VIKINGS ALL! AN OLD TIME SAGA.
"Sonorous metal, blowing martial sounds;
At which the universal host upsent
A shout, that tore hell's concave, and beyond
Frighted the reign of Chaos and old Night."
Milton.
Not many months after the foregoing, Sigurd, followed by a score of his
wild Vikings, sought the cave of the priest Olaf, and they received of
the old priest a very hearty but a very grim welcome.
"Welcome, Jarl! welcome, skalds! all of ye. Ye are the bonniest warriors
I have seen for many a day," he croaked. Truly the sunken eyes of the
gnarled old Viking sparkled with strange delight, at the sight of so
many hardy-looking warriors. He went round to every man of them, and
felt severally the stoutness of their limbs, examined their weapons,
capering gleefully at the old-style weapons he was so familiar with, and
grunting and muttering gibberish all the time of his inspection. Such a
display of force, unmistakably of the old stock, seemed almost to make
him young again; and he mumbled snatches of old time sagas, and weird
folk-talk of bygone generations.
Truly they were a desperate, and a desperate-looking band,--wild,
daring, and uncouth; having all the instincts of wild beasts,--recking
nothing of life, unless it were accompanied by some wild triumph over
their enemies, and caring nothing for death; for it meant to them an
entrance into Valhalla, the Viking's heaven.
"Priest," said Sigurd, "have ye any message of _forth-telling_ for us?
We are hotly pursued by these foreign dogs; they have hunted us out of
our mountain fastnesses, and now they tread on our heels closely. They
are encamped for the night in a neighbouring valley, and we cannot shake
them off, for they are tracking us with sleuthhounds. Shall we give them
battle to-night? Our stomachs are empty, and we shall be sore pressed on
the morrow."
"Skalds, tarry ye here a little while and eat, and I will inquire for
ye. Skuld is our friend, and he rules all _man slaying_. He will hear me
this night, and if he ride with you to battle, woe will be to these
Normans--ye shall sweep them before ye. We will set up the
_Skaldstong_[7] also, presently, and invoke our ancient god Odin, that
he may send his '_Maidens of Victory_,' the '_Valkyrias_,' and if they
help, what shall hurt ye? Ye shall hurl your enemies to the ground and
slay them every one. Come into my cave, the night falls in."
[Footnote 7: Imprecation pole.]
So saying, the old priest led the way into a spacious cavern, which
opened out from the vast cleft where they stood. To the right of the
cave a wood fire was burning low, and along the edge of it there were a
number of natural seats, formed by ledges of the rock. Olaf bade his
visitors be seated, then he lighted several torches at the fire, and
suspended them against the rocky sides of the cave. In their flickering
and fitful light the cave presented a very weird appearance. Here and
there the white and jagged surfaces of the limestone rock seemed like
human figures standing in the shadows, whilst the dark recesses threw
them out like sentinels on guard.
Evidently it was a great occasion for the priest Olaf,--his ghostly
office had fallen greatly into disuse of late years, to his great grief
and chagrin. But troublous times had come, and men, unable to cope with
their enemies, came now humbly to him for aid in their dire distress;
and as he rambled about the cave, his mumbling, muttering and chanting
never ceased. First he ransacked the cave for food for these famishing
guests, and whilst they were eating he mended his fire. Then, from a
stone coffin in one of the recesses, he fetched the whitened bones of
some famous chieftain who had led them in the olden time. These he
proceeded to fasten around his neck and body. Next he fetched from
another recess a long pole with runes carved upon it. This he erected,
and made it to stand by inserting its lower end in a hole evidently
prepared for it. This was the "_Skaldstong_" or _Imprecation pole_: its
use being to invoke the curses of Odin upon their enemies, and to invoke
the help of the "Valkyrias," whom warriors often saw riding on fiery
steeds to their help.
All this time Olaf never ceased the horrid chant, or song. Strange
gibberish indeed--sometimes running into metric verse, which he chanted
in a rude sing-song voice--at other times it was wild imprecations and
interjections, which he flung out with frenzied gestures, and in
thrilling tones and loud.
Whilst this proceeding was confined to himself, it acted with electrical
effect upon these wild men. Slowly at first, then with accelerated pace,
they were worked up into a strange frenzy; first giving utterance to low
passionate interjections, then, as the infection became more feverish,
they seemed completely carried away,--shouting, starting to their feet,
and brandishing their swords, as though in deadly combat. Ere long every
man, Sigurd included, was in a state of overwhelming excitement,
capering round the Skaldstong, holding aloft their weapons in the air,
and making the cave ring again with their shouts and shrieking.
The following is a sample of the rude and uncouth song which Olaf
chaunted:--
"Odin, the Norse god,
Skaldstong we rear;
Curse us the foe near,
Cold-ribbed[8] and foul.
Nithing[9] is the Saxon,
Marrowless his bones;
Jotun,[10] we call thee,
Loose us the watch-dogs.
Snarls the fierce wolf,
Creeping light[11] bearing;
Gyg, woman of Jotnar,
Haste on before;
Gird on the Hel-shoes,[12]
Freeze up the blood.
Terror-full and shaking,
The sallowy kite hovers;
The wolf digs his fangs,
Drinks up the blood.
Skuld[13] has gotten him
Vedrfolnir's[14] prey;
Told o'er the corpses
Fattened with gore.
Water sprinkled heroes,
Nornir hath life fated;
Valkyrias hath guarded,
Shout for the prey."
[Footnote 8: Cold-hearted.]
[Footnote 9: Coward.]
[Footnote 10: Race of gods.]
[Footnote 11: Lantern.]
[Footnote 12: The dead were fitted with Hel-shoes.]
[Footnote 13: Ruler of man-slaying.]
[Footnote 14: fabled Hawk.]
Gibberish it seems to modern ears; but upon these rude men,--with
grossly over-grown superstitions, and dwarfish reasoning
faculties,--this song, jerked out in frenzied exclamations and fanatical
intensity, the effect was electrical and intensely contagious.
Whilst the excitement was at its height, above the din the priest's
voice was heard as he shouted,--
"_Skalds, hoi! I scent the battle_; I smell the blood of the Normans.
"Gyg,[15]" the woman of Jotun race, has gone before ye, to confound the
foe. _Scalds, hoi!_ Arise! scatter your enemies!"
[Footnote 15: Witch.]
As he said this he handed to every man a small piece of wood, with runes
carved upon it, and each one hid it under his garment. It was a sure
protection against wounds and death. Then, catching up an image of Thor
and carrying it before him, he cried,--
"Follow me."
So saying, he led the way, followed by Sigurd and the rest in a state of
intense excitement. Together they scrambled out on the limestone hills
above them. It was quite dark, saving as the boisterous wind sent the
broken and ominous-looking clouds scurrying before it, across the face
of the heavens, and permitting the stars to look down to earth. The
elements seemed, indeed, to have caught the fierce infection, for the
wind howled and whistled against the huge boulders, and the bare
limestone precipices on the hillside; and it soughed and roared through
the woods below, rocking and tossing the tree-tops until they seemed
possessed by the furies. The fierce band of men responded in savage glee
to this tempest of the elements; every man amongst them believing that
this fierce raging of nature was the work of the supernatural agencies
invoked, and already hastening to help them in this work of revenge. The
old priest's vigour and animation was marvellous: he seemed to have
shaken off the infirmities of age; the wild fanatic spirit within
achieving a complete triumph over the weak and shattered body. He led
the band at a brisk pace, chanting as he went the same weird song. Ere
long, the downward trend which they had followed led them within sight
of the Norman camp fires, at the sight of which they could not resist
the impulse to shout and savagely brandish their swords. But the state
of the elements was such that scarcely any liberties of that sort would
betray them.
The Normans were encamped in an open glade, with the wood all around
them and within twenty yards of their camp fires. Previous bitter
experience, however, had taught them extreme caution. Two or three
sentinels paced to and fro, and several fierce dogs lay curled up in the
glow of the fire. Besides this, every sleeper, as he lay wrapped in the
arms of peaceful sleep, grasped the hilt of his sword.
Presently one of the dogs raised his head and listened, then he started
to his feet with a fierce growl.
"What is the matter, Gripper?" said one of the sentinels stooping and
patting him on the head. "'Tis only the shrieking of the wind amid the
trees."
The dog listened intently with his eyes on the wood, and gave one or two
impatient snarls as though somewhat appeased, but not satisfied.
"Lie down again, sir," said the sentinel, again patting him.
The dog very reluctantly obeyed this command, stretching himself again
with a low, fierce growl, and placing his nose between his forepaws,
whilst his eyes shone in the darkness, and rolled from side to side most
ominously. Not a minute had elapsed before he sprang to his feet again;
this time sending forth a loud, fierce bay, which woke the echoes and
effectually roused every sleeper in the camp. Immediately the dog sprang
towards the adjacent thicket with savage fierceness. But just as quickly
he beat a cowardly retreat with his tail between his legs, like a
whipped spaniel, for he had fronted the weird and unearthly form of the
priest Olaf bearing the image of Thor before him, and the bones of the
dead hero dangling from his neck and girdle.
With a savage yell and impetuous rush the Vikings burst into the centre
of the camp, sending up their fierce war cry--SKALDS HOI!--to the utter
terror and bewilderment of the half-awakened Normans. Like infuriated
demons they laid about them with terrible effect; and as the Normans
realised the position, many of them sprang forward on the instant, sword
in hand, only to recoil abashed with terror as they faced the weird form
of the old priest, who, without weapon, or implement of war of any kind,
headed the fierce onslaught. In their terror and superstition they
thought that the devil himself fought for the Vikings, and they gave
back in mortal terror. Meantime their assailants made good use of these
moments of abject consternation of their enemies, yelling frantically,
and cutting down the Normans wholesale; they themselves being thoroughly
possessed with the belief that the supernatural powers fought for them.
The onslaught was so furious that the Normans staggered and reeled
before them, and hovered for a moment on the verge of an utter rout and
stampede. But one Norman in this desperate strait broke the spell, for
he sprang towards Olaf shouting,--
"_Witch or devil, have at thee!_ I'll try cold steel upon thy pate," and
with a blow he cleft the skull of the old priest.
The effect of this was magical, the Normans sent up a shout which made
the greenwood ring again, and the echoes in the distant hills to send
back long reverberations.
Now the Normans laid about them with vigour, and to some purpose. They
outnumbered the Saxon by two or three to one, but fully one-third had
been cut down ere they had courage to face the foe. Now the battle raged
with more equal fortunes. Blow upon blow, no quarter, no mercy given or
taken. At a terrible pace the ranks of each party dwindled, and ere long
Sigurd alone of the Saxons was left to do battle with three of the
Normans. A giant he was in strength compared with his antagonists.
Better equipped also he was for defence, for he wore a coat of mail, and
on his head a spiked helmet, with a shield of bronze upon his arm. But
his antagonists wilily beset him behind and before. With a spring and a
blow he cut down the man who fronted him; but whilst doing it, one of
the others cut a deep gash in his thigh from behind, and the third drave
the point of his sword between two of his ribs. Furiously Sigurd turned
upon them, and with a blow cut down another of his assailants. But again
a cowardly stroke from behind severed the sinews of his left arm, and
his shield dropped immediately from the powerless limb. So these two
alone remained of two stalwart bands of men, who a quarter of an hour
ago revelled in the pride of health and vigour. Sigurd was fearfully
wounded, with a deadly faint coming over him from pain and loss of
blood. He still, however, retained his sword arm unimpaired. Had the
Norman fought an evasive battle, time was in his favour, and the burly
giant would have been helplessly at his mercy. But the Norman was not
sufficiently alive to this fact, though he knew Sigurd was deeply
wounded. On he came, furiously attacking his man, and the battle was
ended, for with one sweep of his long broadsword Sigurd cut him down.
Then for a moment he swayed to and fro, with strength all gone. Next, he
staggered forward a step or two, rolling his eyes around as though in
quest of further foemen. Stumbling eventually over the corpse of a
fallen enemy, he fell forward amid a heap of mangled corpses; and, with
a deep groan, consciousness was gone.