“The Wolves Shall Inherit”

A Retelling of the ATLAKVIĐA

As found in the Poetic Edda

By Frater Anglachael

The rains had subsided, and were now little more than an icy drizzle. The night was indeed black, dark clouds were roiling with storm and riven with the thunderous anger of uncaring gods. A longboat, heavy with spoils, cut through the waves of the rough, charcoal waters, weaving its way between islands of ice.

At the bow was the skald Bjorn Hornklofi, clutching the dragon-carved prow with frostbitten fingers. Bjorn pulled in the collar of his wolf-hide cloak tighter around his neck, burying his cheek into the frost-encrusted fur. His eyes burned with cold and the strain of his watch. They were far north of the Blackmoors now, and the last of the ships of the pursuing southerners had turned back, their hulls not built for travel into the freezing waters of the howling icy northern seas of the Evercold.

A flash of lightning momentarily splashes light on the scene, illuminating a glittering white mountain of ice directly ahead of them. Bjorn turns his head back and yells out to the oarsmen “Hard to port!! Hard or we’re done for!” Somehow his fellows manage to hear him over the din of the sea, and with the precision of a trained and seasoned crew, the oarsmen on the port side of the ship pull their paddles from the waters as the starboard rowers heave onward.

The ship lists hard on its side as it turns sharply, sending unsecured items rolling to dash against the railing as the crew struggled to avoid colliding into the gigantic slab of floating ice. Bjorn could hear the wailing of the female captives as they were tossed about the center of the ship, bound hand and foot and unable to steady themselves in the sudden tumult.

The skald turned back to face the iceberg, watching it loom up as they were propelled forward by sheer momentum. As they skirted around the gargantuan block of ice, the ship came so close that he was seized by a momentary impulse to reach out and touch the thing. Shaking his head free of such madness, Bjorn peers forward, scanning the waters below for a sign of submerged reefs of ice.

Coming so close to an iceberg was treacherous luck indeed. Even though they had barely managed to avoid a direct collision with the tip, much of its mass lay just below the surface of the waves. An iceberg was a deadly thing to a boat for almost a half mile radius around the actual visible part.

It is a persistent irony that so many men who live upon the sea never learn how to swim in it, causing a deep-seated fear and reverence of the dark waters for many sailors. Still, to plunge into such waters would be suicidal, for even if you weren’t dashed upon the rocks and ice or drowned beneath the colossal waves, the numbing cold would kill you within five minutes, freezing you solid within an hour. So what is the point? You might as well try and learn to swim the narcotic waters of Styx, or in the sulphurous brines of the Abyss itself.

Minutes passed like hours when the icy winds blew, feeling as if they were bellowed from the gullet of a frost giant. Perhaps the Norns overlooked the skald’s small company of reavers, or perhaps the gods had their own designs for them. But for whatever reason, the ship manages to struggle free from the death-grip of the half-submerged monolith.

 

 

As they glide past, Bjorn croaks out “Ymir’s Teeth!” more as a proclamation then a curse, for from the further side, he recognizes the structure that he has seen so many times before from the shores of his home. Ymir’s Teeth were a series of icebergs that acted as a sort of natural break-wall, hemming in the ice floe from his own fjords. Now that they were past the dangers of the floes, Bjorn could relax. They were in the home stretch of their journey, less than a league’s rowing to go.

The high-prowed longship slid silently through the fjord, the only sounds were the creaking of the oars and the murmur of waves breaking on the sides of the hull. As the tensions subside, Bjorn can feel the soreness of days on the open sea creep into his muscles. He looks back at the warriors manning the oars and almost immediately notes the clouds of steam that pours off their skin. Muscles are pulled into taut knots, and beards are encrusted with frost. Water that had sprayed over the sides of the ship looks like it had frozen in mid-splash, giving the cockpit of the ship in an eerie, organic cast.

It was well past the witching hour when the crew of Viking reavers pushed the boat ashore. Yet more work was ahead as they unloaded the cargo and lashed down the ship for the night. It seemed like an eternity before Bjorn could fall down into the furs of his accustomed place next to the hearth of Haraldr Hárfagri’s mead-hall. There he sat, unmoving for almost an hour, as he let the heat seep back into his being. Net yet 25 winters have passed since Bjorn’s birth, yet on nights like this he felt much older. The skald doesn’t dwell on the thought, for the lives of the Northmen pass swiftly enough.

He rummages through his cloak and the still freezing hauberk underneath to pull out a medallion. He examines its surface in the soft glow of the firelight. The flames sparkle off of the golden, gem-encrusted cross-wheel that he took from one of the weak southern clerics. For the first time he notes a bit of dried blood in the crevice of the filigree. He moves to wipe it clean, but then thinks the better of it. Somehow the blood of the priest staining the medallion of his own god seems a fitting adornment to the Northman.

Bjorn’s lips curl into a grim smile as his mind drifts back to the days before. He closes his eyes as he recalls the sacking of the village’s church. Bjorn had entered the temple with three of his fellows, for he had heard that the Dogmatic priests used golden utensils in their ceremonies. The priests themselves were almost too easy to dispatch, so easy that it unnerved the skald. If such a treasure was so poorly guarded, why hadn’t it been plundered before now? But there they were, sparkling chalices on silken cloth, golden dishes, candlesticks, holy symbols, and the churches’ tithe box laden with coins. There was more wealth here then even in the village chieftain’s hall, and much easier to get at.

He thinks again of his encounter with the head priest, a shriveled old frog who shrieked at him as he removed golden symbols from behind the alter. Already drunk from the heady, oily sacramental wine in the ornate golden chalice, the skald had just stared at the priest, more absorbed in the contents of his new drinking cup then with the old man’s enraged protests. Their god may be nothing more than a weak old ghost, but his ‘blood’ was potent enough.

A deity with wine for blood, now that was a god the Northman would like to meet, if only to bleed him dry. The old priest demanded that the skald drop the holy symbol immediately, for it was a sacred relic from the southern empire. Bjorn complied, dropping the golden icon to the floor. As the priest bent down to retrieve his precious artifact, the skald slammed a boot into the old man’s midsection, throwing him to the floor. Still swigging the sacramental wine in one hand, the skald withdrew his broadsword and skewered the old man where he lay.

A woman’s shrieking erupts from behind him. He turns to see the berserker Leif Gundersson introducing himself to one of the nuns upon the alter. He watches this for a few moments, thinking how nice it was that the Wodan-touched warrior was using something other than his axe for a change. A weird, gurgling chanting captured the skald’s attention and he turned again to look at the priest, still stuck upon the tip of his sword. The old man was praying to his god for deliverance.

Not necessarily a religious man himself, Bjorn was nevertheless not willing to take the chance that his views of the afterlife were wrong. He twisted his sword, already imbedded into the old priest’s belly, erasing the sounds the cleric made into hideous screams. If the old man wanted to meet his god, who was he to get in the way? The priest could go to his long awaited paradise, and Bjorn could pick up the gold the priest obviously no longer needed.

The skald looks up to see Thorfel emptying silver urns of chrism across the varnished pews and tapestries. The titanic blond warrior looks over to Leif and his new ‘mistress’ on the altar. “Be ye almost finished with yer wooin’ o’ th’ maidens? We’ve work to be done.” As if to punctuate his statement, he kicked over a table laden with burning candles, setting some of the tapestries hanging on the walls afire.

The Northmen took all they wanted from the village and burnt the rest to the ground. Their bounty included 5 casks of wine, 10 of beer, 400 lbs. of linens and other cloths, 200 lbs. of precious gems and metals, 20 spears, 13 swords, a strange looking bow with a trigger, 3 suits of fine Imperial chainmail, 2 pigs, a cow and 5 of the prettiest village girls as slaves. All the chickens had died on the return journey, so there would be no eggs for a while, but at least the bitter cold kept the meat fresh enough. All that remained of the poor northern seacoast village now were smoking ruins and a handful of survivors to bury the rest.

 

 

Bjorn was slowly falling into slumber as the rest of his crew were divvying up and fighting over their exact share of the loot. The skald had just settled upon a dream when he was rudely awakened by the rousing shouts of his kinsmen. Now that the bounty had been satisfactorily divided up, the reavers were all in the mood for drinking and story-telling. As the company’s resident minstrel, it was Bjorn’s place to start the tale-telling. Others could do it, but Bjorn’s knowledge of history and faraway lands were deemed the best of the clan. The skald yawned and stretched, none too happy at the disruption of his sorely-needed rest.

“Come Bjorn Hornklofi, fulfill your skaldic duties and recite for us one of the ancient lays of our forefathers.” Spoke their elder king, Haraldr Hárfagri. Haraldr was a fat old man, but plenty of muscle still dwelt underneath, and he held the respect of the clan. He stared at the young minstrel with wolfish-blue eyes, as honey-mead dribbled from his snow-white beard.

He called to one of the slave-wenches, “Fiarór, give Bjorn some fire-gold to warm his bones. It seems his were quenched in the godman’s house.”

A hearty laugh fills the hall. Leif had been bragging. The slave, a fine red-haired slip of a girl was trembling as she filled his cup. Fiarór had been taken in a raid some six months before from a village that neighbored the one they sacked on their most recent foray. Her low-cut chemise was beginning to swell and it was obvious she was passing the cusp into womanhood. Bjorn brushed aside a lock of her hair to sooth her fears. His handsome face and disarming smile were welcomed enough. She smiled at this and it seemed to calm her nerves.

As she walked away, the skald determined that he would have her on this night, assuming exhaustion and mead didn’t claim him first. He hoped that she would struggle, at least a little. It was no fun when they just passively laid there.

“Very well then, since I am not to be allowed any sleep till I’ve told you all a bed-time story…” The hall erupts in laughter. “What do you want to hear?”

“Tell us the story of the fall of the Leafbeard!” Yells out one of the warriors.

“No! I want to hear about the dark ylfe and his razing of the emperor’s halls!” Yells out another.

“How about one that doesn’t take three days and nights to tell, hmm?” Quips the skald, to which there is laughter at the expense of the more eager warriors. The skald looks over to Haroldr. “And you, my chief? Have you any preferences for the mead-telling of this night?”

The old chieftain looks off into the distance, searching his memory for a tale that he has not heard in a while. Soon his far-off look mellows into a wistful smile. “Tell us the story of Atlakviđa, for I have not heard that one since your old master Saxo the Learned left us to join Odin’s company.”

“Atlakviđa,” the skald repeats. “Yes, I know that one well, for it was a favorite of his. I first learned of that tale from my master, Saxo. And he told me that he learned it himself from his reading of the Codex Regius when he visited the famed libraries of Waterdeep, far to the south of here. The Codex was written by the legendary skald Finnur Jónsson, who compiled a number of ancient lays of our forefathers. How such a book wound up in the library of such a place so far from our people he never told me, though I have often wondered what other books of our race can be found there…”

“You are not threatening to leave us, I hope, Bjorn?” Asks the chief.

“No, no. The wanderlust has not gripped me just yet, my chief. Not yet. Finnur claimed that the story was first recorded by the skald known only by his ylfish penname of Seewölf. That man is said to be the maker of the legendary artifact of Vingilde.”

“I have never heard of such things.” States the chieftain, whose tone conveys increased disinterest in the subject.

“But of course, the histories of the ylfes are of little consequence to us. Now, where to begin?”

***

The iron colored sky hung low as the sun fell behind the mountains to rest in the distant western seas. The Vrûnnish messenger Nefrodor urged his mount through the deepening snowdrifts, ever northwards deep into Burgundii territory. The Bergundii were a fierce and barbarous people, but then so were the Vrûn. Still, though the two peoples had joined together through alliances and marriage, Nefrodor was uneasy. He never cared for the northern folk who seemed to actually prefer the bitter frost to warm sunshine.

The mere thought of sunshine caused Nefrodor’s mind to drift back to the green pastures of his youth, far to the east and south in the great expanses that the savages of the west called the Yrchish Hinterlands. Nefrodor sneered. While it was true that orcish tribes roamed freely across the Hinterlands, it was the Vrûn who kept their numbers in check. Indeed, it was they, with their legendary skills in both archery and horsemanship that kept the yrch from spilling over and annihilating the ‘civilized world.’ These people owed the Vrûn their thanks, indeed their loyalty and subservience. For the Vrûn were powerful, and power is the basis of all righteousness.

Nefrodor was a typical specimen of his race. He was somewhat short, with a wiry, compact build, sallow skin and long, straight black hair wrapped up in his peaked helmet. His eyes were narrow and dark, like two flints beneath his thick black brows. The edges of his thin mustaches drooped well below his lips, now frozen like two black icicles hanging from his face. The Vrûn wore brightly colored silks, with midnight blues and scarlet, embroidered with silver stars, but these were hidden under layers of boiled-leather armor, padding and furs.

The wind began to howl a long and mournful dirge. Yet it seemed to Nefrodor that he heard another wind join in, and then yet another. The Vrûnnish horseman cursed, realizing that it was not the wind but rather the wolves that were howling down the mountainside, eager for their nightly hunt. It was late in the season of a particularly brutal winter, and the graybacks had grown lean.

His horse, a sturdy breed of the Hinterlands neighed, signaling that it too had caught their scent upon the winds. The rider clutched at his chest, feeling the lump of the scroll that was his charge, and he urged his mount on further still. The mead-hall of Gunnarr, war-chief of the Burgundii was not too far ahead, just beyond the next ridge. And with a little luck, he should have it within sight before the fell creatures got too close.

 

 

Hogni Niflungar looked up from his work at the sounds of howling. His gray eyes scanned the snow covered alpines in the valley. The Burgundii prince was finishing the lessons of butchering a deer with his son when he heard the wolves’ mournful cries. His arms were covered up to the elbows in blood as he tried to staunch the flow from the deer’s artery after his young student slipped with his knife. The Burgundii warrior looked over his shoulder and called to one of his men. “Hialli, come here and help finish this.”

He looked back to his son. The child of 8 winters looked up. “I’m sorry father, I didn’t mean to lose all the blood.”

Hogni laughed, brushing a lock of hair from the boy’s face, leaving a bloody streak. “There is nothing to be ashamed of, boy. You are here to learn, and that is what you are doing.”

Hogni hears the light crunching of footfalls on snow behind him as Hialli approaches. The slender man crouches down and begins to help the boy continue with the butchering as Hogni grabs a handful of snow and stands up, scrubbing the deer’s blood from his arms. The warrior prince walks over to the grizzled old hunt master Vigorn.

The ranger was the master of his craft, and his belt had indeed grown long for it. But now Vigorn was starring up off into the distance, his keen senses reading something. Hofni stood there quietly, knowing better then to disturb the master hunter’s concentration. “A rider approaches.” Hogni turns to see Vigorn’s apprentice riding hard down the side of the valley.

The rider reins his mount in as he approaches, yelling out “Jägermeister! Jägermeister! The wolves have descended from the mountains!” The hunt master glares back at the young ranger.

“Yes stripling, we have ears. You needn’t come rushing back here like the scourge of the gods itself were set upon your back.”

“Jägermeister, they are hunting a Vrûn, one of King Atli’s men.”

Vigorn says nothing but looks at Hogni with dark eyes. The hunt master never spoke ill of the eastern conquerors, but his contempt for them was plain enough. The old man turns his back to the rider, busying himself with some menial arrangements on his own mount’s accoutrements. Hogni nods to the rider as he walks over to his own horse.

“Take me to the Vrûn.” Mounting up, Hogni turns to say something to the old huntsman, but the latter speaks first. “A man’s arrival heralded by the wolves…Tis a foul omen.” The huntsman looks directly into his prince’s eyes. “Nothing good will come of this.”

Hogni has neither the time nor the inclination to argue with the old ranger and he turns his horse sharply away, plunging off into the forest after the rider.

 

 

Up the steep, tree-covered slopes of the valley they rode, and ever did the mournful singing of the graybacks remind them of their purpose. Through the skill of the horses and the cunning of their riders they made fast time over the treacherous terrain and soon came upon the Vrûn in a level clearing, his horse dead and surrounded by a snarling pack of beasts as they closed in upon their prize.

But the Vrûn, for his part, was having none of it, and he had already sent two of the creatures to run upon the shadowy plains of the hereafter. His sword was drenched in blood, but so was his left side. It seemed he had received as well as he had given. The snow about him was pink with throat-wine and the easterner growled back at the wolves so that you could almost believe he was one of their kind.

Without pause Hogni introduces himself to the snarling pack by jumping off his horse and sending the closest wolf to join his fellows on the gray plains of Niflheim with one clean stroke of his blade. With the momentum of the pack broken the following moments are a chaotic blur of fangs, steel and blood, the snows melting under the hot red rains.

The pack withdraws to the safety of the shadows, as a deep growling, deeper than any of the others rumbles into their ears. The alpha wolf, till now sitting back like a general steps forward into the clearing to assert his pack’s right to their prey. Spattered with blood, the prince of the Niflunger squares of to meet the challenge of this wolf-chieftain. The wolf is significantly larger than his fellows, standing almost four feet high at the shoulder and as long as a horse. Its fangs look long enough to bite right through a man.

Hogni twirls his blade like a windmill in show of challenge. “Come, wolf-chief, let us not keep the war-gulls waiting, they hunger for their main course.”

The gigantic wolf leaps at the warrior who spins around to sidestep the creature’s lunge, turning to strike at the back of its head. The blade does not find the intended target of the wolf’s skull, but does manage to slice off part of its ear. Howling in pain and rage at this indignity, the wolf turns again to face the man. It grows out something that almost sounds like speech.

“Fight or flee dog,” replies Hogni, “I’ve no time to parley with the likes of you.”

Again the wolf lunges at him, but this time the warrior stands his ground, his sword held straight out. Reversing his grip at the last second, Hogni plunges the blade deep into the outstretched maw of the beast as it lunges towards his own throat. The weight and momentum of the alpha wolf is tremendous, but the fierce warrior proves the stronger, absorbing the force without yielding an inch of ground. So great was the leap of the wolf, that Hogni’s blade sinks down its throat to the hilt, a good two feet of the blade sticks out of the back of the creature’s head. With the death of their leader, the rest of the pack flees up the mountainside to lick their wounds and choose another master.

Nefrodor regards his unlooked for saviors, as yet unconvinced of their intentions. It would be no boon for him that he was delivered from savage beasts who ran on four legs, only to fall to those that strode on two. He holds his weapon out defiantly at the two men. “You think me weak and defeated? That I am easy prey for reavers in the deep woods? Come any closer and you’ll find out how thirsty the blades of the Vrûn can be!”

“Course words for one who was just delivered from the bellies of heath-rangers. Or perhaps you prefer the company of ravens?” Hogni looks up and the Vrûn’s eyes follow his gaze to the large black birds that perch upon the upper branches of the trees. The dark birds are looking down at the men, patiently waiting for their impending meal. The Vrûn hides his shiver of fright at the thought of such an ignoble end. “You would do well to aid me, northern dog. For I am Nefrodor, a warrior of King Atli’s hall, and he is as ruthless towards his enemies as he is generous to those that would aid him.”

“Your kind is known well enough to me, Vrûn. I am Hogni, a prince of my people and brother to Gunnarr who is chieftain of the Niflungar, greatest of the tribes of the Burgundii.”

“Excelent,” Nefrodor replies, “Then you are a servant of one of my master’s many servants in these lands.”

The taut creaking of the leather bindings on Hogni’s sword grip can be heard as his hand clenches it in an act of barely subdued rage at the designation. Sensing that he may be pushing the limits of this savage’s patience, Nefrodor softens his speech somewhat. “It was to your very chieftain’s hall that I was bound before being waylaid by these beasts. I come offering a message from…our master. And I bring a gift from one of his wives, your sister, the Lady Gudrun.”

Hofni steps upon the gigantic wolf’s head, pulling free his blade. A ribbon of blood trails out after the tip, leaving a red crescent upon the snow. The prince grabs a handful of snow to clean his blade before sheathing it. “Then let us be off,” he says, hoisting the wolf onto his horse’s back. “For such talk more befits a warm mead-hall then a cold glen.” Hofni secures the wolf to his horse with cord as the other rider helps the wounded Vrûnnish messenger to his own horse. They ride back to hall of Gunnarr in silence, each taking counsel with their own thoughts.

 

 

The hearth-fires crackled like the breath of an angry dragon, warming the hearts and bones of the warriors seated at the two great long-tables. Pork, potatoes, scallions and gravy were upon every plate, and the blood of the vine flowed as free as the hearty laughter in that place. Hogni sat on rich furs to the right of his brother, Gunnarr, chief of the Niflungar peoples.

The leaves had for awhile turned gold and crimson in Gunnarr’s life, and the first snows were already dusting the ground, as they were upon his hair and beard. But it would be a fool who thought him weaker for it. His eyes still burned with blue flame, and the muscle still ran like iron cords under his skin. And unlike the men half his age, he had wrested much wisdom from the merciless years that draped over his shoulders like the shields of his defeated enemies did upon the walls of his grand hall. This much his men knew, and they honored him all the more for it.

Gunnarr drained the mead from his drinking-horn and stretched out his arm for more. He looks over to his brother who is regarding a small gold ring in his hands, a token from their sister. “And what is it that you see, brother?” He quietly asks.

Hogni’s finger flicks at the barely visible strand of wolf’s hair that is entwined upon the ring. “A message.” He replies.

“And what does this message say to you, hmm?”

“Treachery. Treachery from the one who has born it to us.”

Hogni looks upon the Vrûn with dark eyes. Nefrodor sat in the guest’s place of honor, his wounds tended to by maidens and his belly now quite full with meat and mead. The honey-wine had softened his wits as well as his temperament, and he was now relating the story of how he fought off a whole pack of starving wolves before the others stumbled upon the scene. “I had already sent four of the wretched creatures to the nether before your kinsmen arrived!”

“Aye,” adds Yngvi, the ranger’s apprentice who had accompanied Hogni, “and two were smote so well that even their corpses were sent to the otherworld.” At this the hall erupts in laughter at the inference of the Vrûn’s exaggerations.

“Yes, well…the others were further back along the path, where I was first attacked.”

“Tis a good thing we came along when we did,” Yngvi adds, “otherwise the graybacks would be as full as us right about now, and it would be the blood-swans who were drinking as deeply as Nefrodor!” Again more laughter as the Vrûn flushed with anger. It was only that his wits were so muddled with mead that he failed to take the bait. But Gunnarr sensed that the rough playing of his men were eating at the Vrûn’s brittle pride and decided to intervene before things got out of hand.

“So tell us, Nefrodor, what is this message of your master that you are said to bring to us this night, eh?”

The Vrûn gets up and turns to his host. Reaching into his tunic he grimaces in pain as the bandages strain under his movements as he reaches for the scroll that he has carried all this way.

“My lord sends his greetings to you, Gunnarr, chief of the Niflungar, greatest of the Burgundii tribes.”

Finding the scroll, he pulls it from under his leathers and hands it to Gunnarr. “King Atli has sent me here, riding on bit-clenching steed across the untracked expanse of Myrkvid, to ask that the two of you come to our benches, encircled by mighty hearths, and to visit my King and his queen, your sister, in his home. My lord wishes to renew our two people’s commitments of alliance and friendship.

“There you may chose stout shields of oak and steel, and ashen spears smoothly-shaven as gifts to you. Gold-plated helmets and saddlecloths of gold and silver shall be made available to you. Tunics of foreign scarlet, pennoned lances devised with your own sigils, and bit-clenching chargers shall all be yours.

“A vast treasure of coins and jewels, taken from the horde of a wyrm most recently slain, all yours. The Lady Gudran also wished me to convey her hopes that you would join my lord’s feasting. For it is true that you have yet to lay eyes upon your two nephews.”

With this Nefrodor sits down, feeling the heavy weight of his travels and the mead upon his shoulders.

“A grand offer indeed. And what, exactly, is it that your lord…”

“Our lord, sire.” Corrects the Vrûn.

Gunnarr chooses to ignore the correction. “…wishes of us in return?”

“Only the renewal of our mutual commitments of friendship, loyalty…and defense.”

“I see.” Replies the chieftain. “And is his desires heightened by the reports of increased movements of the yrchish tribes of late?”

“The yrchish scum is always on the move. They are of no consequence.” Nefrodor responds.

The chief looks over to his brother Hogni, who says nothing but continues to stare at the messenger with grim eyes.

“And what word does the chief give in response to our lord’s request?” Nefrodor asks.

“Tonight is not a night for decisions. The fire-gold runs too freely for such things. Eat. Drink. And I shall give your lord his answer on the morn.”

Seeing that he will get no further with the chief, who has already looked away from him, the Vrûn shrugs and turns back to the table, looking around for that sweet mead-girl he has had his eyes on all evening. For unlike many of the dogs of the north, this tribe seemed to at least retain some of the healthy color of the less savage peoples.

The tribe’s skald, sensing the darkening mood of the chief, strikes up a tune, to the applause of the gathered warriors. Gunnarr uses the cover of the music and audience to question his brother, for long has he valued Hogni’s insight, at least when the latter was not gripped with the blood-rage.

“And what, young prince, do you advise for us?” Gunnarr asks him. But all his brother responds with is grim silence, so Gunnarr continues, as much to himself as to Hogni. “I do not know of any treasure horde greater than the one accumulated by the skills of ourselves and our forefathers. Nor are there any such spears as straight or sharp as our own. Our steeds are the fastest in the land, and what use are helmets of gold for warriors who rely on steel?” He muses.

“Such talk of treasure. And too much of gold. It betrays his mind.” Says Hogni after a time. “Our way is wolfish, if we ride on this journey.”

The next morning Gunnarr takes council with his elders. Many are enticed by the offers of gold and other riches.

“Do we not have enough gold of our own?” Asks one.

“And when is there ever enough of that brightest of metals?” Replies another.

But in one thing they are all in agreement upon. The scroll sent by King Atli demanded that Gunnarr respect the ancient traditions of the guest, and bring neither warrior nor weapon into his hall. To all that heard this there was a darkening upon the brow. To ask a man to go forth with no means to defend himself was to ask too much.

But in the end, Gunnarr had made up his mind. He would go to the king of the Vrûn. When pressed for his reasons, he simply said: “To go is to place my life in danger. To refuse places the lives of my people in danger. The wolf shall rule the inheritance of the Niflungar if I do not return. The bears of the Burgundii shall bite with wrangling teeth, bringing sport to the stud of curs, if I do not come back!”

Nefrodor pressed his ear against the door of the inner chamber of the mead hall where Gunnarr and his elders were conferring. Yes fool, he thinks to himself, make your pretty speeches and bellow out your arrogant threats, for all the good it will do you. Soon the legendary treasure hoard of the Niflungar will belong to us, and your people will be nothing more than memories, like ashes blown into the wind.

 

 

Four grim horsemen sped down through untracked Myrkvid and ran unchecked through the green fields of the lands beyond. All of the peasants of the Vrûnmark shuddered at their passing, for they rode as if death itself was at their heels. How much stranger they would have marked the passing had they known that Hel’s shadowy caress laid not behind them, but rather to it they knowingly rode.

Stranger still would be the whispers if the peasants knew who the riders were. For it was Gunnarr, chief of the Niflungar and his brother and champion Hogni who rode. With them was Hialli, Gunnarr’s retainer and the Vrûnnish messenger named Nefrodor. They rode fast and hard, nearly nonstop to the very gates of Atli’s fortress itself.

They looked up upon the steadfast walls to see the deeply garrisoned turrets, like the teeth of a menacing giant jutting up from its fleshless mandible. The four riders come to the gates and Nefrodor yells to the watch.

“Open the gates, for it is I, Nefrodor, son of Snaeulf, who brings Gunnarr, chief of the Niflungar for…an audience with the king!”

A few moments go by and the horsemen can hear the shouts of men behind the gates as orders are passed along the line. After a time there is a jarring sound of straining metal, then the grinding of heavy stone as the gigantic gates of King Atli’s fortress rumble open. The four riders enter the gates and are presently met by a breathless Lady Gudrun, who had obviously ran up to the gates to see them.

“Fools!” She shouts in anger. “Why did you not heed my warnings? Did you not receive my message? Was it not clear enough for you? And to come alone, unarmed…you have come to your death. Get out at once from this place!”

“It has grown late now, dear sister, to summon the bears of the Niflungar. It is a long way from here to seek an escort of warriors from the hills of Vorms, deep within the shadows of the Myrkvid.”

Armed guards, their swords naked surround the three Burgundii tribesmen. Hogni throws back his cloak, and withdraws his own wound-maker that was hidden beneath.

“Deceiver!” Yells Nefrodor from the safety of behind his guards. “Oath-breaker! You swore you would come here unarmed!”

“It is a favor I do for your…king.” Hogni spits out the last word as if its taste was too foul to bear. “For now it can never be said that the treachery of the Vrûn went unanswered!”

Gunnarr is seized and put into chains, for he does not struggle or resist at all. But Hogni chooses not to part with his freedom so cheaply. With sword in hand, he leaps from his horse, slashing and hacking like a man who is beyond any fear of death. The sheer ferocity of his attack cause the first three guards to go down without ever a return stroke from any of them. He fought hard and made four more corpses before the mass of guards overwhelmed him. But even as his sword was ripped from his hands, he lashed out with his foot and kicked another guard into a hot burning brazier. The man is said to have lived a fortnight before succumbing to his burns.

The three Burgundii were dragged away in chains into deep dungeons where the sun was never seen. And it was into one of these that Gunnarr was thrown, bound hand and foot to the walls. He was kicked and slapped, beaten and threatened with unimaginable torture. After many hours of this, the king himself strides in. The king of the Vrûn dismissed the guards and soon the two were alone. Atli stood there regarding his erstwhile vassal. After a few moments Gunnarr returns his gaze. The two leaders stare at each other in a silent battle of wills, each waiting for the other to admit defeat and speak first.

Eventually Atli grows tired of the game and asks bluntly. “How much is your life worth to you?”

His question is met with continued silence.

“We have all the time in the world, you and I. But while I shall be upstairs feasting and warming myself with your sister’s heat, you shall be down here, a sorry plaything for my men and the rats. So I ask you again. How much gold are you willing to give me for your life?”

“I am a man of honor. There is no price for me.” Gunnarr replies.

Atli walks a little closer to Gunnarr, just outside the reach of his chains. The king reaches into his breeches and pulls out his manhood. Urinating upon the chief of the Niflungar, he says: “You are my slave. Slaves are property, commodities. All commodities have a price.”

At this instigation, Gunnarr lunges at Atli, held back only by the chains that bind him to the cell wall. The chains groan with the strain of containing the chieftain’s rage. Atli stands his ground, clearly unimpressed. After a moment he turns to go, opening the cell door. Here the king stops and looks at Gunnarr.

“You will pay me, either with the legendary golden hoard of the Niflungar…or as my entertainment. Perhaps I shall have you bound and set naked outside my walls, to be used like a woman for the amusement of all who pass by. Do you think such a fate will bode well for your precious honor? Or for that of your people to see their leader debased so?”

The king turns and looks down the hall. “Those other two who came with you. I wonder how much their honor costs. I think I shall go and see.”

With that the king closes the door and Gunnarr can hear the sound of bolts and chains fastening it shut.

 

 

For three days and nights Gunnarr sits in his cell with neither food nor water. Only the occasional beating from the guards breaks up the pitch black monotony of his imprisonment. Finally the king returns. “Have you considered my offer? Or do you still place such a high price upon your ‘honor?’”

It takes Gunnarr a few moments to respond, for he is in a sorry state from his continual beatings and privations. But when he finally does speak, he says: “I am a chief of the Niflungar. I have taken a sacred oath to protect the secret of the location of our treasure hoard.”

“So your price is more pain?” Asks the king. “So be it.” The king goes to close the door when Gunnarr speaks.

“Bring me…bring me the heart of my brother. Hogni’s heart must lie in my hand, cut bleeding from his brave chest. Then, and only then I shall tell you what I know.”

“So, your price has been found. It shall be done.” The king closes the door and walks down the dungeon hall, the sniveling Nefrodor following close behind. “I don’t trust him, my lord.”

“And why not?” Asks the king.

“Those two are very close. When I was there Gunnarr would make no decision without consulting his dear brother. And now we are to believe that he wants him dead? It makes no sense.”

“It makes perfect sense, Nefrodor. He values his brother’s opinion and regard. He cannot bear the thought of failing in his oath with the knowledge that his brother knows of his cowardice. Did you not see the way that warrior Hogni fought my men? He is like a demon from the netherworld. And yet the ‘chief’ offered us no resistance whatsoever. Clearly he is a man of weakness who was propped up in his position by those around him. But, just in case, we shall save the warrior. Perhaps he can still come in useful later on.”

“Aye. Your wisdom is a boon to us all, my lord.” Toadies the wretched Nefrodor.

“Butcher that other person they brought with them…”

“Hialli, my lord.”

“Yes, that one. Bring his heart to me on a platter of silver.”

“Your will shall be done, my lord.” Nefrodor rushes off down the hallway and collects a few of the king’s men. Within a quarter of an hour, and with much screaming of the butchered Hialli, a silver platter was placed before the king, the heart still oozing blood and slightly twitching. Faint steam could still be seen rising from it. “Excellent. Now we shall present the chief with his price.”

The Vrûn and their king entered Gunnarr’s cell with the grizzly talisman. Blood spattered the face, neck, chest and arms of the man who held the platter before the Niflungar chieftain. Gunnarr looks at the bleeding lump of flesh that lies upon the platter.

“This is not the heart of my brother, the brave Hogni, but that of my servant, the weakling Hialli. It quivers here, even now, as it did twice as much while it still lay in his chest.”

The Vrûn look to their king, who silently fumes at the failure of his ruse. “Out.” He commands them and again leaves the cell.

“My lord?” Asks Nefrodor. “What is thy will?”

“Bring him what he wants.” Is the king’s only reply.

The Vrûn enter into the cell of Hogni, who, though naked and chained, is more than willing to snap the neck of anyone who comes within range of his grasping hands, as one jailer found out to his doom. Slowly circling around him armed with swords and spears, the Vrûn position themselves to strike. “So, dog.” He says to the watching Nefrodor. “We come full circle.”

“Aye,” replies the Vrûnnish messenger. “You would have been better served had you left me to those wolves. For soon the ravens shall be drinking deeply of your throat-wine.”

“I will see you on the other side, Nefrodor. I will be waiting for you.”

Nefrodor steps back into the shadows to hide his fear, as the other guards move in for the kill. Hogni laughs with a full and sardonic laughter, the mad laugh of the damned who know they are doomed but do not care. It was a sound one does not ever hear in a dungeon, nor ever wants to hear outside of one. And as it rang out, it caused a shudder of fright to all within, prisoner and guard alike.

Only one did not shudder, but rather smiled, though there was the hint of pain contained within it. First two spears are thrust into Hogni’s sides to pin him against the wall, then a swordsman rushes in to sever the neck. Even in death, as his shredded throat gurgled in tatters and blood flowed freely from his mouth and opened throat, did he laugh, and the sound was made all the more hideous for its silence.

Bleeding and still pumping with blood, they laid out the heart of Hogni before the chief.

“Yes,” Gunnarr says after a time. “Here I have the heart of brave Hogni that quivers hardly at all. And it quivered half as much when it still lay in his chest.”

“I have done what you asked, Burgundii. Now fulfill your promise and tell me where the hoard of the Niflungar is hidden!” Sneers the king.

At this Gunnarr laughs, not as loud as his brother perhaps, but just as chilling. It was not filled with the insane disregard for death as it was with Hogni, but rather with the self-assured venom of one who has won a game over a despised opponent.

“You are a fool, Atli. You shall be as far from the eyes of men as you will ever be from the treasure of my people.”

“What do you mean?” Hisses the king.

“With Hogni resting safe in the halls of the Allfather, the secret of the Niflungar hoard will die with me. None shall master the metal of men’s strife, and the only gold you will see will be the breath of the dragon as it devours your very halls! For do you think your foul treachery here will go unnoticed and unpunished?”

“Bah! What drivel is this you speak of?! We Vrûn are undefeatable, we own these lands!”

“Aye, the Vrûn have beaten every tribe that has come before it, one by one. But now you shall face the might of all the tribes united! What chieftain will now tolerate the rule of foreign curs that betray and murder chiefs under the sacred banner of a host? What tribe will suffer an overlord who will break treaties to rob their very homes? Mine is the greatest hoard, aye to be sure, but not the only one. And now every chief will think of this when your name is uttered. You have reached too far, Atli. Death will be the reward for your efforts.”

Gunnarr laughs at Atli with a contempt the latter cannot withstand for more than a few seconds.

“Throw this bastard into the snake-pits! We shall see how he laughs then.” The king leaves the cell as his men grab the chieftain and loose the chains from the walls. Gunnarr is brought out into the courtyard and he is thrown into a cage-wagon that is fastened to the back of Atli’s war-chariot. Atli and his men make a large noise as they go through his lands, headed towards the pit of venomous snakes where the worst of criminals are sent to die. The foul and filthy peasants of the Vrûn make hideous sport of Gunnarr, tossing rotten vegetables and filth at him, laughing and taunting him for his fate.

 

 

The Lady Gudrun watches as the king and his minions ride away from the fortress, headed towards the place of her brother’s doom. She fights back tears of grief, powerless to do anything to stop the madness around her, and the madness swelling in her heart.

“Curse you, husband! May your fate, Atli, fit the oaths you swore to Gunnarr long ago at our wedding! By the unrelenting sun’s southward-curving and by Odin’s crag, by the falsehoods you spoke upon sleep’s pillow and by wedding ring that was wrapped in the coat of lies. By all this and more shall you pay for what you did here this day!”

The Lady Gudrun died at that moment, and the demon of hate that replaced her soul there may have bore her likeness upon the outside, but was an utterly alien thing to all who once knew her from within.

Atli and his men, along with the growing crowd of jeering peasants reached the snake-pit where all who defied the will of Atli died. Over a large, deep hole a grate was fitted, and in its center was a door. All those who stood upon the grate could see below into the writhing mass of venomous serpents. The walls of the pit were steep and smooth, so that no adder could escape.

The door was unlocked and opened, and into the pit Gunnarr was tossed. The entire crowd went quiet, as they peered in and sought to hear the Burgundii chieftain’s screams of terror and death. The foul people wished to drown out their own misery and pain with the cries of another who was in more misery then they were, but in this they were not obliged. They could hear the hissing of the snakes, who were clearly agitated by having a man tossed into their midst.

But then what they heard did not delight them. For it was Gunnarr, not screaming or begging, but singing. Louder and louder the singing became. With hate in his soul and pride upon his lips, he sang the noble songs of his people as the vicious serpents pumped venom into his veins. For over an hour did he sing, his voice weakening in its volume but never in the defiance of its spirit, weakening until finally only the hissing of the snakes could be heard.

 

 

Many of the peasants drifted off, frustrated in not being able to sate their cruel hungers with the pain of another, and increasingly disturbed at the death of such an obviously noble man. Even Atli and his men rode back to his hall, feeling more defeat then victory at Gunnarr’s murder. And Atli could not shake the feeling of dread at Gunnarr’s final words. What would be the impact of his treachery? Would the other tribes rise up and unite to drive the Vrûn from this land as the chieftain claimed? He did not know the answers to these questions and did not like where the thoughts led from there.

Returning to his halls, the king decided to erase the memory of the day with the plentiful flow of mead and the finest meats from his kitchen. He sent servants to his wife instructing her to spare no expense upon the evening’s feast. Then the Lady Gudrun came out, her eyes sparkling like blue sapphires and her face gleaming with joy. The lady met her husband with a gilded drinking cup, filled to the brim with warming fire-gold to render her lord his due.

“You may take and eat, sire, in your hall, joyful from your lady’s hands the finest young beasts gone to the shades.”

Atli’s ale-cups rang, heavy with drink, as the Vrûn lifted their spirits with the pleasures of the wealth they had surrounded themselves with. With sparkling joy the lady did fill each cup, making sure that none of Atli’s men went for thirst. So exuberant was the lady, that none noticed the blanched faces and nervous silence of the other serving girls. For the fine meats were succulent indeed, diced up into small pieces for their convenience, as they ate and drank with unnatural vigor, desperately trying to blot out the guilt of their murderous crimes.

It was not until they were all so drunk that they could hardly move that the lady did expose to them their ultimate shame. For her laughter, which seemed at first joyous and exuberant, soon was noted as hollow and maniacal.

“Tell me, my…husband. How much do you enjoy this feast?”

For his part, Atli could barely respond, so muddled and sodden with mead he was.

“The meat of this feast should taste well enough, for it comes to you at such a high price. For you have been enjoying the dearest meat of all, husband. You have your own sons here, bleeding hearts from their own bodies, basted with honey. You are digesting, proud one, slaughtered human meat, eating it as if it were ale-morsels. No more shall you call to your knee your precious sons, I’m afraid, nor see them playing their endearing games at your feet.” At this the lady threw back a linen sheet that covered the butchered carcasses of their two sons, lying out upon a cart.

A great moaning arose from the hall, as the king and every warrior began to understand what was told them. A monstrous song of the grief of men, sobbing into their rich cloaks at the horror they had just partaken of. All within that hall wept, even the cruel king Atli himself. All, save the lady Gudrun who never wept, not for her brothers who were fierce as bears and not for her sons, Eripor and Eitill, untried in life, to whom she bore for Atli.

Standing up, the lady walks to the main doors of the king’s mead halls, swinging them wide open. Beyond are the mass of peasants to whom she sent out word to come for a rich reward. More servants came into the hall from the kitchens and other rooms, all carrying chests and vessels filled with gold and jewels, the treasure hoard of Atli himself. At this sight the peasants all murmured, their eyes gleaming with the hunger of that metal of heaven, that metal of hell.

The lady takes a handful of the coins and tosses it at the crowd, showering them all with Atli’s gold. More and more she throws to them, yelling for all to take all they can carry as the lady overturns one of the chests, gold and jewels rushing down the steps of the hall like a precious river. The peasants and even the servants descend into a frenzy as each fills their pockets with more wealth then they had ever hoped to see in their lifetimes.

Atli struggled to get to his feet. He had drunk himself weary, and wore no weapons in his own hall. He tried to yell to his warriors, but they too were lost in the stupors of grief and debilitating over-drunkenness. Soon the demons of greed had overwhelmed the peasants and they rushed into the hall, grabbing even the food and drink.

Gudrun walks over to Atli, who is struggling to remain standing. The lady withdraws a knife.

“Recognize this blade, husband? It was the one you used to cut out Hogni’s heart.” Walking up to the king, she wraps her arm around his back to steady him.

“Let us embrace one final time, my husband.” The lady plunges the knife into the heart of the king. With the knife’s point she gave his fine clothes as much blood as it could drink, and his heart wine flowed as freely as the mead in his hall that day. Leaving the king slumped in his chair with the dagger sticking between his ribs, Gudrun picks up a kettle of lamp-oil that was placed nearby and spills its contents upon the table. Grasping a candlestick, she tosses the lit brand onto the pool of oil and the table instantly erupts into a wall of flame. Tossing another onto a tapestry, she leaves the hall as it is consumed in the golden breath of the dragon, peasants and servants screaming and running for their lives.

The ancient rafters fell as smoke rose from the hall. The homestead of the Budli’s clan was laid low. Atli and his men were left to burn in his hall, the flow of their life was staunched as they sank into the hot flames.

***

The mead-hall of Haraldr Hárfagri erupted in cheers and applause. “I have heard that story two-score times,” bellows out the old man Haraldr, “yet never so well told that it captivated me anew until now! Wenches! Fill Bjorn’s drinking-horn from my own stock! It is a well deserved payment for tonight’s story!”

“My thanks, good chief.” Responds the skald with all due humility.

“I have often wondered,” mused the chief, “whatever happened to the Lady Gudrun, for the story never tells of her fate.”

“Ah, but it does, my chief.” Replies Bjorn.

“Oh?” Returns Haraldr. “I have never heard of it.”

“Would you care to now?”

“Aye, for truly I have never heard this part of the tale.”

“It does not fall within the Atlakviđa proper, but there are hints and scattered tales of her fate. Some say she went to her death soon after, others claim the Norns had more thread for her. But of the tales spoken of the Lady Gudrun, this is the one I like best…”

***

For many days did Gudrun wander the countryside. The hate in her heart had burnt through, and now all that remained was the charred wreckage of grief. In the course of but one day she lost her entire family. Brothers, sons and husband. House, home, hearth and bed. Nothing remained of her life but memories and shame. The demon of hate had fled, returning her poor soul to suffer the consequences of revenge fulfilled.

Word of her final vengeance spread throughout the land, seeping like mortar to harden all hearts against her. But what did she care? She was beyond feeling now. She sought only relief from memory. The only draught for such an ailment was death. It was for this fate that Gudrun came to the shores of the sea. She looked over its cold, gray sheen and detachedly wondered what the experience of death would be like.

“Was it worth it?” Asks a voice, gravelly and ancient sounding.

Gudrun is roused from her brooding and looks to her left, to see an old crone sitting on the rocks of the nearby strand, herself looking out upon the whale’s road. Perhaps we youth are often unkind towards our elders, especially the mothers to whom youth is especially kind, but time is especially cruel. But it must be said that this old woman was truly a hag in her mien. Her hair, unkempt and almost as green as seaweed hung thin and limp upon her skull. The skin was as thin as parchment and as creased as leather. As hungry as Gudrun felt, this creature looked twice as so, for she had not an ounce of fat upon her, only sharp bones that barely propped up her withered frame.

“Leave me be, woman. You know nothing of my mind.” The lady says.

“And what do you know of me, that you can be so sure of that?” Replies the ancient one.

Gudrun turns again to the old witch who is now looking at her. Something in the eyes burns a little too brightly.

“I asked you a question.” The old woman says after a moment.

“I heard you.”

The hag looks out to the sea once more. “When the flames of hate recede, only then do we see their ultimate cost, the wreckage called grief. I have midwife’d many a whelp into this world, and seen my share of those who did not make it even that far. And I have buried more than one of my own sons. In Valhalla they may be feasting, but where does that leave the mother?”

Silence passes between them for a time before the old hag speaks again.

“A woman who is forced to endure the loss of her children is never the same again. But one, who for hate’s sake delivers them herself to Hel’s domain, has a shadow upon her heart no one, saint or sinner can hope to understand.”

Gudrun desperately wants to shout at the old woman to shut up, or to smash her in the face. To run, to do something, anything to quiet her words. But it is if she is under the witch’s spell, for she can do nothing but stand there and listen to the stinging words.

“Can you still hear their voices? Those sweet, tender cries of happiness and childish sorrow? Can you hear them call you ‘mother,’ even now? Can you feel their soft warmth as they throw their tiny arms ‘round you? No, I think not. Cold and lifeless they lie, with not even the flesh ‘round their bones to warm them. All thanks to you and your fierce Niflungar’s pride.”

“Men often drink deeply the draughts of fire to forget their deeds,” the lady replies, “perhaps a sip from Aegir’s cup would do the same for me.”

“That would be the niđingr’s share.”

And so the lady walks forward, wading into biting cold of the sea. Grasping a heavy rock, she walks until the waters flow over her head. She opens her eyes and breaths in deeply. There is pain in her chest, but an easing in her heart. For some, death is a fearsome thief, but to others, it is a bearer of gifts. And what greater gift is there then the peace that is found in oblivion?

fin

This is my retelling of the Atlakviða as found in the Poedic Edda.  Many thanks to Ursula Dronke who’s translations and commentary I used heavily in writing this.  I believe the illustration is by Franz Stassen (1869-1949.)

S.E.F.A.