Authors: Vincent Atherton
This is not what is expected and the crowd gasps aloud, giving great encouragement to Ivarr who bounds forward to attack with new confidence. His moment of triumph is short-lived though, as Ragnald has instantly recovered both his poise and his wits. He is able to counter Ivarr's thrusts, and there are several of them, and when they relent for a moment he makes a thrust of his own, drawing blood from a shallow wound on the king's right arm.
Ivarr charges Ragnald again but this time he is ready and moves nimbly out of the way and the king falls humiliatingly flat on his face. He is up again immediately, behaving as though nothing has happened. Nevertheless it is clear to us that Ivarr is not anything like as agile as his opponent and so he is trying to compensate with sheer brute force and desperation. It is not effective this time, as Ragnald moves aside, and slashes at his adversary. This time he opens a deep gash, slicing through the muscle of the bicep. It looks bloody and painful though not too dramatic at first, but in fact, this proves to be the decisive blow.
The king is disabled, unable to hold his sword or defend himself effectively and soon we can all see that his moment has come. I can see that realisation appear in horror in Ivarr's eyes, now wide open. He can only hope for pity from his opponent but Ragnald has a warrior's instincts and spirit, he feels no pity and has no hesitation. He smites Ivarr a terrible blow across his head with both hands on his longsword, knocking him out cold.
Another swift brutal thrust to the throat and then we can all hear the king's last gurgle, his blood forming a fine red mist as it sprays out, then it runs thick, red and hot across the earth, and the fight is over.
It is a great entertainment for the crowd, a hugely dramatic spectacle and with a popular outcome. All of the crowd cheer loudly, enjoying the moment since no one pities Ivarr. We all feel that he had let us all down very badly, and a defeated king is a useless king. Those who have great power and enjoy the great wealth and privileges that goes with it must accept the great consequences if they fail. Ivarr has failed completely, so he has had to face the final consequence as he deserved to. Tyr's judgement has been just.
Perhaps alone in this crowd I look towards Ivarr's queen, Thora and their small children, and feel concerned for their fate. While I have no feeling for Ivarr, it's hard on the family to see their husband or father killed in front of them, and they have little prospect now as their wealth and privilege has also just died in front of their eyes. Both of the children are extremely distressed and crying, clinging onto their mother, who comforts them though she must know that there will be no likelihood of sympathy, and little help, for her from any of the assembled people.
In complete contrast Ragnald turns to stand in triumph to accept the acclaim of his people, grabbing his personal banner with its red and gold colouring in the shape of a boar's head and waving it aloft. He shouts a tribute to Tyr, to show his gratitude to that god. Clearly he believes that he is now the unchallengeable King of the Dyflinn Norse, even though he will be king in exile. He enjoys his moment and embraces the acclaim, turning around with his arms held high, gloating like a hero, a man who really enjoys the attention of a crowd.
Ragnald swirls the red and gold boar's head above him, loudly cursing the Irskrs, and swears to avenge our defeat and calls on all of us to vow to regain our city. None of us will see Valhalla unless we first reclaim our birthright by throwing the Irskrs out of Dyflinn, the city that we Lochlain created and to whom it rightly belongs forever.
So we all publicly and openly swear before our assembled comrades to avenge our defeat and recover our once proud city. We do so willingly and it has therefore become our sacred task to gain it back for the Lochlain people, living and dead. The pledge is to be a great burden to all the honourable men who took it, though we do not know it yet. Many, perhaps even most of us, will never live to see the great day when the mission is fulfilled.
The assembly is not yet finished, however, as other Jarls have been gathered in a corner muttering between themselves. These men do not look like they are joining in Ragnald's triumphal mood and now Guthfrith steps forward accompanied by his brother Sihtric. They also have a personal group of huskarls, and these warriors are making their presence known, shoulder to shoulder behind the Jarls. Sihtric claims equal status with Ragnald for both himself and his brother. It is clear that they are going to back their demands, not in single combat with Ragnald but, if necessary by civil war among the gathered Lochlain.
Even Ragnald, angry again and with adrenalin running and his blood boiling, can see this is no way to go forward. He accepts tersely and with evident bad grace, a compromise, the suggestion that all of the gathered warriors will have the right to follow whichever Jarl they believe is best equipped to lead them to the goal of reclaiming our city. By far the largest number, including myself, immediately gathers under the red and gold banner around Ragnald and even one of the other Jarls, Ingamund pledges himself to follow Ragnald. The Vikings from Dyflinn are, however, split at least three ways even among those who have gathered here in Dalkey, and others may have gathered elsewhere.
Although Ragnald is content to allow his rivals to leave unharmed he is even keener to claim Ivarr's legacy, and in particular he has taken Ivarr's widow Thora and his children under his care. This seems a surprisingly generous and caring action for such a ferocious and ruthless man. It seems, however, that some part of his generosity is explained by his also taking charge of a very large wooden chest just like the one that we brought leather bags containing silver to fill a few days ago. Or maybe he is motivated by Thora's beauty as she is certainly young and very attractive.
Although I did not previously consider Ragnald as a ladies man it is clear that he is quite smitten and very attentive to his new conquest. It is, however, incredible to me that she can accept a man, apparently warmly; who only minutes before has brutally killed her husband. Thora is clearly a very pragmatic woman, who can put her emotions aside to assist her future fortunes and those of her children.
Perhaps there are actually more than three groups among the dispirited Lochlain now, since a number of the freemen do not gather around any Jarl. There is a distinct group who are not warriors, even in a warrior society, and who have no wish to follow a warrior lifestyle, and that is certainly the life we are all going to have now. These are mostly the tradesmen: iron workers, leather makers and jewellers and even some who just see themselves as farmers. In the main these people have never wanted to fight, never wanted to go raiding, they are peaceful, honest and simple men. Others are old or sick, or perhaps they are just not brave and are therefore content to return live in their city and ply their trades as quietly as they can.
Many of these people are closer than we are to the foreigners, and may even have learnt the language in order to carry out trade with them. Often they have Irskr wives and children and it is therefore their intention to return to the defeated town and take their chance on negotiating terms with the Irskrs. They hope to resume something like their previous lives, though evidently now it will be as subjects of the King of Leinster, rather than as free Norsemen. They must believe in his mercy and goodwill a great deal more than we do, and they are therefore prepared to take their chances.
So a momentous Althing disperses, with each man uneasily moving his family with him into his new group and a very hostile and uneasy truce is held overnight. Surprisingly the truce does hold though, there are no incidents. Perhaps that is because we are all too weary to fight any more, or maybe we realise that we are better fighting our enemies rather than our kin. No one knows what the future holds but we are just a few against a very hostile world far away from any friends and we have made ourselves even fewer and even weaker by splitting among ourselves.
Each of us, having taken our family under the banner of our new allegiance discusses in hushed whispers the drama we have seen unfold, before settling down to an uncomfortable and unhappy night's rest. A light rain sets in just as we settle down to drench us and thus to complete our misery.
In the middle of the night, I feel extremely cold and then suddenly very hot, and move around sweating profusely and seeing images of heavily armed Irskr warriors about to strike my head off, while I am lying on the floor unarmed and helpless. Then out of the mist comes the figure of my father, and I hear his voice: low, quiet and yet eerily harsh as though he has a throat infection.
I can see that I am back on the palisade of our settlement, and still looking out to see if we are safe from the attack as though it had not happened yet. I can see the green fields of the Dyflinnskari and the Irskr's wild lands in the mountains beyond that. I can feel the soft rain brush my face, the touch of the gentle rain that is such a very familiar feeling. It falls so often like this here, it is like an integral part of the landscape. I will never think of Dyflinn again without feeling that gentle rain on my face.
Just along the fence from me stands the lonely figure, a grey man, just visible in the mist of the early morning drizzle although he is not more than thirty yards away. He is dressed all in black leather and his hair and beard have grown long, mostly white now. He looks feeble, old and above all, dispirited. He is Erik, my father, and I am very frightened to see him now like this, and he looks troubled, very troubled. Thoughtful and distant as he is, he appears thin and gaunt as though an already a dead man is still walking. The grey face turns to look at me, I am terrified to meet his dull eyes, but there is no escape, they do meet mine and he speaks.
The eyes remain dull and lifeless, his skin taut, and while his jaw opens his lips and tongue are still, the voice appears to echo from inside the hollow shell of his grey body.
“Don't worry about me Amleth, I have no regrets and am happy to be among the dead. I have no regrets about the spilling of my blood in the land of my father. My time was already spent and I am too weary to carry on any longer. Just look after your mother now.
You are doing the right thing to get out of Dyflinn, it is finished now and the Irskr will trash the place, burn every building since they are savages who have no idea what else to do with houses. It will be many years before it is again fit for civilised people to live there. You must find hope for your family elsewhere, and under new leaders.
I have no time for that arrogant, young upstart Ragnald that you seem so impressed by. He is no more than a hot-headed braggart who has achieved nothing more than fight a few brawls. Nothing good will come your way while you follow him. You might believe that he favours you and honours you but it will never be really true. He only works for himself and much will be happening behind your back, you will never see it and never know about it. All of it evil.
I know you heard that I was a powerful warrior in my time. In a way it is true and certainly I was respected for that among the great Norse warriors who defended this town. I was born here and have lived here through almost all of its history. I can say with pride that I lived my youth under the reign of Olafr the White and his brother Ivarr the Boneless, who were real Viking kings. They terrorised not only the Irskrs but all of the surrounding lands and brought us great wealth and prosperity. Their achievements went beyond fighting, as they set up the farming communities and established trade routes.
You know that I was a fierce fighter, a ruthless killer who never shirked from the most dangerous place at the centre of every battle. As a young boy you often asked me to tell you of my adventures, and I could see that you expected great tales of adventure and of great glory won bravely in the face of terrible adversity. No wonder you were so obviously disappointed to find that you got very little of that from me. I was always extremely reluctant to talk about it all.
I can tell you just a little of my time as a warrior now. I do not see those times as glorious, far from it. I hated every moment of it and wanted nothing more than to run away, to be able to live in peace. All of my memories of my warrior days are of terrible hardship and death, especially of the loss of close friends.
I lived this life because I had no better option than to take my place in the ranks and fight as fiercely as anyone. Being a warrior is what we Norse are born to do; it gives us the highest status in our society and the best living for our families. We are surrounded by hostile people and must always fight them, dominate and enslave them, or be dominated and enslaved ourselves.
Throwing myself headlong into the fighting was my way of coping with it. I blotted out all thought of what I was doing and became an unthinking fighting animal, devoid of any thoughts or feelings. Everything happened in a frenzy, I could hardly see the men I killed, and I rarely had any time to think of how it might feel to be on the receiving end. Well, no time during the battle. Only in that manner could I accept the role I had to take.
After the fighting finished though, all of its scenes and all of its horror came back to me. Then I knew of the hardship and suffering that came from it. I think you will soon know these feelings too.
The death of friends alongside me affected me terribly, especially as they were sometimes hacked to pieces right beside me, covering me in their blood and guts while I still had to fight on and hack the other bastards to pieces to save my own life. No time to reflect, no time to help them, not even time to vomit as my body revolted at the sights, sounds and smells around me.
Even the victories were terrible and hollow as I looked into my opponent's eyes as they died, and often I was required to execute them in cold blood after the battle. Most of them were people who I did not hate and pitied, with no reason to kill except the orders of our cruel kings and Jarls.
Can you wonder that all of this filled me with a horror of war and all that suffering and blood spilt unnecessarily has infected my mind although I tried to wipe it out of my memory?