Assignment 7: Post Here!

[Ironsword]

Olaf stood leaning heavily on his spear, his aching body a reminder that the years had been unkind. His breathing was laboured and his back bent, but he still carried his warrior’s pride. A snap of wind caught his heavy wolf-skin and it billowed away from his body, the cold ran through his wool tunic and sent a shiver across his back. The battered chain mail he wore was torn in places and did little to stifle the breeze; it was only worn now to attest his history of battle.
As the snow whipped across the hillside in a blinding maelstrom, Olaf wished that he was still within the mead hall. He recalled that the songs had been good this night. The tales of pillage and myth had evoked a raucous response and the gods would be happy. A wry smile played across his lips, as it always did with accounts of great deeds. When ‘The march of the warrior’ was recounted every man had drummed the hilts of their swords on the tables to the lyre’s tune. The biting cold pulled him back to himself, but if he listened carefully he could still hear the words carried along with the squall.
Through the swirling blizzard a figure started to materialise, slowly wending his way up to the old Viking. As the man drew closer, Olaf’s brow creased against the wind and he shielded his eyes with gnarled hands; hands that had once been on the very same trial. The figure appeared in no hurry and seemed to amble rather than stride. Olaf caught his breath for a moment wondering if perhaps he’d been injured, as the chieftain of his tribe every man was his responsibility. He eased slightly, knowing that was unlikely, more probable that the journey had wearied him in body and spirit. However, Olaf was more anxious about Helt than he had ever been for a young sword. He was still at the beginning of his ascent to the brotherhood, yet he’d been slow to take arms and spoke always with the manner of temple folk; seeking to talk rather than act. It wasn’t right that he spent long afternoons with his wife weaving baskets and gutting fish, despite the strange events that surrounded his days. It was a thought that Olaf cast quickly from his mind, reminding himself that perhaps Helt just needed to witness the rites of war and pillage or taste the brine as it sprayed before the bows of a dragon raider.
As Helt slowly trudged up the shallow slope, Olaf again felt a tingle of awe; the man was big, huge even. By the gods he would surely be a formidable warrior. He raised his spear in salute as they met upon the ridge.
‘Helt, greetings my brother.’ Olaf said clasping his arm. The blue tribal tattoos showed on his forearm, the coils of a serpent spiralled upwards under his sleeve.
‘Aye, well met Olaf.’ The younger man replied as he released his grip and stared wearily down at the elder.
‘Is it done then?’ The enquiry hung for a second, as did their misty breath in the cold evening.
‘Aye, it’s done.’ Helt kept his answer short and gruffness edged his voice. However, Olaf’s relief was obvious and he beamed a crooked smile.
‘So another beast is dead?’ The elder questioned, his eyes widening at the prospect.
‘Even now his body is being claimed by the snow.’ Helt rejoined coldly. Olaf knew that was his manner, but his voice spoke of greater torment; it was as plain as the ice in his beard.
‘Yet still you walk Helt, still you breathe, blood pumps in you; a mighty warrior you are! Come. Let us away to the village where your tales will become legend!’ His words were meant as bellows to fire, but Helt would never be a man to glow with the fuel of compliments.
‘There was a cost.’ Helt replied with brevity that surprised Olaf.
‘A cost you say?’ He caught Helt’s gaze and saw distance there, not of leagues, but of sadness.
‘Aye, the scryers were blinded to it. They never speak of the scars, of the seeing the life ebb from a man.’ Helt replied surely and softly, his pale face nearly full hid by his braided beard.
‘Scryers? Hah! They sit and cast bones upon the floor or dance naked atop hills in driving rain. What do they know of battle? It is not for them that I have spoken the oaths or descended on wings into our enemies. Not for them that I have felt the rush of wind and the lance of pain. Not even when I have smelt the expectation of death and joined my foes in arms was it for them. Now, Helt, you have felt it too. That feeling boy, it’s like nothing on this earth.
‘They are not men, like you and I; they have never felt it here.’ Olaf said placing a hand across his armoured heart. In his thoughts it was simply that a man was made through the prowess of blade and bow. Only men such as these could ride the long boats across the dark waves and bring wealth and glory to his clan.
‘That may be.’ Helt replied with a sigh as he staked his spear into the snowy ground. ‘But I feel nothing of what you speak when killing, not even the taste of blood in the air can kindle that passion within me.’
‘They are little more than animals Helt, and even I have no passion to kill rats!’ Olaf stated disinterestedly, rubbing his hands together for warmth.
‘Rats never cry women’s names in terror or hold your arm as the sword bites deeper.’ Helt whispered lowering his hands to his belt and lifting a brooch up from it. The elder raised his brow with satisfaction.
‘Ah, the bronze fork of the Skeldt. Think not of it as a kill then Helt, but as another triumph for our people.’ Olaf’s relief was complete as he snatched up the token and clasped it up to his eye. When he was satisfied he spirited it away into his robes and fixed Helt’s stare with his as he spoke. ‘Remember brother, too much idle talk blunts the spear and puts men to flight when they should stay their ground. It isn’t your destiny to follow the paths of weaker men.’
‘Just to fight then? Helt spat. Olaf’s nose twitched and a flicker of anger flushed in him, but it dissipated as quickly as it had risen, now was not the time for discord. ‘Come; to your clan and your victory.’ He managed to say coolly.
‘As you bid.’ Helt replied and pulled his spear out of the ground with a sharp tug, his eyes fixed to the south. Olaf followed his gaze through a break in the clouds to where the five stars of the sword shone. It was the sign of Helt’s birth and the elder recalled how the soothsayers had gathered around his cradle and crowed of its importance. It heralded Helt's coming; the birth of the warrior-prince. Now that day only served to further Olaf’s distrust of men who talked too much and did too little.