Page 3 of A Tale of Two Vikings

Laughing all the time, changing places,

Till was unclear who was who

And whether there be any point to their lives.

But, by and by, age came upon them finally…

A turning in the road men face in middle years.

They began to question the meaning of life,

Which destiny-path to follow,

Whether to replicate themselves by breeding,

Why they were born.

A crossroads in their lives, for a certainty…

The question is: Will they choose the safer path,

Or will they jump headfirst into wedlock,

And forevermore question how they landed there?”

Toste and Vagn glanced at each other, stunned speechless. Where did Bolthor come up with this stuff? How did he manage to hit so close to the truth? And most important, where was some other Viking needful of his own personal skald?

“Very good, Bolthor,” Vagn said, not wishing to insult him.

“Yea, very good,” Toste agreed. Now go plague someone else with your sagas.

“Now go plague someone else with your sagas,” Vagn said, not nearly as sensitive as Toste. He apparently had no compunction about hurting Bolthor’s feelings. But there was no need for worry in that regard, because the insult passed right by Bolthor, who brightened and said, “Yea, methinks Sigvaldi is in need of a good comeuppance…I mean, saga. Hey, that can be a new name for a certain type of poem—a comeuppance-saga.” Bolthor rushed forward to tell the chieftain his good news.

Toste and Vagn smiled at each other, but not for long.

Up ahead, someone shouted a warning. “Ambush! Ambush! We are surrounded by Saxons!”

Immediately, the two-hundred-man horde of Viking warriors scurried for cover, of which there was almost none in the shallow valley they’d been traversing. Meanwhile, hundreds and hundreds of Saxon soldiers emerged on the small hills surrounding them. Despite their surprise and being vastly outnumbered, the Viking brothers-in-arms soon prepared themselves skillfully for battle with weapons drawn.

Usually, Norsemen preferred the Svinfylkja, better known as the “Swine Wedge,” a triangular assault formation with the point facing the enemy, or a “shield wall,” with a tight mass of warriors surrounding the chieftain. There was no time for those tactics now; Saxons hemmed them in on three sides, including the exitway out of the valley. A blizzard of arrows showered from the bowmen, even as the Saxon foot army advanced toward them.

All around him, Toste heard war cries raised by his enraged comrades. Sometimes just wild whoops, or savage roars of fury. Other times, specific exhortations were called out: “To the Death!” “Luck in Battle!” “Mark Them with Your Spears!”

Toste did not love to fight as some men did, but he would rather be the crow than the carrion, and he had no intention of breaking the raven’s fast this day. He raised his broadsword in an arc as a burly Saxon soldier approached him, spear raised with menace. Toste aimed for the “fat line,” that section of the body from neck to groin where most vital organs were located. He sliced the man crossways from shoulder to waist before the spear ever left his hand. Wide-eyed with horror, the man, already spewing blood from his mouth, fell in a heap at Toste’s feet. “Good aim, brother!” Vagn yelled out to him, while Toste sparred, sword to sword, with another foeman. Next, Toste crouched low and lunged his short sword into a fat Saxon belly. With a grunt of surrender, the Saxon fell, his eyes rolled back into his head, and he died.

For the next half hour, thick fighting ensued, and there was no time to look around. Having the advantage of surprise, the Saxons cleft through the Norse ranks as if through sheaves of wheat. Oh, the Viking soldiers displayed great skill and stamina…they were lords of swordplay, to be sure…but they could not withstand such a large force. No matter how many of the enemy Toste slew, no matter how weapon-skillful he was, another Saxon always sprang up behind the ones he slew. It was hopeless, Toste began to realize. The ringing of swords, the screams of the wounded in their death throes, the neighing of frightened horses, the inhuman growls of the berserkers—all of these combined to turn Toste dizzy with terror. The battle was not yet over; even so, the carnage was horrific on both sides.

In his peripheral vision, in the middle of the fray he saw Bolthor, rendered weaponless, lower his head and charge at a menacing Saxon who aimed a crossbow his way. Knocking the bowman to his back like a head-butting goat, Bolthor proceeded to strangle him with his bare hands. After that, Toste saw Bolthor pick up a Saxon broadsword and lop off a man’s head as neatly as slicing a sausage. Without skipping a beat, Bolthor then took a young Saxon’s face between his massive hands and crushed his skull like a walnut. About them, the stench of sword dew was overpowering.

Shaking his head to clear it of the fuzziness that assailed him momentarily, Toste felt a sudden disturbance. An odd prickling tingled at the back of his neck. Vagn. Where is Vagn? Scanning the field, he located Vagn a considerable distance away. They must have become separated some time ago in the melee.

As if in slowed motion, Toste watched helplessly as a Saxon long sword pierced his brother’s chain shert, passed into his chest, then all the way through his back, directly through his heart. There was blood everywhere—on his face, his body, at his feet a pool of blood.

Toste’s eyes connected with Vagn’s in that unusual way they had of sensing each other’s presence. Vagn screamed out to him, mentally, TOOOSSSTTTE! Several quick hand gestures in the silent language he and Vagn had developed said, “Farewell, brother. I have loved thee well.” Then Vagn sank to his knees, both hands clutching the sword that his attacker—a huge man with bright red hair and a livid scar running from crown to chin—was attempting to pull out with one booted foot braced on Vagn’s shoulder. Once the Saxon removed the sword from Vagn’s chest, he stood over him, grinning. With hysterical irrelevance, Toste noticed the bright silver eagle embossed on the villain’s shield. Vagn was still alive, but barely. His attacker laughed and left Vagn for dead, obviously wanting him to die a slow death.

A black mist came over Toste, and he went berserk for the first time in his life. Baring his teeth with savage fury, he howled with rage, then fought his way toward his brother. But, alas, though he battled valiantly, hewing down foemen right and left in his path, he had no protection at his back. He knew he was in trouble by the expression of alarm on Vagn’s face. When Toste felt the violent impact of a weapon against his skull, he fell to his knees, just as his brother had. But, nay, Vagn was lying on his back now, eyes closed.

Dead! His brother was dead. How would he be able to bear the loss? Toste agonized as unconsciousness overcame him. Then he laughed inwardly as another thought came to him. He would not have to grieve over his brother’s death because he was probably dying himself. In truth, the prospect of life without Vagn held no appeal.