Wyrm

Two longboats push through waves near gunwale-high,
bound stern-to-stem with cord as thick as wrist.
The one, laden with warriors: men grim-faced,
hardened by battle, maille-clad, killers all.
The other bears a nation’s-worth of gold,
low-lolling in the water like a sow
heavy with young.

Tall in the prow he stands
of the first boat: iron-spined Bodvar, hair
long-locked, well-placed at his sworn king’s right hand.
His lord leans forward, neck stretched out—thin, frail
under the crown’s cold weight—and peering, old
eyes straining through the driving mist to see
some far-off shore.
“Not long now, no, not long.”
The monarch speaks. “Near are we to the isle,
our destined destination.”
But what isle?
tall Bodvar wonders. No man of the crew
knows whither their sworn ruler leads them. Some
among the band—not Bodvar, no, but some—
look, furtive, back at the ninth man: the mage
bound bodily and gagged and hoisted up
by strong ropes ‘round his waist to dangle free
beneath the second longship’s swinging boom.

They look and ponder—though not Bodvar, no—
ponder if reason might have taken flight
from out their proud lord’s mind and yielded space
to maddening spirits, who now lead them on
to doom. Some ponder, but not one man speaks;
for who would doubt the conqueror at dusk?

The sea-wolf, had they called him in his youth,
Ulfár the bloody; then, Ulfár the king.
A lifetime’s victories have brought him land
and fame and gold: the treasure that now drags
its struggling sea-cart half beneath the waves.
Among the seven, some—not Bodvar, some—
look to that gold and wonder if the time
has come when old Ulfár at last divides
his wealth among them; they, his greatest jarls
and blood of his blood.
Three men, with three sons:
Herlaug, the fierce, and Eyjolf, his firstborn;
proud Aeskil, whom the fates have left but one
male heir, who had had five: the fair-haired Kol;
and Hlenni: stout, a vaunted hero he,
whose bulk has broken many a foeman’s line,
and whose strong son bears the name Ketilbiorn.

And one alone, with no son by his side.
Long gone, bright Hedin, spitted on his first
and final raid by some rude farmer’s spear.
Thus “barren Bodvar” he. With no line left,
he is a house-jarl now, spear at the king’s
own beck to serve, and serving, silence grief.

Yet not the only one—the king also
stands solitary in the longship’s bow,
without a youthful arm to lend him strength
or carry on his name. These jarls may bear
his blood by daughters or by cousin-line,
but no man living—yea, nor no man dead—
has right to call Ulfár his father. Now,
as royal blood turns cold in royal veins,
the sea-wolf’s kingdom draws a bated breath
and waits what brazen battles—bloody war—
shall follow fast if old Ulfár should die
without an heir declared.

But as he thinks
these troubling thoughts, tall Bodvar is surprised
to hear his monarch’s voice again. This time,
his words are meant for Bodvar, though his gaze
stays fixed upon the sea. Ulfár begins:

“I am not ready yet to leave these waves
and beach on sunless shores, where ceases not
the wight to weep: the bone-house, wherein men
count out their unlived days, till they forget
that they were men. Long have I walked this world,
spear-wielding, banner-bearing. Shields I brake,
and lesser kings trod I into the dirt.

“For why? What comfort brings it now to gaze
on gold in vaults, when mine own fleshly form
turns traitor to me, like some two-faced jarl
who, after years of service, sells his sword
for coin or land or woman? What the blood
of sons and nephews ‘gainst these creaking bones,
the chill that bearskins banish not, the mist
that clouds old eyes and slows the once-quick mind?

“No. Every golden cup and burnished torque,
each coin and amulet and stone-set ring,
and all the strong-armed men who call me lord—
yea, even you, though high I count your name
among them—all this would I gladly cast
into the waves, and let the hungry deep,
the serpent-home, the bower-eaves of hell,
swallow it up, but that I might once more
stand, back unbowed, in a proud prowler’s prow:
war-spear in hand, maille-girt, and clap mine eyes
upon some unsuspecting shore; feel fire
flow through me one more time. The steel! The blood!

“Ah, the delights and joys of youth are gone,
stolen by time, though memory remains
to haunt my dreams and fill my waking thoughts
with what I was.”
Then, his words spent, the king
falls silent. Bodvar turns away, unsure
what answer—words or act—befits a king
outpouring thus his heart. All Bodvar’s years
in service have prepared him not a whit
to broach such subjects. Salt-spray flecks his beard
and stings his eyes. What answer? To confess
that he too feels the solitude bear down
upon an empty house: a widower
and father to the dead? Or to relate
that, though his hand still strongly grips his spear,
it grips less strongly than a decade past,
and looms the shadow of the coming day
his arm will lift the ash-haft not at all?

As the tall house-jarl breathes in sea-mist air
to give his answer, comes a piercing cry
from Eyjolf, of Herlaug’s house: “Land, land ho!”
And so it is. An island’s shadow: there,
to port. Eight pairs of eyes now strain to see
what manner of land this is. The ninth, meanwhile,
still squirms, bound, up above.

The view resolves
into a stony beach, a barren shore
that bursts forth from the foamy surf and climbs
to a gray line of sea-cliffs, walls of stone
fading from sight into the fog.
“We land,”
croaks out the king. “Brace, all, and beach the ships.”

They land. Bodvar, the three jarls, and their sons
drag the two longboats up and onto shore,
beyond the greedy reach of lapping waves.
The king has wandered off: he walks the cliffs
along their base, hand dragging on the stone.

“’Tis somewhere, somewhere…” Bodvar hears.
“My lord,”
he interjects. “The boats are well and beached.
Shall we make camp? The day grows long. This fog
obscures the sun, yet by the light I guess
the sky-fire has three-quarters of its course
already run.”
“No,” says the king. “No camp.
We shall have fire, but not to roast our meat;
and not yet. Gather all my kingdom’s gold
from out the second longboat. Bear in hand
each coin and cup. Let not a ringlet fall!
Then carry all the hoard into a cave
that I shall show you. Show you… there!”
The king
extends his bony hand and indicates
where, ten-score paces down the rocky shore,
the darkness of a cavern-mouth breaks up
the flat gray cliff-face.
“Gather! Carry! Go!”

The task is long and grueling. Every coin
and cup that tumbles to the ground or falls
into the surf requires labor halt,
and all men search until the piece is found.
But none complain: the king stands, watchful, by,
observing closely each man’s work. And some—
not Bodvar, no, but some—hope that his gaze
informs his ranking of potential heirs.

The cave is deep, and all the treasure piled
in mounds across its floor fills but a third
of the dark grotto. With the last jewel stowed,
the jarls and sons and Bodvar gather back
before the longboats beached—both empty lie.
No doubt now that the day is fading fast:
the coin of heaven flames the western sky
and seeps red ink into the rolling fog.

The monarch stands apart, unreadable,
his face in judgement or displeasure creased
beneath the golden crown that rings his brow.

“Bring me a torch,” Ulfár calls.
Bodvar bows,
from oilskins draws one and, with flint and steel,
sparks it to life. The king accepts the torch
and, brandishing the brand, speaks to his men:
“You, my three jarls, and all your living lines,
I have here gathered. One of you”—a pause—
“One man among you, jarl or son, shall be
my heir.”
A murmur rises, but the king
raises a hand for silence.
“You have guessed,
perhaps, my purpose here. How can I know
which of my inmost circle merits most
to bear this crown; to sit upon my throne?
Thus far today, you all have followed me
to unknown lands—this island was revealed
to me by yon magician, bound and gagged,
if you have wondered—and have labored hard
to carry out my will. But what of that?
A pack of slaves, beneath a driver’s goad,
might do the same. No, I require more
to prove my heir apparent.”
“Name the task!”
cries burly Hlenni. “Each of us has stood
shoulder to shoulder in the face of death
and smiled thereat. What beasts shall we confront,
or nations conquer in the sea-wolf’s name?
What sacrifices shall we make to show
once and for all our loyalty?”
The king
smiles wanly. “No great wars, my worthy friend,
nor monsters’ heads do I demand. Two tasks
are all you must complete. The first is this:
take up a torch, carry it to the boats…
and burn them.”
Silence. Jarls and sons alike
stare dumbly, unbelieving, at the king.
Ulfár’s wan smile decays. His mien grows wroth.
He thrusts the blazing torch towards the crowd,
but not a man steps forward to receive
the proffered flame. A heartbeat passes. Two.
The king casts down the torch upon the stones
and fixes all those gathered with a sneer.

“Well? Are you warriors, or craven rats?
Here is the torch, and yonder lie the boats.
If they burn not before the sun goes down,
then not a man of you is kin of mine!”
The monarch’s words strike home. Proud Aeskil steps
toward the torch, bends low, and bears it up.

“Far be it from me to refuse my liege,”
third-born Kol’s father says. “All faith have I
that great Ulfár, high king, would not condemn
himself and all his sons to starving death
upon some un-mapped rock far out at sea.
If this is your command, then I obey,
trusting that other transport is arranged
to bring this proud band back unto the seat
of all your pow'r, to drink and laugh and feast
once more within the mead-halls we are wont
to feast in.”
“Son, you name yourself?” the king
retorts. “Bold claim. If that my son you be—
though by your blood I would but ‘nephew’ say—
lay off this fork-tongued whimpering and burn
the boats as I command! If I confirm
that other ships are scheduled to arrive
and bear us hence when all is said and done,
what test is this? No. Show your faith in me,
bold Aeskil. And the same to all the rest!”

So Aeskil turns, and—one by one—in turn
the jarls and sons take torches of their own,
light them from Aeskil’s light, and set ablaze
the two longboats. Flames slither up the masts
and lick the ninth man’s feet: still dangling there,
bound hand and foot. Though gagged, his shrieks of pain
begin to cut through noise of burning wood.

“They say that wizards’ flesh burns blue,” the king
says softly into Bodvar’s ear. “Keep watch,
and see if this outlander warlock be
what he declared himself to be.”
The fire
has caught the mage’s cloak, and all his form
is writhing, burning. Bodvar squints to catch
a hint of blue. The effort is ill-spent.
Day-clear to all men watching is the flare
of bright and royal azure as the man
suspended is consumed at last. The flames
not just around him, but the bonfire whole
turns vibrant blue for twenty heartbeats, then
the wizard’s struggling ceases, and the blaze
returns to mundane hues.
“He spoke the truth,”
the old king muses. “Then perhaps my hope
the other promises he made were true
as well may yet be founded.”
“Good my lord,”
tall Bodvar dares to ask, “what promises?
I know you shared your bread, and council took
with this outlander mage, and called him wise,
until one day you orders gave to bind
his limbs, and gag his mouth, and treat him thus.
Do all our hopes now hang upon the word
of foreign magic…?”
Bodvar seals his lips.
A wave of shame sweeps o’er him. He has stepped
outside his place, and knows it. Will the king
punish his impudence? Order him thrown
into the burning wrecks to join the mage?
No. Old Ulfár but heaves a sigh.
“Long years
have you been with me, and unlike these snakes,
not out of hope for gain. You have no path
onto the throne, which reason only is
for half of their obedience. No, you
alone among my council do I trust.
The rest are gathered ‘round the burning boats;
they cannot hear us. Listen as I tell
what wonders I am promised, and will gain:

“You speak the truth in saying that I spent
long evenings taking council with the man
who yonder burning hangs. He ate my bread
and drank my mead and boasted of his might:
the might of magic. I but half-believed
the tales he told when first he washed ashore
salt-sick and water-logged. Quite mad he seemed,
raving of towers, emperors, and swords
in tongues whose words I knew but one-in-ten.
But secrets spoke he, secrets of my heart
I had not breathed to any man alive—
nor woman neither—so began to win
me over, this strange wizard of a man.
Despite his seeming youth, his ken ran deep,
and lore he claimed encompassing the spheres
of heaven, earth, and sea. So did I treat
with him within my hall, and gave him mead,
and raised him up among my court as if
he were some cousin who had journeyed long
from his own earldom to renew his vows
of fealty to me. Yet, within my heart—
the part thereof concealed even from him—
I hoped for one thing only: an escape
from time’s oppression, which I have made moan
to you weighs heavily upon my mind;
how I might slip the knots of mortal life;
shake the pursuing hound implacable
whose fangs find every neck, whose name is Death.”
Then Bodvar dares to speak again: “My king,
all men must die.”
“All men!” Ulfár spits out
the words. “All men, you say? Till I was born,
no man had reaved the coasts of Delisgar,
nor carried golden women back from Lamm.
No man escapes the grave, yes: no man yet.
But those who staked their lives that this old wolf
would not do what was yet undone are dead,
while I am king.”
The bonfire of the ships
burns ever brighter, making shadows dance
across the beach, and casting on the king
a pale red flickering light. The sun is gone
below the roiling ocean’s farthest edge,
and past the ring of light around the blaze
the world is dark.
“You doubt me, Bodvar. You,
who know me best.” The monarch shakes his head.
“It matters not. At last, he shared a spell,
that foreign warlock, while insensate drunk,
to grant my wish. A baleful ritual—
one inaccessible to any man
not placed as I am. When I heard, I knew
that fate intended me to work this hex.”

The firelight reflects in royal eyes,
and Bodvar swallows.
“Sire, what is the spell?”

“The working is simplicity itself,”
the king responds. “It is the circumstance
required that puts it out of reach to most:
A man must be the last of all his line
and gather wealth so great that it might fuel
a nation’s grand ambitions. Then, he sleeps
upon the high-piled treasure, and will wake
transformed into a vast, immortal beast:
the wyrm of legend, bane-of-gods, steel-skinned,
mighty and fearsome as the hurricane.
Since that great day, on which I gained back hope,
I all my force have turned toward this end:
gathered my gold and brought it to this place
so isolated from the wider world,
where none shall stumble on my darkling deed
and interrupt me.”
“Sire, you say the man
who does this thing must leave a barren line,”
says Bodvar. “What of these, your loyal jarls?
They are your nephews, cousins, and their sons.
No children have you, yet these worthy men
are of your house.”
“They are,” Ulfár agrees.
“Summon them, Bodvar, all these ‘worthy men’
as you have named them. Bring those killers here
and let their king address them one more time.”

So Bodvar calls the jarls and all their sons
from where they stand stoking the boat-fires high.
They gather, six, and Bodvar seven makes,
and eighth, Ulfár, stands facing them, and speaks:

“Bold jarls, you have obeyed, and I am pleased.
No man among you spoke against his king,
refusing orders or demanding I
should explanation give for why I wished
the longboats burned. If any so had done,
it would have seen him outcast from the roll
of my successors. Now, the final test
of who shall bear my crown. Are you prepared?”

Herlaug, the killer of the Thrāish king,
who until now has kept his council, speaks:
“You know us, lord. For you, we all would die.”

“Die?” king Ulfár lets out a barking laugh.
“Tis you who know your lord! My kingdom stands
by right of conquest. All my lands were won
in bloody battle, riven by the sword
away from those who claimed them hitherto.
The warrior who sits upon my throne
must be the fiercest killer in my band,
prepared to answer death with death when those
whom I defeated seek to gain revenge
on the inheritor of what I took.”

“What are you saying?” Hlenni asks. But there
behind him, Bodvar sees, already Kol,
proud Aeskil’s son, is readying his spear,
and Eyjolf, seeing this, reaches for his:
which Aeskil sees, and then young Ketilbiorn,
and soon all six—jarls and their sons—stand tense,
their weapons drawn, spears pointed at their friends.

“Indeed,” Ulfár confirms. “The only man
I trust to rule my kingdom is the man
who proves himself the strongest. Whosoe’er
stands living on this shore when all the rest
are dead shall be my heir.”
Even before
the king has finished speaking, Hlenni strikes.
He moves almost too fast for eyes to see
in flickering firelight. Bodvar blinks. The spear
is sunk haft-deep into the chest of Kol,
Aeskil’s last son. The young man gasps and dies.
His father, with a roar, leaps for the man
who slew his son; is met by Ketilbiorn,
whose spear he parries. The melee is joined.

Steel rings on steel. Six men—five, Kol lies dead—
turn all their martial skill toward killing those
who minutes earlier they would have called
their brothers. Old Ulfár takes two steps back
and watches, fingers interlaced in thought.
He turns to Bodvar, on whose face is writ
no imprint of the tempest in his heart.

“Bold Bodvar, you whose spirit never quails
from heat of battle: tell me, do you feel
inspired to join the fight? All these must die,
by your blade or another’s. You alone
know the true reason why your king has come
to this uncharted isle. They perish now
or perish later for my grand design
to be fulfilled. Go, slay them, if you will.”

Tall Bodvar hesitates, then answer gives:
“My king, if you command, I will attack
and throw myself full-on into the fray.
Yet in me stirs the fear that some young wolf,
his blood made hot by shedding of the same,
should all his oaths forget, and strike at you
to kingship win by slaying of a king.
With this thought heavy in my mind, I stand
beside you, that my spear may be your shield.”

“Your honor does you well,” Ulfár replies.
“Then stay, but know this: when the fight is done
and one man stands alone in victory,
yours shall the task be, then, to cut him down
and give me what I need to gain my goal.”

“I hear and I obey,” says Bodvar.
Blood
colors the stone-shore dark in bonfire light.
The beach is made a slaughterhouse. Of six
who stood a minute past, full half lie dead:
young Kol, and Aeskil, who avenged him not—
for Hlenni lives—and Eyjolf, eyes still bright,
his skull split, at Herlaug’s—his father’s—feet.

Herlaug now stands alone, the man-skinned bear,
the hero of the Gronenverold field,
alone against fierce Hlenni and his son
stout Ketilbiorn, who limps where Aeskil’s spear
pierced through his thigh. Herlaug spits on the ground.

“Come then, my friend, my cousin,” says Herlaug.
“The time has come. How many wasted hours
were spent on boasts of who could out-match who?
We are not boasting in the mead-hall now.
They call me bear; and you, the bull. I know
if those two beasts were loosed in mortal match
which side my coin would fall on.”
“Do you, friend?”
bold Hlenni answers. “Bears have claws, ‘tis true,
but many a fearsome beast has found its blood
wet on a bull’s horns that it thought to slay.”

“Enough talk. Show your steel.” Herlaug attacks.
Both men are skilled, but Hlenni has a son
to guard his flank. Step after step, they drive
Herlaug back down the stony shore, toward
the boats still burning. Back they drive him, back,
until he can retreat no further. Fire
licks at his tail. He hisses at the pain
and thrusts toward Ketilbiorn, but over-steps
and, for an instant, stumbles. Hlenni strikes:
his spearhead passes over his foe’s guard
and punctures yielding flesh. Herlaug falls dead.

Winded and bleeding from two shallow cuts,
victorious Hlenni trudges up the slope
with Ketilbiorn behind.
“My liege,” he says.
“The second task is done.”
“Not so,” the king
replies. “I said that one must stand alone,
yet I see two.”
Grief crosses Hlenni’s face.
Behind, uncomprehending Ketilbiorn
scratches his neck.
“You would ask this of me?”
broad Hlenni pleads.
“I ask it,” says the king.
“Will you obey?”
And for a moment, rage
contorts the face of Hlenni. Bodvar grips
his spear more tightly, ready to defend
his liege’s life should this be the demand
that breaks down Hlenni’s loyalty.
But no.
The jarl lets out a scream of grief and turns,
his spear like lightning, on his only son.
Young Ketilbiorn reacts unthinking, blocks
his father’s mortal blow, and strikes in turn,
driving his spear past Hlenni’s guard to gore
his father’s barrel chest. He freezes then,
unwilling to continue, still unsure
of why he finds his spearhead piercing through
his father’s maille. The pause costs him his life.

For Hlenni understands; the doubt is past,
and now the jarl is fighting for a crown,
be it a son, a brother, or a wife
who stands between him and the throne. A stroke,
and Ketilbiorn is spear-less, wrist blood-red
where father’s blade has pierced the flesh of son.
Another scream from Hlenni, and again
he strikes his stricken heir. The tip flies true
and stabs young Ketilbiorn straight through the heart.

The strong youth topples, eyes still question-full,
not realizing even in his death
that he is made a sacrifice upon
the altar-stone of power. Hlenni spins,
face wild with anguish. Now thrice-cut, he bleeds
from arm and neck and chest, but staggers on
to stand before the king and speak his piece:

“What more, my lord? What else required? I all
have given: not my very son have I
withheld from you. Do you desire my hands?
My ears, my nose, my eyes? My heart’s own blood
shall I outpour to gain the crown you wear?
I all have given!”
This last Hlenni shrieks.
His face is pale, his spear droops in his hand,
and all his customary fortitude
is lacking.
“Finish it,” Ulfár commands.
Unblemished Bodvar springs to action, spear
prepared to do its lethal work at last.
Broad Hlenni shouts betrayal, but his limbs
are weakened from lost blood, his motion slowed,
his strength of little help when Bodvar’s spear
seeks out his throat and silences his voice.

But in the instant of the fatal blow,
as Bodvar feels the blade slide home, he hears
a dagger whisper from a sheath somewhere
behind him. Battle-instincts rule his mind,
and in one motion draws he forth the tip
from Hlenni’s throat; reverses; thrusts again.
The spear impales Ulfár with hand still held
above his head, the dagger fixed to strike
at Bodvar’s back. Both men stand dumbstruck: one
by what he has, unthinking, done, and why;
the other by the weapon that protrudes
from his protruding gut.
The old man’s legs
begin to shake. The knife falls from his hand
and clatters on the ground. With gasping breath,
the dying king addresses one last time
his closest servant:
“Bodvar—understand,
I beg you. Truly, you are like a son
or brother to my heart. I did not know
if, by some subtle rule of magic law,
you would be counted in my living line;
and thus, I sought to slay you to ensure
the spell would work. Forgive me, Bodvar.”
Then
Ulfár’s proud knees strike stone. He falls. He dies.

Tall Bodvar drops the ashwood haft. It sways,
still buried deep within the royal bowels.
The burning boats are dimming down to coals,
as mist and fog condense to icy rain
and mix with Bodvar’s tears. He weeps a while
beside his slaughtered ruler, then beside
each of the lifeless jarls, and then their sons.

With no more mourning to distract his heart,
and shivering from the now-torrential rain,
lone Bodvar leaves the smoking wrecks behind
and takes his shelter in the treasure-cave.
But as he enters, glancing back, he spies
the crown beside the body of the king.
So out into the driving storm he goes,
retrieves the final treasure, and returns
to toss the battered object on the pile
of coins and rings and goblets. With that act,
a heavy weight of weariness descends
on Bodvar’s brow. He scarce has time to doff
his armored shirt before the veil of sleep
steals wakefulness away.

There Bodvar lies
upon a nation’s gold. And when he wakes—
eyes slitted, skin like maille, belly fire-full—
to what immortal fury will have turned
his grief?