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."
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;
Jötun,[10] we call thee,
Loose us the watch-dogs.
Snarls the fierce wolf,
Creeping light[11] bearing;
Gyg, woman of Jötnar,
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
Vedrfölnir'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."
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 Jötun race, has gone before ye, to confound the foe. Scalds, hoi! Arise! scatter your enemies!"
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.