The guttural yell carried through the mist, a directionless, hoarse challenge. Thorir Utlisson, old and bearish, was roused from his fitful sleep by the noise, kicking open the wooden shutters on his bed closet and snatching his sword from above the doorway, storming out into the night.
White mist surrounded the farm, the glow of the moon low in the hills illuminating the fog. From the west, the yell came again, clearer, and Thorir understood.
‘Thorir, son of Utli, I come for you.’
‘Then come, and find your end stranger. Who calls Thorir from bed?’
Through the mist came dark clouds, shadows shaping into the form of a giant. A tall man, a lean man, an armed man. Slender arms hung down, each ending in the small, vicious head of an axe. As the vision strode forward, Thorir paled.
‘Ghost, ghoul, come down from the hill and face a man.’
The vision began shrinking, edges becoming more and more defined, solidifying out of the night glow.
‘A man? What sort of man is it that burns another in his own house? What sort of man sells a wife and child of another into slavery after taking his spoils of them? What sort of man beguiles a friend, a comrade, a sword-brother, and murders him in his sleep?’
Thorir’s mind raced, his tongue attempting to catch up with his fevered thoughts.
‘Mound-dweller… who are y-‘
‘Ulfgar. Son of Grettir. Husband of Sigrid Odinnsdottir, father of Thorleif Ulfgarsson, warrior of-”
‘Odin’s one eye, we killed you.’
‘Yes. You did.’
Ulfgar strode from the mist, beating the hammers of both axes together in a quickening double-beat, until he was only a few strides from Thorir. Thorir’s grip on his sword tightened, the point wavering but slowly rising.
‘You were dead, and now you walk, whether you’re a ghost or somehow came back from Hel’s halls, I’ll send you straight back there.’
‘You tried that once. Didn’t quite go to plan, did it?’ Ulfgar’s axes spread apart, each axe head glistening in the mist.
‘I know what you did Thorir. I know all of it. Your friends sold you out, right before I ushered them to the next life. You should have killed me. Instead you took what was mine, you tortured those I loved, and you betrayed a bloodbrother. There will be no Valhalla awaiting you, there will be no feasts, no horns, no Ragnarok. Even Hel will not admit you; even she has better men than the likes of you. And your son, that effeminate little weasel, will join you.’
‘Weasel? I don’t object to the effeminate, we can’t all be brawn and bash, but weasel?’ Atli, son of Thorir, stood in the doorway of the farmhouse, the slender length of a drawn bow in his hands.
‘Atli.’ Ulfgar’s tone was flat.
‘Your little boy, Thorleif. He was so sweet, so timid, so… tight.’
Silence reigned. Thorir fidgeted, straining to keep the tip of his sword up. Atli tightened his two finger grip on the bowstring. Ulfgar breathed in and out, slowly, deeply, methodically.
‘Atli, no gods will take you. Not even the god of the Cross-people. You are forsaken, by all, for what you are and what you have d-”
The bow made a faint whistling noise, the arrow speeding over the scant yards and racing towards Ulfgar’s chest. In less than a blink, an axe deflected the missile, the second axe already spinning end over end before the blade buried itself in Atli’s forehead, freezing a look of complete surprise on his pale features. As he slumped in the doorway, Thorir let out a hollow, empty sound, part groan, part whistle, his knees sagging slightly as the tip of his sword hit the cold earth.
‘An honourable man would let you walk away from here Thorir, to bury your son, to live your days with your grief, to let you fester and poison yourself with hatred, and rage, and thoughts of revenge.’
Ulfgar stalked closer to Thorir, just out of reach, as Thorir tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, waiting for his chance, trying to block the image of his son’s split head out of his thoughts.
‘An honourable man would challenge you to a duel, with attendants, and let you avenge your progeny. My honour was burnt, raped, sold into slavery and ultimately murdered. ‘ Ulfgar’s voice rose in strength and force, the last few words coming out in a bellow that froze Thorir to the spot as Ulfgar leaned in towards him, their noses scant inches apart.
‘I am not an honourable man. ‘
Thorir lunged forward, so entranced by Ulfgar’s twisted face he didn’t see the backward-gripped axe between them, or feel the parting of the cloth and flesh on his belly as Ulfgar slashed upwards. Steaming intestines spilled out on the dew-jewelled grass as Thorir’s sword clattered harmlessly off Ulfgar’s mailed side.
Confused and numb, Thorir tried to claw his looping guts back into his prodigious belly, oblivious to Ulfgar sidestepping around him, reaching down and grabbing lengths of slippery, greasy intestines in both gloved hands.
‘My god hung himself in return for knowledge. He will take your secrets from you as you fade away Thorir, as I give a gift to him of a dishonourable man.’
Loop after loop of hot, worming intestine looped around Thorir’s neck, and around his hands as he tried feebly to stop Ulfgar. Tighter and tighter, the seemingly endless coils of gut wound around Thorir’s throat as he struggled for breath. Moving in front of the dying man, Ulfgar slipped a small knife from a sheath suspended from his neck, carving four angled lines into Thorir’s forehead before pushing the dead man back onto his heels, hands still bound to his throat by his own innards.
‘May Odin be swift with you. Swifter than you were with Sigrid and Thorleif.’
