by Andrew Jensen
in Issue 80, September 2018
This wouldn’t have happened when I was young. As a young man I respected older warriors. I blame our new king. He’s a Christian. He even calls himself “King Christian.” Our whole land is growing soft.
I don’t mean OLD warriors. We didn’t have any of those. Men who had actually grown old were obviously cowards. But mature warriors who had earned respect, but maybe not gone to the halls of Valhalla just yet, we certainly didn’t disrespect them.
That stupid ox of a peasant on the next farm needs to learn respect. I’ve told him who I am, and what I’ve done. He doesn’t care.
Who am I? I’m the last of the band that sailed with King Bjørn the Bold to slay the dragon. I am the Tail-Slayer.
My brother and I were the youngest to go. It’s always lucky for twins to join a journey, and we were keen to fight. Some of the men thought we were along as a joke, but facing a dragon is no joke. King Bjørn even gave us swords, since our family was poor. They were old swords, nothing special. They hadn’t been famous in battle; they had no names. But they were our first swords.
“So, little brother, are you ready to unsheathe your blade?” I was born first, by a whole hour, and he needed reminding.
He blushed! He actually blushed!
Then I realized why. He’d been staring at the three shield-maidens. They were beautiful. They were older than us, like everyone else, but not by much. They had battle experience (unlike us) but only a few scars, which proved they were skillful. King Bjørn was a strong believer in luck and he considered them lucky, like us. That’s why we were all gathered in his ship. I felt pretty lucky at the time.
“I meant draw your sword in battle, you pig,” I said, punching my brother’s shoulder. He turned away to avoid my grin, and looked into the dark, choppy salt water.
“Of course,” he answered. “If we live, we’ll have fame and wealth. If we die, we’ll go to Valhalla to feast and fight.” Then his voice dropped to a whisper. “Better than drowning.” He shuddered.
When we were children, he’d fallen into a mere, and had nearly drowned. Our mother scolded us, and said the drowned are taken from Njord of the Sea, and given to Hel, the grim queen of death. At Ragnarok, the doom of the nine worlds, they’ll have to fight against the heroes from Valhalla, after sailing their dark ships made of nail-clippings.
Drowning isn’t the only way into the clutches of Hel. Dying of cowardly old age is another. It’s best to die in battle.
No one wants to drown. The only drowned who escape Hel are the ones who become Draug, those slimy seaweed-covered undead that haunt the shore. It’s hard to imagine which is worse: Draug or Hel? My brother was terrified of drowning.
I looked at King Bjørn. We were sailing, not rowing, and he’d ordered a ration of ale to be shared out. He was drinking his from one of his skull-cups. I’d always thought those were just stories, told to exaggerate a warrior’s fierceness. But no, he actually had craftsmen take the skulls of his enemies to make cups. He had several: some were shallow, almost like bowls, while others were fancy, with the whole skull intact except for the jaw. Silver filled the holes of the eyes and nose. Those fancy ones were saved for great feasts, and Bjørn delighted in having the Skalds sing of the defeat of his enemies while he drank from their heads. It was very funny.
It only took a few days to get to Bjørn’s northern territory, where the dragon was. The summer sailing was easy, and we were well rested when we arrived.
The saga sings of Bjørn’s clever plan to defeat the dragon. The king was old, almost fifty, and his years of battle-wisdom showed. His dragon-trap was clever, but it wouldn’t have worked without the courage of the shield-maidens. The saga only gives them a single line.
All three volunteered. Each spoke boldly, declaring why she would be best. Bjørn refused to choose, and declared that they should draw lots, to make it the choice of the gods.
The lot fell to Inga, with her hair of fire. Although she was small, she stood tall with pride at her choosing. Did I mention that she was beautiful? Her beauty shone when she proudly faced the dragon.
I don’t understand why the Christians care about virgins so much. They think dragons want virgins as a sacrifice. They’re fools. No hungry dragon would bother to check before tearing into a tasty young woman.
Our young king become a Christian a few years ago. He knows better than to be disrespectful of the old ways. He won’t let the Christian priests force others to convert. The sagas are still sung, although some of them are changed.
That’s how Inga became a virgin in the saga. She wasn’t. Bjørn’s son made sure of that. We heard their lovemaking all night before the battle. Some of the men began by cheering them on. Later they shouted at them to shut up so we could sleep. My brother and I said nothing. I don’t know about him, but I was jealous: I couldn’t trust my voice.
Besides, we were too excited to sleep.
A couple of hours before dawn, we got into position. We had prepared the ground the day before. When the sun rose over the battle site, her light would shine on an uneven hillside strewn with piles of branches and leaves, surrounding a clear patch. In the patch stood Inga, stripped naked and tied to a tall stake. No dragon could resist such an offering. All we had to do was wait.
Waiting is hard. You don’t know what to expect. Will there be battle, or boredom? Your muscles start to cramp, and everything starts to itch. It is so hard to stay still.
Shortly before mid-morning, we realized that the trap had worked. We heard the wings of the dragon as it flapped closer. There was no roaring: it came silently, so we had to be completely silent too.
Inga screamed to mimic fear. The dragon was completely taken in.
It landed, and waddled towards Inga as if savoring the meal ahead.
Inga threw off her false bonds and pulled up the stake, which was really a spear, consecrated to Odin the night before. Its tip had been hardened in the fire, anointed with blood, and then stabbed into the earth to hide it.
The dragon’s mouth was wide open, whether with hunger or surprise, who could tell? Inga lunged towards it with the spear.
That was our signal. We all leapt from cover, bellowing. We attacked the dragon from every side.
I didn’t see the whole battle. The saga sings that King Bjørn cut off the dragon’s head, and that his son cut off one of its feet. Who knows? I was busy at the other end.
The tail of a dragon is a fearsome weapon. Before I could blink, the end of the tail had swung around and crushed my little brother to the ground.
I went berserk. I chopped down with my sword, and felt bones separate. The tail between me and my brother went limp, but it was still on top of him. I hacked and stabbed in rage, until it was cut right through. Then I tried to lift it off him. It was too heavy.
The battle was over by the time I looked up from my brother’s body. My sword had dissolved from the dragon’s hot blood. Some had spilled onto my legs and feet, but I hadn’t noticed the burns. I was in shock.
“I’ll help you,” said a voice. It was the king himself. He and some other large men dragged the tail off my brother’s body.
“Three men died today,” said the king, gripping my shoulder. “Your brother is one of them. He’s in Valhalla now, feasting with Odin. His name shall be remembered in song whenever this tale is told.”
His strong words were comforting. King Bjørn went to speak to the friends of the other dead, and the prince came up to me. “Dry your tears,” he said. “Don’t be jealous. You’ll be remembered too. Today I give you the title ‘Tail-Slayer’, because you fought a dragon in the end.”
The men nearby roared with laughter at this. It meant I was truly one of them.
It hurt.
We sailed back with pieces of the dragon as our treasure. If it had a horde, it was nowhere near the battle site. Some of the men swore to return to search for it. Over the years many tried, but no one ever found it.
I was given the skin of the tail. It was a good reward. I had it made into tall boots, to cover my scars. When I was still young, I would offer an attractive woman the chance to remove them and admire my battle-scars. Sometimes it worked.
I still have the boots. My wife thinks I don’t know where she hid them, but I do. She put them in a bag with my brother’s old sword, and hid them in the barn. I don’t know what she thinks I might do with them. She worries too much.
A week after our return, King Bjørn the Bold ordered a celebration feast. Most of us who were injured were well enough to join him. Even Inga was there, in a place of honor, at the right hand of the king. Like mine, her many new scars were hidden under clothing. We had all seen them after the battle, though. Inga looked proud, but pained. Neither one of us smiled much.
It doesn’t seem fair, does it? Even at that feast I dreamed of how I could use my scars to attract lovers. Would Inga ever want to show her hard-earned scars to anyone? She was the bravest of anyone there, and what would be her reward?
The prince sat on the left of the king, laughing with one of the other shield maidens. He never looked at Inga.
At the height of the feast four slaves came in, bearing the skull of the dragon. A silversmith had patched up its eye-holes, and decorated them with red gemstones. It was four feet long, at least. I don’t know how much wine it held, but the king boasted he could drink it all, just as he had for his other enemies.
The slaves tipped the skull, so the snout became a funnel. Bjørn drank and drank, and the whole hall cheered. He coughed and sputtered a bit, but no one cared. Others were sputtering too, as they copied the king with normal cups.
Then he fell down, dead. The saga says it was the dragon’s revenge: magic from the skull, or the sudden effect of a dragon scratch that held delayed death. Some whispered that his son had added a bit of dragon’s blood to the draught, to burn the king inside.
That’s not what happened. I am a witness.
The king didn’t die quickly. He rolled on the floor, choking, coughing up dark wine, or maybe blood. No one could save him. It was a dirty, dishonorable death, no matter what the saga says.
He drowned. Bjørn the Bold, king, hero of many battles, dragon-slayer, drowned in wine.
It was a shameful death for a good man. Now he sits in the kingdom of Hel, waiting for a coward’s part in Ragnarok.
What am I waiting for? To die an old man, and see King Bjørn again? Or will I see my brother, whose name was never sung in the saga, whose only glory is in Valhalla, and in my memory?
I would love to see my brother again, and fight beside him. He’d be young and I’d be old. That’s fitting: he was always the little brother. I could share my wisdom with him. The young can be so foolish.
But to see my brother, I must die fighting. And these are peaceful days. Waiting for a war will only make me older. I hate waiting. And when one finally comes, I’ll have to march out on my slow and pain-wracked feet. What will I see in the eyes of younger men? Admiration? Contempt? Pity?
Our Christian king has forbidden raids. He is a strong ruler, but these Christian ideas of mercy are weakening us. Worse, they’re robbing me of my last chance to enter Valhalla.
What choices do I have? When I lose my hope of Valhalla, what’s left? I can’t expect to die in combat with a monster, or at the hands of a worthy foe.
At this point, I’d settle for an unworthy foe.
Oh, will you look at that! It’s his cattle again. They’ve trampled our barley fields for the last time. I warned that young fool, but the huge lout just laughed. He called me ‘old man.’ Old man!
I’ll teach him respect. He may be young and strong, but I am the Tail-Slayer. I’ll put on my boots once again, and take out my brother’s old sword, unused these many years. I can still march out, even if it’s only across a field.
I’ll show him that the old ways still matter.
©September 2018, Andrew Jensen
Andrew Jensen lives in Braeside, near Ottawa, Ontario. He has had stories published in Midnight Zoo Magazine, The Flash Fiction Press, The Lorelei Signal, The Centropic Oracle and Space Squid (Including the annual “Best of” print edition). This is his first appearance in Swords & Sorcery.