Northern Fiction - The Saga of Freydis Eiriksdattir
Chapter 3
Even Snorri was attentive now, keenly aware that he could use these personal details at other occasions to good effect. Like all other bards, Snorri had learned his craft listening to other skalds reciting old tales all through, story after story; and attending to odd phrase and personal adventures spun from old soldiers’ lips. Rough threads could be knotted into his verses with a practiced poets quick skills and even reshaped as he sang new songs aloud.
“Yes, do go on Thorir, it is a tale we’ll remember,” Snorri urged.
“Well, the Rus ships that could break free of their own fleet tried to escape the flames, but a storm came up and many vessels were dashed against the coast. Fifteen thousand Rus corpses washed up on the Bosporus! Many ships were sunk, even that of Prince Vladimir, the son of King Yaroslav, and the prince escaped up the Bulgarian coast. The Rus commander Vyshata was captured near Varna and he and eight hundred prisoners were brought back to Constatinople where many were blinded. Vyshata did not return to Kiev for three years and the Rus never again attacked Miklagard.”
Thorir brought down the house. Everyone loved the story. Then, he was overwhelmed with questions: “How was Greek Fire made?”: “How could men handle the dangerous matter?”; “How was it expelled and directed?” He said the mixture was a state secret of the greeks. Yet, he knew it was made from wax, naptha, and sulfur the mixture produced a sticky resinous liquid that burned very hot and could not be easily extinquished. He knew more about its use, as he had been on ships that had been equiped with the fire. The men who handled the fire wore special suits of a material woven of silk and asbestos that could be cleaned by throwing it in fire and yet it would not burn! The liquid was ejected from bronze or iron tubes that were attached to belows that spurted the mixture safely away from the ship it was mounted on and out to enemy vessels.
With the crowd so attentive to Thorir’s tale and the following conversation it was easy for the girl to slip out of the side alcove and back into the hall. She picked up a jug of ale and rushed to fill an extended horn for a thirsting, red faced, feaster.
Popular acclaim now turned once more to Snorri and he was induced to recount another tale of Agdi’s adventures with Harald and the Varangians. He waited. The drinking horn passed from man to man. The servants poured out another round of drinks to the company.
Snorri began: “When Harald had led his Varangians to another great town in Sicily, he realized that it was unassailable by force.” With a nod toward Thorvald, Snorri remarked in an aside: “He who travels widely needs his wits about him, Agdi was ever one with a plan or ruse.”
A murmur of “Here, here,” and “That’s so,” and “True enough” was heard from the older warriors.”
Then Snorri continued: “Harald turned to his clever henchman Agdi for advice. Agdi said to him: ‘Go to your bed my lord, and stay there, for my plan is to win the town by guile.’ The commander moved his tent away from the main army to a place on a hill that could be clearly observed from the town walls. He let it be known that he was so ill that he could not endure the noise and bustle of the camp. The besieged soon learned that Hardrahdi was ill and they could clearly see his men going each day to his tent to consult with him. Spies confirmed the talk of the camp: the commander was ill. He was sinking fast. The talk seemed to explained why no assault had taken place. After a while it was reported that ‘the commander was at the very doors of death’ and the entire army was reduced to great despondency.”
“Eventually, Harald’s health was reported to be so low that he was expected to die at any moment. Therefore the townsmen were not surprised when Agdi led a delegation of Varangians to parley. Agdi begged the townsmen to give his leader a Christian burial at a church within the town. There were many churchmen present at the meeting and all were eager to have the honor of burying Harald. Surely, many precious offerings would be donated to the corpse's final resting place. All the clergy donned their best robes and came in procession with shrines and priceless holy relics to receive the body from the Varangians at Hardrahdi’s tent. A magnificent cortege of warriors then carried the leader’s corpse to the town in a stout coffin to his place of interment.”
“When Agdi had led the cortege of mourning Varangians to the opened gates they suddenly dropped the coffin across the entry and blocked the gates from closing. Harald sprang from the coffin summoning his men to attack before the enemy townsmen could recover from the ruse. Harold’s men trumpeted the call to arms while the members of the funeral cortege wrapped their cloaks about their arms as shields and hacked the churchmen in the procession to pieces in the entry passage. The Varangians murdered all they could while the entire army came up from the camp to join them at the gate. Then they slaughtered all the remaining churchmen and residents and looted the town. After plundering everything of value, Agdi was given a hero’s share for devising and executing the plan.”
Snorri sat back to the sound of fists and drinking horns being enthusiastically thumped on the trestle boards. He bowed his head toward Thorvald and then leaned back in his seat. Thorvald arose and leaning across the table drank a toast to the bard for so honoring his father before the assembled company. “Snorri, I give you this golden armband in thanks for making known once more to all of Norumbega these stories of my father’s adventures.” Thorvald was especially proud of this opportunity to rehear the adventures’ of his father and that great Viking King Harald Hardrahdi in their days with the Varangian Guard.
Snorri gratefully accepted the lavish token of Thorvald’s appreciation, saying: “Young warrior, I hope to live long enough to tell tales of you before the assembled jarls in Iceland and the king in Norway ere long.” The assembled company’s appreciation was once more expressed with a loud thumping on the tables.
Magnus, Aran’s tall skinny red-haired friend, looked down at his knees and blinked in confused surprise. Squatting under the table was a small lad with a big pale white twisted nose, stiff-straight black hair, and unusually large hands who Magnus immediately recognized as a dwarf. As everyone knows dwarf’s are very pale because they shun sunlight, work underground, and travel by night,. Pressing his limited erudition, and luck, to the limit he said: “As Thor said to Alvis in The Words of the All-Wise, my strange little fellow:
Were you clasped in a corpses’ embrace?
I think you must be ill-begotten:
That face will n’er attract a bride!
What brings you on this journey to Gianthome?
“What?” asked the red haired youth of the strange little fellow under the table.
“Come closer,” was the softly whispered reply.
Magnus, leaned down.
“Closer still.”
Magnus peered under the table, close enough to smell an earthy breath, as the homely lad hissed to him in susurus sounds that issued from between large yellow teeth.
The beckoning finger recoiled into a knotted fist that suddenly landed as a hard punch on his snoot: Smack!
“Ouch!” Magnus jerked up cracking his poll against the underside of the table with a thud: “Ouch.” Tears came to his eyes and Magnus knuckled a trickle of blood from his left nostril.
“You deserved that! You know you earned that proper. What’s your name?”
“Magnus.”
“Hello. Pleased to meet you. You earned that bop you know.”
“Yes, perhaps I did,” Magnus conceded. His tone carried a little more respect for the strange fellow under the table than his earlier rhymes had suggested.
“Follow me.” Then turning, the lad scurried away beneath the trestle tables toward the end nearest the entry door.
Magnus, who had been drinking heavily, blinked several times and touched his bloody nose to reassure himself that he was not totally befuddled “Why not?” he thought, rising and staggering in as casual manner possible toward the end of the tables. His friend of small acquaintance waited, standing head tall to the table top, concealed behind a cape someone had thrown over the edge of the boards. Magnus squatted and hunkered down half under the table: “No more punches! Say, who are you?”
“Thjodrerir.”
Magnus blinked, “That’s a taller name than you!”
“You asked for no more punches. Don’t press your luck.” Muttering, and squinting in the bright light, Thjodrerir observed: “I never would have thought of such a witty observation! I’ll try to remember it. ‘Pon my word, never heard such wit before. My aren’t you the clever fellow. Tsk, tsk, tsk. Picked a winner, I did. Yup. Got me a real sharp edged wit here. I guess that one punch was not enough?”
Covering his nose, Magnus responded: “Enough! You called to me, not I to thee.” Then he paused a moment to reflect upon the sound his rhyming reposte. “Not bad,” he thought, impressed with his little rhyme. Then:
Stand up then. Let me hear of your tidings.
He who sits is seldom a truth-teller,
He who stretches at lenght, is a liar always.
These are the marks of the wise man.
Fimbul-Fambi the fool had best be quiet,
in the presence of other folks
No one knows less what a nitwit he is
Than the fool who talks too much.
“Thanks!” Magnus, who was not very religious despite his membership in the community of Saint Olaf’s Church was thrown on the defensive. “I am a member of the clergy, sort of, and if you seek assistance I am here, I sort of suppose, maybe. But let off the cracks, I can easily walk away you know. Just what is it that you do want, dwarf.”
Thjodrerir snapped back: “Dwarf? Just what I need, a name caller. Want to taste my blade? I’ll make you a head shorter! You have little enough use for the added height. You’re so much better than me? Do you think I am ‘too small’ a concern. Do you require a ‘tall order’ to attract your linited attention. Am I so easily ‘overlooked’ that I am of no consequence? I’ll have you know that I’m a full ell in height! And, You’d better believe that I’m no imaginary ‘pixie’ from under a cabbage leaf! Just because I’m not a tall gangling figure like your awkwardness, ‘Sir Dim,’ that gives you the right to be abusive to me?”
Magnus shook his head: “Like the poets say:”
Often-times the better man is beaten
In word fight by the lesser man.
<< Previous Page Next Page >>
© 2004-2007 Northvegr.
Most of the material on this site is in the public domain. However, many people have worked very hard to bring these texts to you so if you do use the work, we would appreciate it if you could give credit to both the Northvegr site and to the individuals who worked to bring you these texts. A small number of texts are copyrighted and cannot be used without the author's permission. Any text that is copyrighted will have a clear notation of such on the main index page for that text. Inquiries can be sent to info@northvegr.org. Northvegr™ and the Northvegr symbol are trademarks and service marks of the Northvegr Foundation.
|