A man stands alone, a solitary figure on a final battlefield, and regards his enemy across a narrow strip of desolate earth. His long, blonde hair, caked with dirt, blood, and sweat from the exertion of this conflict, blows back from his scarred and bloodied face in the light wind. The man inhales deeply and releases his breath in a rush, a gesture that both clears his head and steadies his resolve. He glances about, seeing that he alone remains of a once great host, and fights the urge to give in to despair, for to do so would dishonor the courage and heroic deeds that so many before him had shown. He is a Viking and he has come to do battle one final time. And so he stands, weary and wounded, but resolute. He has come to end this, for the cost has been too high to allow it to continue.
He stands in semi-darkness, the midday sky overcast with low-hanging, black clouds that block out the sun and cast a shroud of gray over the land. The landscape is a blasted, barren, rock-strewn wasteland with smoking pits of fire that emit noxious vapors and poison, sulfurous fumes. Death lay all about from the protracted battle; many bodies are nearly unrecognizable in their violated condition: some broken, all burned to some degree. Nevertheless, the man knows who they are and it breaks his heart as he struggles to stand against the evil creature he has traveled so far and endured so much to destroy.
This is the domain of the dragon; a monster of evil recently emerged from out of the bogs and swamps of a long-forgotten land. All around are few reminders of what once was a lush valley at the edge of the forest; the smoldering stumps and twisted trunks of trees dot the landscape, but nothing grows where the dragon has made its home, not a blade of grass or creeping vine can take root in the parched earth. It has sickened the land as it draws the life from the very earth under its clawed feet.
The air is hot and heavy with moisture though it is the winter season in the northland – another indicator of the foul wrongness that the creature’s presence brings. Sweat drips into the Viking’s eyes, but he ignores the burning sensation as he takes stock of his foe. The dragon looms in the near distance, a sentinel against which the man must wage his righteous battle. The demon beast’s head hovers thirty feet above the wasted land, staring down at the hated man with malevolent, red eyes. The dragon’s long, serpentine neck undulates in a slow, rhythmic dance that threatens to freeze the man where he stands. The vile thing’s body is ponderously large and covered by overlapping, armored scales that terminate in a cruel, spiked tail that whips back and forth as if like a cat preparing to attack.
The man gathers his courage, one hand holding a sword, while in the other he holds forth a glowing rod of incredible power, the head of which pulsates in time with the beating of the man’s heart. He stabs the sword point into the ground at his feet, bends to retrieve his dented helmet, and then places it on his head, obscuring his identity. Now, after pulling his sword free he is ready. Slowly, the man steps forward, the radiance emitted by the lance he holds cutting through the darkness like a knife through a shroud. As he approaches, the dragon takes a tentative step back from the encroaching, white power; a thing it knows can cause it harm if given the chance. However, the dragon has no intention of giving the man a chance, he is merely drawing the bearer of the white rod in closer, closer still, until at last it rears up and lunges at the man.
The Viking, who was expecting the attack, deftly sidesteps the massive beast, allowing its bulk to drop to the ground, momentarily slowing its attack. While the thing tries to rise up for another strike, the Viking thrusts the point of his sword at the beast, trying to find a gap in the armored scales. But it is useless, they are too tightly placed and the sword cannot pierce the tough hide.
Using his superior mobility, the Viking keeps clear of the dragon’s thrashing tail and snapping jaws. He does not fear the beast’s flame, for he knows that that weapon is expended; still, the dragon has other weapons though its tail and jaws are deadly enough should he become too confident or unfocused.
As the Viking watches, the dragon pushes itself up once more, shrieking in anger and frustration, and moves with surprising speed to close the distance between them. Just as the Viking is preparing to dodge another assault, he pauses to look as the dragon lifts its underside from the ground, for something has caught his eye: a flash of red and gold protruding from a small patch of pale flesh on the beast’s belly. Realizing that there are no armored scales there, he offers a brief thanks to the gods.
Then, he remembers the small warrior and her earlier, valiant sacrifice. The girl carried a jewel-encrusted dagger, which she was able to use to stab into the dragon’s underside during an earlier skirmish in the battle. The dragon, which appeared to be hurt by this brazen attack, had dropped onto the small form of the warrior as she struck, crushing her body into the ground before moving on to face the remaining Viking.
Now, the Viking saw the vulnerable place clearly and knew what he must do.
“Torval,” a voice called from within the darkness.
He must place his sword in that soft spot as well. It would be dangerous, and he took the very real chance that he too would be crushed by the dragon, but…
“Torval, time to get up,” the voice, now familiar, called again, this time with more insistence.
The Viking turned toward the direction of the voice and said, “Just a bit longer, father.”
“Now, Torval,” the voice persisted, forcing away the darkness and causing the dragon to recede back into its lair for yet another time.
The dream faded as the fog of sleep lifted and the boy sat up, tossing aside the furs as he sat up in his bed and stretched. He yawned and rubbed the sleep from his eyes before climbing to his feet and walking out of the longhouse to fetch water for cooking, as was his morning duty.
“Hurry up, boy,” his father called to him; “There is much to do before we sail tomorrow.”
Torval brought in the bucket that collected the night’s rainwater and set it near the fire pit in the center of the room. Then, he asked his father, “May I go along this time?”
His father glared at Torval and hissed, “We talked about this last night. You must remain here and tend to your duties.”
“But…” Torval began, but was silenced when his father lifted a hand in warning.
“I will say no more on this; she cannot be left alone without a protector, and that falls to you. This you know.”
Crestfallen, Torval lowered his head and after taking a piece of dried fish from the serving platter, turned and left the house to begin his chores. He walked the short distance from the longhouse to the shoreline where the ship was waiting. Grasping the line tied to the railing twenty feet above, he climbed up to the deck and sat down against the gunwale while he ate his meager meal.
Then, he recalled the dream. It had been so vivid, so real. And this had been the third night in a row that he had the similar dream. On previous nights, there had been small differences, but the theme remained the same: a lone Viking warrior faces a dragon in mortal combat. Torval allowed a short laugh at the thought of a dragon. There had not been dragons in the northland since his uncle was Torval’s age. He wondered what the dream meant. Did it portend some yet unknown danger, or was it just the wild imaginings of a Viking youth? Torval did not care; he was desperate for adventure. And if his father would not take him along for sea trials tomorrow on Aesgir’s longship, then he would look forward to his dreams of dragons and Vikings. And a girl warrior, Torval amended. He wondered who she was and how he had conjured her as part of his dream. Regardless, he was hopeful the dream would continue so he could learn who she was and why she sacrificed herself…for what purpose. No matter; it was only a dream. Now, he had work to do. So Torval set about his chores; he gathered the fishing net and began to mend it.
Later, his fingers sore from working with the net and then sanding the new deck planks he had installed the day before, Torval sat on the gunwale of the beached longship, his feet dangling over the side, hands resting on the wood railing, and brooded. He was staring west toward the open sea. The crystal clear water of the Fjord of Ylwen and the mist-shrouded coastal mountains were all that kept him from realizing the vision in his minds’ eye.
There, he imagined he saw the blue-gray waves breaking on the rocky beaches, heard the shore birds calling in their accusing voices, and smelled the salty tang of the ocean. To the west beyond the distant horizon, lay adventures unnumbered. He could hear the summons of his destiny, stirring his Viking blood that yearned to answer the call and go raiding like his father and brother had done, and as his uncle still did.
Torval lifted his face and felt the sun’s warmth; a rare treat, for it was still mid-winter in the North Country. He closed his eyes and relished the sensation on his skin. The young man’s face was handsome but unremarkable, with the common traits of his people: a square jaw and a fine nose that could not be called large. It had one prominent feature – a break across the bridge that had healed, leaving a ridge that some said gave him masculine character. He earned it defending his cousin, for which his uncle praised him in song for his bravery.
His hair was the color of the summer sun and was tied back in a long ponytail with a slight curl that fell to the center of his back.
He had his mother’s eyes, a blue as pale as the waters of the fjord, but when angered, changed to almost black: the pupils opening up to take in light like a cat. He had a sincere smile and straight, white teeth, which he tended to bother with his tongue when he concentrated extra hard. The village women, both young and old alike, agreed that he would be a striking man once he matured.
Reality crept back into his mind and the young man lowered his head and sighed, “I’ll never go to sea,” he said. His brother was dead, killed in battle when Torval was just a lad of six. As a result, his father had repented of the seas’ call and instead turned his efforts to shipbuilding. Torval’s father, Ingemar – the shipwright – was adamant in denying his surviving sons’ persistent requests to follow his brother and uncle to the sea.
Torval resented his father for turning his back on their heritage. In his heart, he was ashamed of the decision his father had made after Torval’s brother had been killed. They had strident arguments on the subject during cold nights in the longhouse they shared with Magnus, Torval’s uncle, and Magnus’ daughter, but in the end Torval’s father would put the subject to rest by swearing:
“Let the world remember Ingemar the Red and Sveinn the Bold, and be glad they no longer sail the oceans,” he told Torval. “I shall not lose you too, boy.”
With that declaration his father signaled the end of discussion. Regardless of his father’s pronouncement, Torval’s desire for adventure never waned; it remained a constant pain in his heart, an unfulfilled destiny.
So, instead of learning the art of war and seamanship, Torval Ingemarsson spent his days mending sails, repairing oars, and scraping barnacles from the wooden hulls of the longships. This last task was one that Torval detested above all the rest. It was low work, not befitting the son of a once-great Viking warrior and Torval would curse his plight when he was lying on his back forcing the stubborn barnacles from the wooden hulls. As fate would have it, the scraper would slip as he pried at a particularly resistant one. In those instances he would utter vehement oaths at the gods as he shook his raised fist; his raw, bloodied knuckles evidence of their indifference.
Despite his feelings about the chores, Torval worked hard, trying to please his father. Even though Torval tried his best, it seemed that his father was always dissatisfied with the quality of his efforts. “Well, if that is the best you can do” was a common refrain from Ingemar. Eventually, and because of this constant belittling, Torval became filled with self-doubt. However, there was one pastime that lifted his confidence: fighting. In that singular effort, Torval knew he excelled.
His fighting skills had been honed from countless unarmed battles with the village youths who considered him the son of a coward. This hurtful reference to his father’s decision to turn from his Viking roots stung Torval like an icy wind. So he fought back, often and well. Since reaching his teens the fighting had diminished as his skill had improved and his strength increased. With his fists he was unbeatable, though he often bore the marks of these contests: his nose was the most recent, and he owed that to his cousin, Ästa.
As much as he loathed scraping barnacles, what he found an intolerable, personal nuisance and a bane to his standing in the village, which he worked hard at maintaining notwithstanding the unwarranted sobriquet, was his responsibility for watching over his cousin. He considered tending after his uncle’s daughter as women’s work. He was no babysitter, even though at fourteen-years-old, Ästa Magnusdottir was no baby. In fact, it was difficult to believe she was only two years younger than he was. The girl was already as tall as Tor – her nickname for him – at nearly six-grown; her last growth mark was half-way up the sixth log in the wall of their home. Torval worried that if he didn’t grow faster, she would surpass him in height by next summer.
At sixteen, Torval was nearly a man-grown, but the thought of being seen by the other boys in the village taking care of a girl caused Torval no end of torment. He did not fear the other boys, but what he could not fight against were the knowing looks, the whispered words behind cupped hands as he passed by with his cousin in tow, and his perceived status in the village. Torval did not hold this against his cousin, for he was her staunchest protector – when her father was away, as Magnus was now. He just despised his duty to follow her around.
But his father had insisted because the village women refused to watch the child. They said she was cursed. Her mother had been a beauty from the western lands, brought back by Magnus the Dragon-hand, fierce Viking lord and chieftain of the village. The year after arriving in Tyländor, the foreign woman had died in childbirth, leaving Magnus with no male heir. But, as Torval’s mother had told him, Magnus had loved the child from the first time he held her. Torval’s mother went on to say that the old women in the village swore that the child had enchanted him and that for the sake of the village he should abandon the baby in the woods for the wolves, but Magnus laughed at their warnings and took the baby home to raise.
He stands in semi-darkness, the midday sky overcast with low-hanging, black clouds that block out the sun and cast a shroud of gray over the land. The landscape is a blasted, barren, rock-strewn wasteland with smoking pits of fire that emit noxious vapors and poison, sulfurous fumes. Death lay all about from the protracted battle; many bodies are nearly unrecognizable in their violated condition: some broken, all burned to some degree. Nevertheless, the man knows who they are and it breaks his heart as he struggles to stand against the evil creature he has traveled so far and endured so much to destroy.
This is the domain of the dragon; a monster of evil recently emerged from out of the bogs and swamps of a long-forgotten land. All around are few reminders of what once was a lush valley at the edge of the forest; the smoldering stumps and twisted trunks of trees dot the landscape, but nothing grows where the dragon has made its home, not a blade of grass or creeping vine can take root in the parched earth. It has sickened the land as it draws the life from the very earth under its clawed feet.
The air is hot and heavy with moisture though it is the winter season in the northland – another indicator of the foul wrongness that the creature’s presence brings. Sweat drips into the Viking’s eyes, but he ignores the burning sensation as he takes stock of his foe. The dragon looms in the near distance, a sentinel against which the man must wage his righteous battle. The demon beast’s head hovers thirty feet above the wasted land, staring down at the hated man with malevolent, red eyes. The dragon’s long, serpentine neck undulates in a slow, rhythmic dance that threatens to freeze the man where he stands. The vile thing’s body is ponderously large and covered by overlapping, armored scales that terminate in a cruel, spiked tail that whips back and forth as if like a cat preparing to attack.
The man gathers his courage, one hand holding a sword, while in the other he holds forth a glowing rod of incredible power, the head of which pulsates in time with the beating of the man’s heart. He stabs the sword point into the ground at his feet, bends to retrieve his dented helmet, and then places it on his head, obscuring his identity. Now, after pulling his sword free he is ready. Slowly, the man steps forward, the radiance emitted by the lance he holds cutting through the darkness like a knife through a shroud. As he approaches, the dragon takes a tentative step back from the encroaching, white power; a thing it knows can cause it harm if given the chance. However, the dragon has no intention of giving the man a chance, he is merely drawing the bearer of the white rod in closer, closer still, until at last it rears up and lunges at the man.
The Viking, who was expecting the attack, deftly sidesteps the massive beast, allowing its bulk to drop to the ground, momentarily slowing its attack. While the thing tries to rise up for another strike, the Viking thrusts the point of his sword at the beast, trying to find a gap in the armored scales. But it is useless, they are too tightly placed and the sword cannot pierce the tough hide.
Using his superior mobility, the Viking keeps clear of the dragon’s thrashing tail and snapping jaws. He does not fear the beast’s flame, for he knows that that weapon is expended; still, the dragon has other weapons though its tail and jaws are deadly enough should he become too confident or unfocused.
As the Viking watches, the dragon pushes itself up once more, shrieking in anger and frustration, and moves with surprising speed to close the distance between them. Just as the Viking is preparing to dodge another assault, he pauses to look as the dragon lifts its underside from the ground, for something has caught his eye: a flash of red and gold protruding from a small patch of pale flesh on the beast’s belly. Realizing that there are no armored scales there, he offers a brief thanks to the gods.
Then, he remembers the small warrior and her earlier, valiant sacrifice. The girl carried a jewel-encrusted dagger, which she was able to use to stab into the dragon’s underside during an earlier skirmish in the battle. The dragon, which appeared to be hurt by this brazen attack, had dropped onto the small form of the warrior as she struck, crushing her body into the ground before moving on to face the remaining Viking.
Now, the Viking saw the vulnerable place clearly and knew what he must do.
“Torval,” a voice called from within the darkness.
He must place his sword in that soft spot as well. It would be dangerous, and he took the very real chance that he too would be crushed by the dragon, but…
“Torval, time to get up,” the voice, now familiar, called again, this time with more insistence.
The Viking turned toward the direction of the voice and said, “Just a bit longer, father.”
“Now, Torval,” the voice persisted, forcing away the darkness and causing the dragon to recede back into its lair for yet another time.
The dream faded as the fog of sleep lifted and the boy sat up, tossing aside the furs as he sat up in his bed and stretched. He yawned and rubbed the sleep from his eyes before climbing to his feet and walking out of the longhouse to fetch water for cooking, as was his morning duty.
“Hurry up, boy,” his father called to him; “There is much to do before we sail tomorrow.”
Torval brought in the bucket that collected the night’s rainwater and set it near the fire pit in the center of the room. Then, he asked his father, “May I go along this time?”
His father glared at Torval and hissed, “We talked about this last night. You must remain here and tend to your duties.”
“But…” Torval began, but was silenced when his father lifted a hand in warning.
“I will say no more on this; she cannot be left alone without a protector, and that falls to you. This you know.”
Crestfallen, Torval lowered his head and after taking a piece of dried fish from the serving platter, turned and left the house to begin his chores. He walked the short distance from the longhouse to the shoreline where the ship was waiting. Grasping the line tied to the railing twenty feet above, he climbed up to the deck and sat down against the gunwale while he ate his meager meal.
Then, he recalled the dream. It had been so vivid, so real. And this had been the third night in a row that he had the similar dream. On previous nights, there had been small differences, but the theme remained the same: a lone Viking warrior faces a dragon in mortal combat. Torval allowed a short laugh at the thought of a dragon. There had not been dragons in the northland since his uncle was Torval’s age. He wondered what the dream meant. Did it portend some yet unknown danger, or was it just the wild imaginings of a Viking youth? Torval did not care; he was desperate for adventure. And if his father would not take him along for sea trials tomorrow on Aesgir’s longship, then he would look forward to his dreams of dragons and Vikings. And a girl warrior, Torval amended. He wondered who she was and how he had conjured her as part of his dream. Regardless, he was hopeful the dream would continue so he could learn who she was and why she sacrificed herself…for what purpose. No matter; it was only a dream. Now, he had work to do. So Torval set about his chores; he gathered the fishing net and began to mend it.
Later, his fingers sore from working with the net and then sanding the new deck planks he had installed the day before, Torval sat on the gunwale of the beached longship, his feet dangling over the side, hands resting on the wood railing, and brooded. He was staring west toward the open sea. The crystal clear water of the Fjord of Ylwen and the mist-shrouded coastal mountains were all that kept him from realizing the vision in his minds’ eye.
There, he imagined he saw the blue-gray waves breaking on the rocky beaches, heard the shore birds calling in their accusing voices, and smelled the salty tang of the ocean. To the west beyond the distant horizon, lay adventures unnumbered. He could hear the summons of his destiny, stirring his Viking blood that yearned to answer the call and go raiding like his father and brother had done, and as his uncle still did.
Torval lifted his face and felt the sun’s warmth; a rare treat, for it was still mid-winter in the North Country. He closed his eyes and relished the sensation on his skin. The young man’s face was handsome but unremarkable, with the common traits of his people: a square jaw and a fine nose that could not be called large. It had one prominent feature – a break across the bridge that had healed, leaving a ridge that some said gave him masculine character. He earned it defending his cousin, for which his uncle praised him in song for his bravery.
His hair was the color of the summer sun and was tied back in a long ponytail with a slight curl that fell to the center of his back.
He had his mother’s eyes, a blue as pale as the waters of the fjord, but when angered, changed to almost black: the pupils opening up to take in light like a cat. He had a sincere smile and straight, white teeth, which he tended to bother with his tongue when he concentrated extra hard. The village women, both young and old alike, agreed that he would be a striking man once he matured.
Reality crept back into his mind and the young man lowered his head and sighed, “I’ll never go to sea,” he said. His brother was dead, killed in battle when Torval was just a lad of six. As a result, his father had repented of the seas’ call and instead turned his efforts to shipbuilding. Torval’s father, Ingemar – the shipwright – was adamant in denying his surviving sons’ persistent requests to follow his brother and uncle to the sea.
Torval resented his father for turning his back on their heritage. In his heart, he was ashamed of the decision his father had made after Torval’s brother had been killed. They had strident arguments on the subject during cold nights in the longhouse they shared with Magnus, Torval’s uncle, and Magnus’ daughter, but in the end Torval’s father would put the subject to rest by swearing:
“Let the world remember Ingemar the Red and Sveinn the Bold, and be glad they no longer sail the oceans,” he told Torval. “I shall not lose you too, boy.”
With that declaration his father signaled the end of discussion. Regardless of his father’s pronouncement, Torval’s desire for adventure never waned; it remained a constant pain in his heart, an unfulfilled destiny.
So, instead of learning the art of war and seamanship, Torval Ingemarsson spent his days mending sails, repairing oars, and scraping barnacles from the wooden hulls of the longships. This last task was one that Torval detested above all the rest. It was low work, not befitting the son of a once-great Viking warrior and Torval would curse his plight when he was lying on his back forcing the stubborn barnacles from the wooden hulls. As fate would have it, the scraper would slip as he pried at a particularly resistant one. In those instances he would utter vehement oaths at the gods as he shook his raised fist; his raw, bloodied knuckles evidence of their indifference.
Despite his feelings about the chores, Torval worked hard, trying to please his father. Even though Torval tried his best, it seemed that his father was always dissatisfied with the quality of his efforts. “Well, if that is the best you can do” was a common refrain from Ingemar. Eventually, and because of this constant belittling, Torval became filled with self-doubt. However, there was one pastime that lifted his confidence: fighting. In that singular effort, Torval knew he excelled.
His fighting skills had been honed from countless unarmed battles with the village youths who considered him the son of a coward. This hurtful reference to his father’s decision to turn from his Viking roots stung Torval like an icy wind. So he fought back, often and well. Since reaching his teens the fighting had diminished as his skill had improved and his strength increased. With his fists he was unbeatable, though he often bore the marks of these contests: his nose was the most recent, and he owed that to his cousin, Ästa.
As much as he loathed scraping barnacles, what he found an intolerable, personal nuisance and a bane to his standing in the village, which he worked hard at maintaining notwithstanding the unwarranted sobriquet, was his responsibility for watching over his cousin. He considered tending after his uncle’s daughter as women’s work. He was no babysitter, even though at fourteen-years-old, Ästa Magnusdottir was no baby. In fact, it was difficult to believe she was only two years younger than he was. The girl was already as tall as Tor – her nickname for him – at nearly six-grown; her last growth mark was half-way up the sixth log in the wall of their home. Torval worried that if he didn’t grow faster, she would surpass him in height by next summer.
At sixteen, Torval was nearly a man-grown, but the thought of being seen by the other boys in the village taking care of a girl caused Torval no end of torment. He did not fear the other boys, but what he could not fight against were the knowing looks, the whispered words behind cupped hands as he passed by with his cousin in tow, and his perceived status in the village. Torval did not hold this against his cousin, for he was her staunchest protector – when her father was away, as Magnus was now. He just despised his duty to follow her around.
But his father had insisted because the village women refused to watch the child. They said she was cursed. Her mother had been a beauty from the western lands, brought back by Magnus the Dragon-hand, fierce Viking lord and chieftain of the village. The year after arriving in Tyländor, the foreign woman had died in childbirth, leaving Magnus with no male heir. But, as Torval’s mother had told him, Magnus had loved the child from the first time he held her. Torval’s mother went on to say that the old women in the village swore that the child had enchanted him and that for the sake of the village he should abandon the baby in the woods for the wolves, but Magnus laughed at their warnings and took the baby home to raise.
