865AD

  Hanging in the sky like lacerated sheep, the clouds bled with forceful rage. Violet blood gushed from their wounds in forked spikes of lightning, impacting the ground with a sound like a crack; Mj?lnir being struck against an Asgardian anvil.

  Thor is angry today, Ragnar thought, glancing upwards through hazed vision and swollen eyelids. It seems the gods have not abandoned me yet.

  Wrapped in a thrall’s rags, Ragnar sat contemplatively in his cage, lifted high in the treeline, hoisted on fraying ropes and strapped to ancient trunks. Soldiers laughed and made merry in the camp below, their king lauding over them, sat high on a throne forged of bones and the swords of his enemies.

  Saxons always put their faith in swords; they are captivated by them. Ragnar spat on that misguided love of inferior weaponry. A man dies just as easily by axe, seax, or spear, easier to use in the shield wall.

  Despite their differences, Ragnar liked this land. Fertile soil and riches ripe for the taking, a venerable Valhalla compared to the harsh Danish soil his people worked. If he could just conquer this place, everything would work out. He knew it to be true. No more famine, no more waring over morsels of bad land, no more needless deaths from going a-viking. His people would flourish here; their riches would grow. It was the perfect land from which he could rule an empire.

  That was why he had come here, not just to raid as he had countless times before both here and abroad, but to conquer, to settle, to pave the way for his sons, his people, to live prosperously in a land that gave as much as it took.

  Why do the gods spit on me? He wondered, flashes of anger pulsing through his blood, a caged beast, shackled and frothing at the bit. “Why have you turned your back on me, Odin?” He asked the sky. There was no answer, but the droplets of heavy rain battering his red, sea-washed skin.

  “Shut up you heathen dog!” One of the Saxon guardsmen called out from beneath him. Then he felt a sharp pain as the tip of a spear prodded his backside through the cage bars. “Your time is coming, not long now,” he sneered, laughing at his own cruelty.

  Ragnar did not reply, but instead looked down at his calloused hands, the hands of a warrior, of one who was not too proud to work the oar. Njord had blessed him on countless journeys. At least he had not forsaken him. A death at sea was no way to reach Valhalla.

  “Perhaps you want me at your table,” he muttered to himself. “Do you favour me so greatly that you would usher me from this world before my time? Is Ragnar?k finally upon us?”

  That would make sense. If Odin needed more warriors for the fated battle, then of course he would call Ragnar to his side. He was chief among the battle-famed after all. His was a story that would last until the final days of Midgard, maybe even after that. And if that was the case, then it would be up to his sons: Bjorn, Ivar, Ubba, Sigurd, and Halfdan to carry on his great work, for he was certain that it was not yet their time.

  Peering through the bars of his raised cage, Ragnar glared at King Aella; A grendel in the Saxon tongue, though to his people, the monstrosity would be called a troll. As fat as he was large, his thick, bark-like skin was a greyish brown colour and covered with knobs and warts. His teeth were the colour of tree trunks and his beady eyes looked more like obsidian marbles than anything belonging to a human. In fact, the only thing that was not troll like was the thick, coarse hair which covered most of his body.

  A golden crown with glittering jewels sat tilted on his beaten in, boulder of a head and Ragnar thought that his thought-caged must be damaged as such an imperfect shape could hardly contain any real knowledge. Stubby, ringed fingers wrapped around a large, bejewelled sword with unfamiliar runes etched into it. He had been told once that the runes were from a language called Latin, the writings of their god, but all Ragnar could see was a troll holding a pretty sword, and battle was not a pretty thing.

  Standing up from his throne of bone and blades, King Aella looked over his camp of soldiers. All wearing the same colour waffenrock: bright yellow with a black eagle embroidered on the front – a weak colour. Holding up his grubby hand, Aella silenced the warriors and cleared his throat, shooting a thick glob of spit from his mouth.

  “Many years ago,” he began in a rough yet pompous voice, “a heathen Dane by the name of Ragnar Lodbrok attacked our shores raiding Lindisfarne monastery on the coast of our beloved Northumbria.” Soldiers booed and hissed, a few threw rocks up at Ragnar but missed. He looked down at one man in particular who was glaring at him and spat. The spittle dropped from his mouth like the pouring rain, splashing in between his eyes and he cursed at Ragnar, prodding at him with his spear tip.

  “This was an act of the devil,” Aella continued. “And on that day I swore, by the name of all mighty God, that I would deliver vengeance upon the Dane and return peace to our beautiful and holy land. By the grace of God, I beat the invaders and captured Ragnar Lodbrok. So, my brothers in Christ, I can finally look upon you and declare that today is that day.”

  Cacophonous cheering rang out around the camp, bouncing off the trees, filling Ragnar’s ears as he looked at the grendel and his bacraut soldiers. Eyes burning with hatred, thought-cage filled with blood-feud vengeance. Today would be the day he died, but tomorrow his sons would water the crops of Northumbria with the blood of his enemies; of that, he was certain.

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  Ragnar watched as Aella turned to the djoful who drank at his table. Rulers in their own right, these beasts had banded together to spring an ambush upon him. Of course, one as slimy and inept as Aella couldn’t have hoped to have captured him alone, not when he was Weave-blessed. He watched as they laughed, cheered, fattened their bellies with boar and applauded Aella’s speech. As he saw them now, they were the single biggest threat to the Norse world, a threat that his sons would one day have to face.

  Odin, if you are listening, I ask only that the Nornir’s Weave find its way to my son Bjorn. He thought, glancing skywards. My death will be the progenitor of his revenge-laden heart. He will crush the grendel family in your name and build an empire so large it can be seen from your great hall.

  Aella motioned with his fat fingers and a group of men pulled at ropes buried under leaves on the ground beneath Ragnar’s cage. Wet wood grinded over mud-soaked rocks revealing a dark, square pit. Ragnar could not see what lurked in the darkness, but the faint sound of hissing filled his thought-cage with visions of J?rmungandr’s children.

  “Do you have any last words, Ragnar Lodbrok? You must be scared knowing what awaits you.” King Aella asked, smiling up at him, opening his arms to reveal sparkling brynja hidden beneath a cloak of fine satin. His men laughed, a few jeers were shouted and some more poorly thrown rocks were hurled at the prisoner.

  “I will not die on my arse,” Ragnar said, grunting as he struggled to stand on the bars beneath him, ankles and wrists shackled together, the small cage preventing him from standing to his full height. Gripping the cage, he pressed his bearded chin into the cold metal bars and grinned down at the grendel.

  “I am not afeared, troll. I may die today, but tomorrow I will feast in the warrior’s hall. The All Father is calling me home, I can practically taste the mead already, smell the roasted pig – a nice distraction from your rancid stench. Though I think it is only fair to warn you that if you see my death as the path to peace then you are dead wrong.” He laughed, eyes flashing, teeth glinting as a fork of lightning struck a tree a few yards away, flames burst from its bark and the soldiers jumped, gasping and gaping at the old, cackling Dane. “Oh, how the little piglets will grunt when they hear of how the old boar suffered. One day my sons will sail here and you will fear their names. You will cower before the mighty axe of Bjorn, son of Ragnar and the great heathen army he will raise. When he is done, this land will be home to new gods, and your people will be made thralls.” He laughed the unhinged cackle of a doomed man and Aella took an involuntary step backwards, eyes widening.

  “That is enough!” Aella shouted, swiping his meaty palm through the air, spittle flying from his lips, face reddened. “Your bravado means nothing now, your false gods do not exist, Ragnar, but you will find that out yourself soon enough. Open the cage!”

  Worried soldiers scurried beneath Ragnar’s feet, glancing up at him with glistening, fearful eyes as they tentatively obeyed their grendel king. With shaky hands, the spear wielder prodded the latch underneath the raised cage and the bars swung open.

  Air whooshed past Ragnar, blowing his filthy, braided hair as he dropped with a soft thud into the pit. Hissing filled his ears; scales brushed against his skin. Sharp pain invaded his thighs as fangs bit into his withered skin, but he did not grimace, did not allow the torturous feeling of venom coursing through veins to show on his stone-like face. Another bite, then another. This was not the battle-famed death he had wanted, but he hoped that it would be enough to please the gods.

  Odin, do not forsake me now, he thought as his vision began to fade and fangs pierced his lower lip and then his cheek. Through blackened vision, he stared up at the sky one final time, black, angry clouds rampaged above the treetops. The sound of horses’ hooves, Valkyries coming to take him home.

  Behind his eyelids something flashed, an image of vermillion lightning and circling abyssal clouds over a shimmering, glowing, golden hall that stretched for leagues across a land of aquamarine waterfalls and iridescent cobbled roads.

  Is this Asgard? He thought.

  Towering high above the longhouse stood a huge figure as black as night. Armoured in shadow, heavily armed, with crimson eyes that bled oozing tears of forked lightning; Ragnar could not tell is this was a djoful, Jotun, or even a god.

  No, I am seeing Ragnarok, the fated end of the realms, of that I am certain.

  Lifting its heinous boot, it stamped and the ground split open, the longhouse cracked in two, a wave of force rolling out in a shockwave of clouded dust so powerful that despite being in Aella’s pit of snakes, Ragnar could have sworn he felt it himself.

  Then thousands of drengir spilled out of the cracked longhouse, screaming, charging, weapons raised, spittle flying.

  A group of figures dressed in dazzling light led the charge, gods all: Odin, Freja, Njord, Thor and in front of them leading the charge: a single man. Large, blood-soaked, wielding an axe. His blonde braids flew behind him, the inked bear on his temple gleamed with sweat-slick. Then he was jumping, leaping high into the air. He reached the top of the shrouded, black giant and punched it hard in the face, sending it staggering back in an inhuman show of strength.

  Spinning in the air, turned from the blowback, the man looked at Ragnar with the kind of eyes that exuded hard-gained power and Ragnar managed to glimpse the face of this god, this violent saviour, a face he knew well – albeit far older.

  Bjorn? He wondered. My son… is this a vision of things to come?

  Then the vision faded as quickly as it came and he opened his eyes breathing a sigh of relief. Aella peered over the edge of the snake pit, beady, black eyes boring into him.

  “This is what happens to those who dare to invade my kingdom,” he spat, “goodbye, Ragnar Lodbrok. May you rot in Hell.” Looking up at someone who Ragnar could not see, he nodded and then the sound of grating, wet wood filled his ears once more and he was left in complete darkness.

  Warning: catastrophic system failure.

  Nornir’s Weave is shutting down.

  Subject: Ragnar Lodbrok… status… deceased.

  Searching for inheritor…

  ….

  ….

  New subject identified…

  Bjorn Ragnarsson.

  Old Norse Glossary:

  There are lots of Old Norse words (which are used more like Pig-Latin) used in this fiction, below you’ll find a miniature dictionary for them. It is also worth noting that many Norse words which have a “D” towards the end of the word are pronounced with a “th” sound. For example, brodir would be pronounced bro-th-ir. In the same vein, the letter “J” is pronounced as a soft “y” sound in Old Norse. So heja would be pronounced “he-ya” kind of like that song by OutKast.

  Aesir – Norse Gods from Asgard

  Althing – Meaning “All Thing”, this word means gathering or council. This is also the name of the Icelandic parliament, the oldest surviving parliament in the world founded in 930AD

  Asgard – The heavenly dwelling of the Aesir gods and slain warriors

  Bacraut – Asshole

  Brodir – Brother

  Brodur – Brothers

  Brynja – A type of chainmail

  Drakkar – A large warship known for its single sail and vast storage space, typically could hold 70-120 people.

  Drengr – Tested and brave warrior

  Drengir – Plural of drengr

  Djoful – Devil / demon

  Fifl - Fool

  Fukka – I’m sure you can guess what this means…

  Galdr – Magic born of runes of incantations

  Galinn – Crazy

  Galkn - Monster

  Gellir - Screamer

  Grendel – A troll from the Anglo-Saxon epic poem Beowulf

  Heja – A cheer, often used in place of “come on” when referring to a team

  Holmganga – Single combat / a one on one duel

  Karvi – A small longship, which was able to sail in shallow waters, such as rivers. Typically crewed by 25-30 people.

  Jo Furr – Warriors of the cult of the boar, known for wearing helmets with the boar insignia and their worship of Freyr and Freyja.

  Jotun – Frost giants from Jotunheim (a mystical ice-world from Norse mythology)

  Midgard – The mortal plane (Earth)

  Mj?lnir – Thor’s hammer

  Saga – A story, usually told in poetic verse

  Seidr – Ritual magic, often associated with religious leaders

  Slefja – Dribbler

  Skald – A poet / storyteller

  Skitr – A stronger word for poop

  Skreyja – Incompetent

  Tik – Female dog

  Ulfhedinn – Warriors of the Odin cult, famed for wearing wolf skin headdress

  Vikingr – Raiding / to go raiding

  Winnigas – Wrapping, usually worn from the ankle to just below the knee.

  Mythology Stories Referenced:

  Occasionally mythological tales are referenced within this story. Norse and Danes told these tales often as fables (stories which have a message and help people to learn things). As such, some of them are referenced in conversation. For those which were not explained in the story itself, I have expanded on them here. However this is not an exhaustive list of mythological stories and is merely a brief expansion to help moments in Battle Born Berserkr make more sense. If you are interested in learning more about Norse mythos or simply want to read some of these stories yourself, there is a wealth of knowledge online and multiple great books available which tell these timeless tales.

  Hodur & Baldur – In this story Loki tricked Hodur into throwing an arrow made of mistletoe at Baldur after discovering that it was his only weakness (Baldur could not be harmed by anything else). Baldur died immediately and his blind brother Hodur was killed by a new god called Valli.

  Nornir – The Nornir were female beings of both benevolent and malevolent intent. They draw water from the well of Urdr to nourish Yggdrasill (the tree of life) and prevent it from rotting. The Norse believed that they controlled the fates of both mortals and gods, often depicted as weaving strings of fate on large looms. There were three main Nornir, Skuld being one of them. Think of them as the Norse equivalent to Fates in Graeco-Roman mythology.

  Odin & his ravens: Huginn and Muninn:

  J?rmungandr:

  Midgard (Earth / the realm of mortals), biting its own tail. Thought to be located under the sea, it was believed that when he released his tail from his jaws it would signal of the coming of Ragnar?k (the end of the world).

  Ragnar?k:

  Ivaldi (the inspiration behind the dwarves we know and love from many modern fantasy stories) to create unbreakable chains to bind Fenrir for all eternity. Of course, in this story one can’t defeat fate no matter how hard they try, even if they are a god.