wealthy within its walls
Now, there dwelled in that city the maiden Alfir
Of beauty, wit and wisdom above all women
Blue-eyed Alfir, daughter of a lord
Whose father, swayed by gold and greed
Consented she would become Svarti’s wife
But war kindled in the land, and fanned its flames
Until farms and fields smoldered in black ashes
The folk slain, enslaved, the cattle slaughtered
The city besieged, bereft of mercy
Wracked by famines and the pestilence
Soon Svarti found that all his fortune
Could not stave off sufferings for long
Silver useless ’gainst sickness and starvation
Even emeralds buy no meat or milk
Nor bread when none is to be bought
Just when it seemed hope must be lost
Rescue came, men and horses, over the hills
A sea of shields, spears like tall grain-stalks
Sun glinting on helms, an army
With Guldi’s banner flying at its head
They broke the siege and sent foes scattering
For their very lives running in rout and retreat
Cut down as they fled, heads hewn from bodies
The city saved from certain fall
The army welcomed, and Guldi hailed a hero
In the great glad revelry that followed
Alfir looked on Guldi, loved and favored him
Wanting for her husband a brave man, a warrior
Insisting she would wed no other
And Guldi did not disagree
So it was that Svarti, shamed anew
Vowed oaths of vengeance against Guldi
Once his friend, close as a brother
Hated now, his sworn enemy
Heart poisoned against him
Then there came to Svarti’s house a traveler
A stranger, a visitor, wolf-cloaked
Bright of eye and sly of smile
Who had heard of Svarti’s troubles
And come to make offer of counsel
“For a purse of silver,” the stranger said,
“Men can be bought, hired swords
Mercenaries loyal-bound to no king
To beset upon Guldi from ambush
Cut him down, and end his life.”
But Svarti would not consider this
Saying, “Guldi is too great a warrior
Well-armed and well-armored
Well-accompanied when he rides
He fights as if born of sword and shield.
“Whole armies could you throw against him
Like waves against a stone cliff-face
Even should by chance some blow strike
To die in Odin’s battle-glory
Would be Guldi’s dearest wish.”
“For a purse of gold, then,” the stranger said,
“I will undertake this task myself
To, by stealth, slay him as he sleeps
Peaceful, unknowing of his fate
No weapon within his grasp.
“And so deny him the honorable war-death
That would earn him a seat at Odin’s table
In high Valhalla, golden-roofed
The feast-hall, the mead-hall
Of its five hundred and forty doors.
“There, men wait, Valkyrie-chosen,
For the sounding of Heimdal’s Gjallarhorn
To don their war-gear against the giants
In that final battle, the gods’ twilight
At the destruction and the drowning of the world.”
At this, Svarti let himself be coaxed
Giving the stranger half a purse of gold
For which he would that very night
Go to Guldi, and do mischief upon him
Dooming him forever to Niflheim, Hel’s realm
The stranger, whose name was Mord-Vargr
The killer-wolf, the murderer
Went forth in darkness from Svarti’s house
Stoat-silent and cat-quick
Upon death’s errand like a shadow
He donned again his cloak, two-sided,
White-furred and black, a gift to him
From the insulter of the Aesir
Mother of Sleipnir, Fenrir’s father
The wily one, bringer of Baldr’s bane
He went unseen to the place where Guldi slept
Dropping into the hearth-embers a sprig of herbs
Troll-wife stuff, marsh-witchery
Its smoke to lull and cast a pall
Drawing dreamers deeper into dreams
Guldi had by his bed-side a broad-bladed axe
On the bed-post his sword-belt hung, within reach
A stabbing-blade he kept beneath his head-rest
A short knife secured to his wrist
All of these, Mord-Vargr slipped from him and took away
The war-lord, unarmed and unaware
Defenseless, Guldi slumbered on
He felt nothing as the knotted twine
Looped loosely ’round his neck
Twisting tight and ever tighter
First flush then pallor flooded Guldi’s face
Mouth gaping and with lips blue-tinged
He twitched, and gave a thin last gasp
Then strong limbs slackened; he lay dead
Strangled like a stillborn babe upon its own birth-cord
Swift and stealthy as he’d come, he left
The wolf-cloaked killer, Mord-Vargr
Returning to the house where Svarti sat waiting
Gut-sick with reproach at his abasement
Even as his heart leaped in wicked joy
“The deed is done,” the murderer said. “Guldi lives no more
No seat awaits him among the einherjar, Odin’s own
No mead-horn and feast of boiled meat
Cut each night from the flesh of Saehrimnir
The immortal boar renewed again each dawn.”
Svarti paid what was owed, that terrible perversity of wergild
Yet took but bleak and shallow satisfaction from it
For a coward lives like one half-dead already
And he knew the freezing fogs of Niflheim
Would one day await him as well
But Freya’s tears of gold had purchased Alfir’s tears of silver
The maiden weeping, grieving for the hero slain
Mourning him, she scorned anew what Svarti offered
So despite his wealth, a dragon’s hoard
He grew old and wretched, and died alone.
***
A hush spread as Thyf spoke, and for a span of time it lingered when he finished.
He’d watched the jarl’s men grin at the words of war-glory and battle-carnage, and seen them sneer their disdain for Svarti’s cowardice.
And he’d observed how unease seeped into each of them, like ground-water, as Guldi’s dishonorable death unfolded. He saw them shiver, and faces go ashen beneath their beards.
Every warrior’s innermost creeping fear, dark, gnawing and insidious, was to be denied a glorious death in combat, and be deemed unworthy of Valhalla. To become aged and infirm, crippled, weak, a feeble burden, a frail and useless creature… or to die of illness, accident… or worst of all, a low and slinking murder, life not lost but stolen…
They had asked him for a grim tale, had they not?
Now, gathering themselves, the men uttered bluff and hearty laughter to prove it had not affected them unduly.
“Grim, indeed,” Hodvard said to Thyf, “but, well-told, well-told.” And he gave Thyf a brooch of hammered bronze.
The fires had burned low by then, the mead-bowls drained, and Hodvard’s folk readied themselves for the night.
Some of the men made a joke-show of checking that their wea
pons rested near at hand by their sleeping-places. Others peered into the hearths, poking the ash-covered embers as if searching for bundles of suspicious sprig-bundles, to the amusement of all.
There were none, of course, and the smoke no different than ever.
Neither was it the mead that had been laced with potent herbs.
Soon enough the night-noises of the hall became slumbering-sounds, rustles and murmurs, snores and slow breaths.
Beyond log walls and thatch roof, wind whistled and snow blew.
Then Thyf, who had lain awake all the while, arose from his furs and blankets.
None stirred at his movement.
He went to Hodvard’s great chair. Behind it hung a partition of hides, draping off a smaller chamber where the jarl and his young wife Esja shared a bed.
The dull red glow from the low-burned fires let him make his way unhindered to Hodvard’s side. He saw that the old warrior slept with a hand-axe, its iron head leather-sheathed, curled to his chest the way a child might cradle a twig doll.
It was the broth that had been drugged, the broth of boiled beef with leeks and garlic, strong-flavored so any bitterness was masked.
Thyf, with gentle care and caution, lifted the axe to remove it from Hodvard’s arms. He put it aside on the floor, where it might easily enough have fallen in the course of normal sleep.
He slid his fingers through thick grey hair, raised up Hodvard’s head, and turned it to the side. There was the neck, the nape exposed.
Not the strangling twine this time.
She wanted it done without sign or trace, an undetectable murder.
At the base of the skull where the spine joined with it was a hollow, an indentation of the flesh.
“I bore him six sons,” Olrunn had said. “Six strong sons, fine boys.”
Thyf withdrew from one of his woolen leg-wraps a folded piece of linen, and from the linen a long sliver of ivory. Its narrow end came to a point, sharp as any needle, while its wider end was blunted. Its edges were honed like those of the thinnest sword-blade.