Bothvar Beorcolsson
I’ve lost track of how many days we’ve been out at sea. It feels like most of the summer has gone by. Raiding season must be almost over. It feels like a total defeat losing Thorkel and the others. A giant part of me died with him. I do not know what to do as I wander the ship, aimlessly looking for work. The others seem to leave me alone, all but Skardi, Solmund, and Griotgard. Even they seem to treat me like a child. Careful not to say the wrong thing, as if a single word could cause me to shatter. But they too, seem lost. Varin was an important figure in their lives, and he’s gone too.
The sun beats down on us like a searing, furious fire. Our water supply is limited, but we did manage to get more food from the last raid. A lot of the men have gone through the loot, talking about claims they will lay when the Earl gives them the chance to take their share. Several of the slaves are passed around to keep the men from getting too agitated. Rognvald thinks that letting them have a good fuck will keep them from fighting each other, but disputes still seem to happen, especially over potential loot. I suppose it’s inevitable when you keep men cramped together like this for days.
As days go on, the anger and hate I hold seems to be at a simmer compared to the raging fire it was after Thorkel’s death. Despair has taken its place. I feel hopeless. I don’t know what to do without my brother. As if I’ve lost my will to carry on. I am not hungry even though I haven’t eaten much for days. If it weren’t for Skardi, Solmund, and Griotgard forcing food down my throat, I wouldn’t eat anything.
I’ve taken to the wine, but even it can’t drown this void inside me. I look down at the sea and wish it would take me too.
But then I think of that elf. The one with the burning red hair and the anger and rage returns, but it lacks the energy it once had. I’m too weak to feed the fire inside me. The wine seems to be the only thing I can stomach, but even that has begun to make me feel sick. My hair has started to fall out, and I’ve gained sore spots and begun bruising easily.
But I’m too exhausted to do anything about it. I know I’m getting sicker and sicker, wasting away, but I don’t care anymore.
“I can’t take this anymore. I won’t watch you die, you stupid boy,” Rognvald says as he forces an orange fruit into my hands. “Eat this, it’ll ward help with the scurvy, that’s what’s causing all the shit bruising and sores. Also, no more wine. It’s dehydrating you.”
I wearily eat the fruit before he forces me to drink water. Over the next few days, he watches me closely, making me eat more fruit and drink more water. The sickness slowly fades, but I don’t feel any better. I just feel lost.
I head down to see the slaves to find Gizor harassing the women. Fondling and molesting a brown-haired monk girl as she and her compatriots struggle while she cries. The older male monk is unconscious. He must have tried to stop Gizor. “Stop harassing the slaves, Gizor.”
He looks up at me. “Oh, don’t spoil my fun. They’re Southern heathens. They worship a false god. What do we care about what happens to them?”
“They are claimed by the Earl. I don’t want them damaged before Sigvor gets a look at them. Do you want to anger my father?” I ask.
He grumbles and sighs. “Fine. What about the elves?”
I look over at them all huddled up in the corner. I don’t understand why their ears are long and pointy. It annoys me. And their eyes. It’s unnatural the way they glimmer, so blue and shiny. I hate them. I hate them all. “Have at them.”
Gizor grins as he walks over to the elves. I ignore him and turn my attention to the monks. The red-head goes to the brown-haired one to comfort her as she tries to cover up. I look at the brown-haired girl as the blonde one rushes down to help the older man. He’s bleeding. “Please, you have to help him. He’s hurt badly. That man hit him in the head.”
I sigh and take a look at the gash at the back of his head, lifting the cloth she has pressed against it. It’s pretty deep. “I don’t know what more I can do for him.”
“If you take my collar off, I can heal him. Please,” she says, begging me. There are tears in her eyes.
“And allow you to strike me down with your magic? Do you think I’m stupid?” I glare at her.
“No. I don’t. And I won’t. I’m a priestess of the Light. I forsake violence. Just let me heal him and you can put the collar back on.”
I pull out my knife and point it at her, along with the talisman I was given to protect against magic. “If you try anything, know that this protects me against magic. I will cut your throat without hesitating.”
She nods. I put the talisman back and take out the key, grabbing her collar and pulling her close enough to unlock it. She doesn’t hesitate and pulls the old man’s head into her lap while pulling a crystal out from under her robe. Stealthy little Southerner. What happens next was nothing short of miraculous. A bright yellow light appears from her hands and shrouds the man’s head, engulfing him in the light. It’s so bright I have to look away. After what feels like an eternity, the light finally fades. To my astonishment, the gash is completely gone. The woman staggers a bit, but the boy monk comes to her aid. I quickly put the collar back on before she has a chance to use her magic against me. I’m not foolish enough to trust a Southerner by her word. She looks even more frail once the collar snaps in place. Her hands go to her neck before she pulls them away. She looks up at me, but instead of defiance, I see gratitude in her eyes. “Thank you for letting me heal him. And thank you for stopping that man from harassing us. I just hope you might reconsider allowing him to harass the elves.”
“It was either you or them.”
That causes her eyes to go wide. She bites her tongue.
“So, tell me about this… Light? How is it that you’re able to do such things?” I ask.
“The Light is our saving grace. We’ve been blessed with the ability to be the vessels in which the Light gives us its flames of hope,” she says.
“I’m confused… Is this Light a person or…” I scratch my head.
“It’s complicated,” she says.
“Is it a being? I don’t get it,” I say, my face contorting as I try to wrap my mind around it.
“The Light is a force. It’s all around us,” the brown-haired girl says.
“And you harness it?” I ask.
“Not exactly,” the blonde-haired one who healed the old man explains. “We let it guide us and use us as its tools.”
“So, it talks to you?”
“Well, not exactly,” she says, causing me to run my hands through my beard.
“Well, how does it guide you if it can’t tell you what to do?”
“It has messengers. A long time ago, the Angel Akrasiel came down to Aratheon and saved us from the other gods. The ones who want to destroy us,” she says, hope returning to her eyes as she talks about this Akrasiel, whoever that is. “He is the Light’s protector. Our guardian angel. He guided us and taught us how to use the Light, but only to heal and protect the innocent people.”
“So, this Angel Akrasiel, is he a god? And who are these other gods? There are more?”
“Well, I guess he is like a god. He has the power to fight the other gods. We were taught by Akrasiel’s first disciple, Terel Glarespell, who sat beside the Angel and learned the way of the Light. He taught us about the holy kingdom on the holiest island, and he told us that most religions have a foundation that was built upon a kernel of truth,” she says with pure and absolute confidence, as if there’s no doubt in her mind that what she says is truth, but I have nothing but doubts. “That there are many different gods of many different powers. That some of these gods are benevolent, some are neutral, and others seek destruction and are full of malice. Some are agents of chaos, while others want order. Some create and others destroy. Perhaps your gods are also among these.”
“And this man tells you what this angel says? He has spoken to him?” I ask. All of them nod. All of them besides the old man, he’s still out. “Where? Where is this man? He’s a human like us, right? And this holy island, is it among the Southern Human Kingdom or the elven kingdom?”
“Well, yes, he wrote books on it. He taught us a great many things that the Angel said. He and the other disciples built the first churches, but he left the first church because they no longer practiced what Angel Akrasiel taught and became weighed down by bickering council members and a senate that serves no purpose but greed. And he stays at The Holy, the divine city of the Light on the Holy Island. It is its own nation apart from the humans and the elves. It’s kept secret from all other nations. Even Terel himself is kept secret. Even most of the other disciples believe he is dead. We have our own army of the Light full of Paladins and priests. And Terel, he’s an elf,” the blonde one says.
“An elf? I hate elves!” I growl. The flame reignites within me. “Elves are no good. You can’t trust the fools of elves.”
I get up and walk away. Stupid Southerners. Trusting the words of an elf. That Terel elf has them wrapped around his finger. But I know, you can’t trust any of them.
—
The day comes when we finally arrive home. The town gathers at the docks when they see our ships. I thought this day would be a happy one when we first set sail. I thought I’d be overcome with joy to see my wife and child, but it’s her sister, her daughter, and the baby in her belly that fills me with sadness. Who will look after them now that my brother is gone? I’ll have to take that responsibility. My brother’s seed must live on.
We dock and the crew stagger off to reunite with their families. I am the last one off. I do not know what I’m going to say to my family. No words will ever be enough.
My wife rushes to me with my son in her arms. He’s grown. His head is full of hair. She buries both of them in my chest. It takes every bit of strength I have not to collapse.
“Where is Thorkel?” I look up to see Asfrid walking to the ship with her daughter in her arms. “Where is my husband?”
I can’t even fight the tears welling up in my eyes. I have to tell her. Arni looks up at me and her eyes seem to lose the joy they held as she sees the pain in mine.
“I’m sorry, Asfrid,” Rognvald says as he approaches her. “He… He sacrificed himself so we could get away.”
“No…” she says as she looks to the ship, still searching. Her eyes fall on me. “Please, Bothvar. Tell me this isn’t true. Please tell me Rognvald is lying.”
I tear my eyes away. “He tells the truth. Thorkel is dead.”
She nearly collapses, but Rognvald holds her steady.
“Move aside,” I hear father say as he and mother push through the crowd. When he sees me, his eyes go wide. “Is it true? Tell me what happened. Did Thorkel fall?”
I nod as the words get caught in my throat. Rognvald steps forward. “I’m sorry, Beorcol. He went out like a true Viking. He sacrificed himself. He, Varin, Styrkar, and Saksis took the ship we captured and rammed it into the elven war ship, crippling it so we could escape.”
My father’s eyes turn to rage as he grabs Rognvald’s jerkin. “Why weren’t you on that ship instead of my son?”
“He was in command. I tried, but he wouldn’t allow it,” Rognvald says, fear and regret dripping off his voice.
“That means nothing to me,” father growls. He turns on the other crew. “Were none of you brave enough to step up and take his place? What kind of Vikings are you?”
His eyes land on me. “And you… He was your brother. You just let him go? Why didn’t you stop him?”
I let go of Arni and step past her to face him. “You’re right, father. I am a coward. I am not worthy of being the brother of Thorkel. Nor am I worthy of being a Viking or your son.”
The smack he delivered sent me to my knees. “You are pathetic. Look at you. Your brother is dead and you act like a sheep. Where is your anger? Are you even my son? Vikings do not feel sorry for themselves. We get stronger and we get revenge!”
I look up at him, and the fire inside me rekindles. The elf with the fire red hair burns in my eyes. “You’re right, father. I promise I will stop at nothing until I kill the bastard that murdered Thorkel. I’ll rip his heart out.”
Father takes a deep breath as he stares down at me with vile content. “Good. Leave my sight until you do.”
He turns and walks away. My mother bends down to help me up, but I jerk away from her. “Bothvar…”
My wife steps up to me, but I push past her. “I know what I must do. I must get stronger. I will be the strongest warrior there is, and then I’ll kill that bastard elf. I’ll cut his head off and bring it back to father. I promise I’ll avenge Thorkel and the others. I’ll kill every last one of them on that ship.”
Without looking back, I leave them all behind. I grab what I need: my ax, my pickaxe, my bow with a full quiver, my fishing rod and net, a bedroll, and some spare clothes all packed up in a travel bag. I grab the case I had long forgotten. The old wooden case. I open it to find that bright, radiant, gold and white hammer. I go to lift it but shout and pull my hand away. It burnt my hand. What is the name of the gods? It didn’t do that when I took it so long ago.
It felt warm but good to hold it. Like everything was going to be alright. Now I can’t even touch it. What is the deal? I close the case and shove it into the corner of my room. Stupid hammer. I don’t need it, anyway. The hammer I’m after is far better and stronger. Only the strongest of the strongest can lift it. And that will be me. I will lift it, and I will be strong enough to kill that bastard elf. The red hair Demon. He will pay. I’ll bash his skull in with that crimson hammer. I’ll feed the sharks with his dead, headless corpse. The sea will run red with the blood of him and his crew. I’ll burn his ship down and send it to the bottom of the deepest depths. He and the rest of the elves. They will all feel my wrath. Every last one of them. I grab my pack and put a different hammer in. My wife stands at the door as I turn to leave. She holds our son. The look on her face deeply bothers me, but I know I can’t stay. She’s concerned, saddened, and afraid. Her eyes are full of tears. “Where will you go?”
“I think you already know.” I put down my pack and walk up to her, pulling them both into my arms. “I need to find the strength to avenge my brother.”
She leans up and kisses my cheek before she pulls away to look into my eyes. “And you think that hammer will give it to you? Are you sure that is what it is meant for?”
“What other purpose would a hammer like that have? I am certain that no one but the strongest can lift it. I will be the one to gain such strength and wield that hammer. Those elves will pay for the death of my brother.”
With one hand holding our son, who’s now big enough to rest on her hip and cling to her. His little blonde hair is covering his head. Those blue eyes seem to share his mother’s worry. How can I leave this boy? This beautiful boy.
But it is my duty to avenge my brother. I must do it. How else will he enter the halls of Olaf? I lean down and kiss the brow of my son. Then I take my wife’s soft face in my hands and give her one last kiss. Nuzzling my nose against her own beautiful one. She kisses me and threatens to not let go, but she understands. She knows my pain all too well. She’ll stay with her sister and my brother’s daughter and unborn son. She knows what I must do. She may not like it, but she understands.
I know she will be looked after and taken care of by my siblings, my mother, and my father. Even though he is angry with me, he will not let any harm come to my wife and child or my brother’s wife and children. I stroke her soft cheek, wiping away the tears before giving her one more kiss. She holds onto me for as long as she can, but I must let her go. As much as it pains me, I do just that and walk away.
I leave Stormfront. The sadness in her eyes hurt more than any cut that a sword or ax could ever give. I wanted to hold her as long as I could, but I owe my brother a debt. I will avenge him. The mountains are where I must go. When I come back, no one will ever be able to defeat me.
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