Punk-A-Delic: Short Story Collection

Fearless (Viking Age Punk) 🏆

To hear "Fearless Pt. II" by Lost Sky click on the video above.

The Iron Yggdrasil loomed over the surrounding forest, its branches jutting like spearheads into the searing colours of dusk layered over the western horizon, making the sky bleed. 

Erjolf's mother placed a hand on his thin shoulder. "I don't understand why you are doing this.  Come home. I know it's hard, but things will get better. I promise." 

The boy shook his head. "No, it has to be now." 

He didn't want to tell her that he no longer believed her. That he was done listening to her fantasies, her motherly reassurances that were broken almost the moment they left her mouth. As if simply speaking the words was a magic spell that would keep them all safe. 

But things would never get better. 

Not for any of them. 

His mother sighed. Even in the dusky light, Erjolf could see the tiredness in her eyes. Not just from the long journey through unknown valleys and hills, but from everything. 

The light that used to be in them had died so long ago he barely remembered it. 

But then he'd watched as the light in his brother, Leif's eyes had dulled and finally extinguished, and he had realised it would happen to him, too. That those dead eyes would be his own one day if he didn't do something unheard of, something drastic. 

And that drastic was the Iron Yggdrasil. 

* * *

A high wall of wide wooden staves surrounded the sacred space, shielding it and the bottom of the iron tree from curious eyes. Pitch torches illuminated the gate and in their rippling light, tall, muscled watchmen halted and questioned all who approached. 

One spotted them and held up a hand." State your business."

"I am Brynja of Darfjällar. I have brought my son, Erjolf Snorrisson to participate in the Trial," said Erjolf's mother, a slight quiver in her voice. She squared her shoulders and stretched her back to stand taller, believing height to carry dignity, but Erjolf knew it only made her look like a goose flapping its wings. 

The watchman nodded, his gaze travelling over their coarse homespun clothing, uncombed hair, the streaks of dirt on their faces. 

The nervousness that had held tight to Erjolf's hand all along the journey to the Trial wrapped its cold arms around him and squeezed, making his teeth chatter, although there wasn't a wind. 

Was the Trial only for the sons of fathers who clothed them warmly and provided meat for the table? But how could that be true?

Odin's Trial was open to all free Norsemen, that's what he'd heard. It was the will of the gods. No one could stop him. No one. Not even the king. Not once he had stood in the middle of the village and shouted to all that would listen that he wished to measure himself with the All Father.

The derision and the clods of mud that had been thrown at him hadn't mattered. The heads shaking with incomprehension and the mumbled it'll be your death, you stupid boy. The sting of the leather strap and the howling that he was stealing bread away from all their mouths had not been able to change his mind.

No one could stop him from coming here once he had announced his intention. 

The watchman's eyes settled on him, but addressed his mother.

"Are you a free Norsewoman, Brynja of Darfjällar? And your husband a free Norseman? The children of unfree servants and slaves are banned from the Trial. The punishment for lying is the death of the boy and a heavy fine, which the Jarl will demand from your master who will certainly take it back out of both of your skins."