Excerpts from
The Blood of Kvasir
By Lars-Henrik Olsen
Erik laid his head back and saw the huge eagle
sitting among the top branches. There was a falcon sitting on its huge beak. He
saw the four stags dancing around on the branches of the tree, which were as
big as two highroads. And on the roof of Valhalla, beside the Eiktyrns, stood
the goat Heidrun chewing away at the leaves of the tree. From its udder gushed
rivers of mead for the Einherjas to drink.
It
was still early in the morning, and all was quite quiet. Sleipner was grazing
peacefully in front of one of Valhal’s enormous gates. Suddenly, Gyldenkam
crowed and soon afterwards the gates were thrown open. The Einherjas poured out
in their thousands and filled the plains of Ida, ready for conflict and keen to
practice for the last battle. To look at, they were all enormous giant
warriors, carefully chosen by the Valkyries to support the gods in the great
battle against the giants during Ragnarok, the end of the world. But their exercises
would be in vain, he knew, for they would all be killed if the Volva’s prophecy
was fulfilled.
Erik
sighed. He was looking at some famous Vikings. Every single one had a story to
tell about daily life in his farm and about the expeditions of the past. They
knew all the chieftains and kings from the Viking Age and they could enrich the
history of the North with a wealth of knowledge if they sat down and told their
stories. Indeed, they knew not only the history of the North, but of the entire
Western world, for the Vikings had, of course, traveled far and wide.
Some
of them had perhaps taken part in the discovery of America, or they could tell
about what happened in Greenland in their day. Others might have been on
expeditions around the Mediterranean, had sailed down the Great Russian Rivers
and been in the service of the East Roman Emperor in Byzantium or of the Caliph
of Baghdad.
Erik
was standing face to face with history that had never been told, which had only
been preserved as myths and legends, finds in the ground and indistinct traces
in the landscape. And now they started to do battle so that the air was filled
with the sounds of tumult. They fought one against one, two against two, many
against many, using every kind of weapon. He was in mortal danger if he tried
to creep past them, but nevertheless he had to try if he was to keep the
promise he had made.
He
cautiously shut the wrought iron gate and went forward with his head bowed in
the hope that the Einherjas were so busy with their battle game that they would
not notice him. But not many seconds had passed before they shouted to him.
“Do
you want to join in?” shouted one of two hairy men who were standing on one leg
facing each other. In addition to having lost his leg, he had had his upper
teeth knocked out. The severed legs of the two warriors lay neatly beside each
other in the grass.
“We
fight here on an equal footing,” shouted the other man, but as his attention
strayed for a moment he was struck on his shoulder by a hard blow from a sword
so that his fighting arm fell limply down at his side.
Erik
shook his head and walked on.
“I
come in peace,” he murmured in the midst of the deafening din of battle.
“A
new man?” he heard some others shout, and immediately the Vikings were milling
around him. One of them was carrying his own head under his arm.
“When
did you die?” asked the head.
“I’m
not dead yet,” replied Erik and tried to smile despite his fear.
“Then
it’s about time,” he heard another man shout. “An eye for an eye and a tooth
for a tooth.”
A spear came
swishing close by him, followed by a battleaxe that whistled through the air.
Erik ducked, jumped aside with lightning speed and only just avoided being
struck.
Translated by W. Glyn Jones
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