Page 13 of Viking Warriors: Vol. 1-3
His appearance was wretched, his face blood-soaked, one eye swollen red, already closing. He lay down the men he carried as tenderly as a mother might place her child in its cot.
I held back as he leant over them, speaking his farewell to the friends he’d lost, touching his hand to their heart, and their forehead. Despite their wounds, their faces were in repose. No further suffering for them.
Others were not so lucky. Helka asked for help in washing injuries and for cloth to bind them.
I wanted only to run to Eirik’s side, to tell him that I was glad he lived, that his living had become as important at my own, but I knew also that I must aid Helka. Whatever the faults of these Northmen, they were of Eirik’s blood — and my own.
“We should apply a garlic poultice before we wrap the wounds,” I told her. “And smear a salve of calendula and chamomile, to help healing.”
Clasping me to her, she nodded her thanks. She seemed unscathed, but for heavy grazing to her cheek. She’d feel the worst of it tomorrow.
We stood together, directing the children to fetch beer, for washing wounds, as well as for drinking. We added drops of valerian to each pitcher, to bring drowsiness to the men upon whom we worked. Needles which had mended sails were now scalded in hot water to sew flesh.
Our women, angry as they were, did their part. Perhaps there is something in seeing a man suffer that pulls at the heart of any woman, no matter the circumstance. In his face, she sees that of those she loves, and her instinct to alleviate pain outweighs her desire to inflict it.
Women instinctively seek to nurture, soothe and comfort. We are not the destroyers of this world. Our kinder nature wins out. Our strength becomes apparent when we have no other choice but to be strong.
At last, I applied honey and lavender oil to Helka’s face. It would help the skin grow, and prevent too much scarring.
I hadn’t spoken to Eirik, nor seen him for some hours, but briefly. He sat with his men, visiting each in turn, inspecting their wounds, speaking his own words to settle or cheer. I found him beside a man for whom I knew there was no hope. His stomach had been opened by a blade, too widely to be stitched. We’d wrapped it tightly, and given him a strong dose of Valerian. When he slept, he would not wake. Already, his eyes were heavy. He would soon let go.
“Come,” I told Eirik.
In my room, I’d filled a bath for him, to ease his troubled mind, as well as his body. He had lost almost a third of his men in the battle. Many of the rest had suffered injury. They’d fought until the garrison horsemen were too few in number to continue. A handful had galloped off, no doubt to alert the fort further up the coast. In all likelihood, more would come soon.
There was no question. Eirik and his men would need to depart before first light.
I helped him undress, standing on a stool to lift off the heavy leather tunic. I was relieved to find that his own wounds were superficial, though I suspected that his ribs were bruised. He guarded them as we removed each piece of clothing.
A dark, crusted stain ringed his neck, though he had wiped most of the blood from his face. I tried not to think of the man it had come from.
I looked again at his body, covered in its patterns, dark green and blue-black. Those two sleeves, I noticed, were formed of the branches of knotted trees. Over one shoulder sat the head of a snake, its body extending down his back. Except that it did not look like any serpent I knew. Its scaled body curved down his spine, ending in a design of strange arrows through his buttocks.
He stepped into the water, one foot gingerly, then the other. I’d heated the water more than usual.
“That is Jörmungandr,” said Eirik, seeing my perusal of the snake. “Child of the god Loki, sibling to the death-goddess Hel, and the wolf, Fenrir. Thor is destined to fight the great serpent, which stirs beneath the sea, ringing the world.”
“But this snake is unfurled.”
“It is Jörmungandr at the end of days, when it lets go its tail from its mouth, and Ragnarök begins.”
I could not help but shiver. The solemnity of his voice, his belief in this story, frightened me.
“Until then, I fear not any man, for the gods within me are strong,” said Eirik. “Although it was a man that gave me this battering today, and I do not thank him for it!”
I took a bar of soapwort, dipping it into the water, and rubbing it between my hands to make a lather.
I thought then of Valhalla, as I’d heard Helka mention. It was their name for Heaven, I supposed, as the monks had told us we should go to, if we were good and honest, and honoured God’s commandments.
“And where will you go when you die?”
“The hall of the fallen,” he replied, “Where Odin houses the warrior dead, who have shown their courage.”
Eirik spoke slowly, pausing to gather the right words.
“The roof is golden-bright, made of shields, with spears for rafters. Its gates are guarded by wolves, and eagles fly above.”
His eyes flickered brightly as he spoke. It was a story I imagined him having heard from the youngest age. I wondered how old he’d been when an axe had first been put into his hand and he’d been told to make himself worthy of joining Odin.
