Winterfire

Chapter Twenty

Lucan

I was glad to feel the waves rocking the ship beneath my feet again. We had stayed at Sigfred’s hall a fortnight, mending, washing, resting, and eating. Brother Bede and Brother Wilfred stitched and bandaged Ketill’s arm. We repaired the rents in our clothing and the sails on the ship. We re-caulked the spaces between the planks of the ship with moss and tar. We gathered all the dead bodies in the little settlement and burned them. We found Sigfred’s vast stores of grain and distributed some of it to the few people still alive; we baked the rest of the grain into hard biscuits to take on the ship. Sigfred also had a flock of chickens still laying eggs. We ate several of the birds and dozens of eggs during the two weeks we stayed; the rest, we gave to the people in the settlement, who had long since eaten their own chickens.

“They will die in the Ragnarok anyway,” said Ingmar. “We all will, but surely death by the sword or even by drowning is better than starvation.”

Despite the comforts of Sigfred’s hall—the warm beds and plentiful food—Caldbergh was a dismal place. Of course, the sky was dark and brooding everywhere— over land or sea—but the colors of Caldbergh, the washed-out brown and gray of the land and the buildings and even the people, seemed to soak into us all, dampening our spirits. At least on the Fýri there was the blue-black sea, the white gulls, and the deep green sail. When at last Ingmar announced it was time to depart, I was anxious to leave.

Ingmar said we were heading to a port far to the north. We would sail around the west coast of Norway, but instead of veering east toward Russia, we would continue north, he knew not how far. None of us questioned him; it was not our place. The decision to stay with Sigfred had been a bad one, but Ingmar could not have foreseen the state of affairs at Caldbergh; we didn’t blame him. We went about our shipboard tasks with renewed energy and good spirits.

“We’re already fighting an icy wind!” said Kjar. “We might as well go to the place where ice is always the rule, anyway.”

The Danes who’d been with Ingmar for a long time were accustomed to sailing and trading between Hedeby and Jorvik, but this voyage had been different. I wondered why they had joined four war ships headed for Northumbria to raid the monastery at Lindisfarne. Ingmar claimed to have been enticed by the prospect of acquiring gold from the monastery, but I guessed it was more than gold-lust that had diverted him from his usual trade route. Something drew him to Lindisfarne, and more importantly, to Beal, the little village just south of the monastery. He would not say what it was, but Ketill, Finn, and Kjar – three sailors who had been with him for over ten years – told me they had not asked for an explanation. “For Ingmar,” Finn said, “it might have been the Fimbulwinter: the never-ending winter meant that Ragnarok was imminent, and that may have caused him to change his plans for what would likely be our last voyage.” The others, though, claimed they had not realized the true state of affairs until they’d seen Caldbergh. They knew, of course, as all Danes did, that the Doom of the Gods would come some day, but they hadn’t foreseen it happening in their lifetime.

Every Danish warrior knew that some day, a man who could wield Tyrfing would come along. “I saw you raise Tyrfing from the trunk on the Fýri early on the morning we reached Caldbergh,” said Ingmar., “but I didn’t try to stop you. Somehow, I knew the sword would not kill you.”

The Danes and captives who’d seen me wielding Tyrfing at Caldbergh debated the significance. “We damn well know there’s only one man can use that sword,” said Ketill.

“And you didn’t just use it, Lucan” said Agnar. “You fought like a Berserker!”

“What’s a ‘berserker’?” asked Colby.

“A Berserker,” said Finn, “is a crazed warrior. In battle, he goes into a trance. He feels neither pain nor fear. He is like a wild animal, like a wolf. When a wolf attacks, he is all heart and teeth. He is single-minded, completely focused on the fight.”

“That is the way you fought, Lucan,” said Stedman. Brother Wilfred nodded.

“We Danes have the reputation of being wild warriors who never quit, but compared to Berserkers, we are mild-mannered,” said Ketill.

“Lucan, I’ve known you all your life,” said Ryce. “Yes, as Dell’s odd little brother, but I’ve never known you to even raise your voice, let alone wield a sword. Something has changed. Perhaps there is more to you than we know.”

“We Danes have grown up with the knowledge that the Ragnarok would come some day,” said Ketill, “and all of life would be destroyed, ourselves included. But who among us thought it would happen in our lifetimes?”

“Just because Tyrfing’s master seems to have been found, we don’t know for sure if the Doom has come,” said Agnar. “Why don’t we just make one more run between Hedeby and Jorvik?”

“The weather has just been a bit harsh for the past three years,” said Thorolf. “Surely the real Fimbulwinter will be much worse.”

“Even if the boy is Lifthrasir, he’s just a boy! We all know the Ragnarok is coming eventually, but without doubt, the wielder of Tyrfing must be a fully grown man!” said Agnar. “No offense, Lucan, but you’re the last man on this ship I would have wagered to command Tyrfing.”

“No offense taken, “ I said. “You cannot be more surprised than I am.”

“I understand your reluctance to face the truth—that the Doom of the Gods is upon us—because I’ve had a hard time accepting it myself,” said Ingmar. “The first time I laid eyes on Lucan, I’d known there was something… unusual about him. I tried to tell myself it was nothing more than the boy’s remarkably positive disposition, and his willingness to throw himself into the shipboard tasks. But when he called out the name of the sword during the contests on the Fýri, though, I knew Lucan was Lifthrasir.”

“How did you know?” said Agnar. “Maybe he just knew the name of the sword, and he was trying to warn us all that Wirt had it.”

Ingmar sighed and shook his head. “Sigfred and I had both heard the old rhyme – the one that would identify Tyrfing’s rightful master - many times from our foster father Ivar. When I heard Lucan call out the name of the sword, I knew the time would come for him to claim it, and I was watching when it finally happened at dawn on the day we reached Caldbergh.”