The young boy stood in the doorway and stared at the man. His mother always told him it
was rude to stare, but he was far too busy exploring the world around him to heed her advice.
The man sat on a three-legged stool and stared into the fire. From time to time he sighed, and
shook his head.
‘Hello,’ said the boy.
The man looked up, a stern expression flickering across his face briefly before he smiled. He
had a tired smile.
‘Hello there, young fellow,’ he said.
‘I’m Osbert. Are you a friend of my dad?’
The man found that amusing. ‘You could say that,’ he replied.
Osbert sniffed. What kind of an answer was that? ‘What have you got there?’
Osbert held out a four-foot length of ash.
‘It’s my spear,’ he said, ignoring the fact that it curved gently to one side, had a prominent
split running along a third of its length, and was blunt. ‘I’m going to kill Danes with it.’
‘Are you now? Fancy yourself as a warrior, then, do you?’
‘When I’m big. My brother’s a warrior. He fought for the king.’ The boy sidled into the room
and stood only a few feet away from the man. ‘I’m going to fight for the king when I’m big,
and I’m going to kill lots of Danes.’
He looked at the man’s mail shirt. It was rusty and had links missing, not like a proper
warrior’s mail shirt. He didn’t have a helmet, either, or a proper shield - Ulf, the village smith,
had knocked up a few of his ‘specials’ for the man.
‘Could I see your sword?’ Osbert asked in a small voice.
The man paused a moment, weighing up the request in his mind, then reached down and
picked up his scabbard from the floor between his feet and the stool. He drew the sword
slowly, and let the firelight dance across the patterns in its surface. Gold and silver glinted on
the hilt and crossguards. Osbert’s mouth opened in sheer admiration.
‘It’s beautiful,’ he murmured.
‘Isn’t it just. Have you got a sword like this?’ Osbert shook his head. He had a length of
firewood stuck into his belt, that was all.
‘It’s better than my dad’s,’ he said. ‘Did it cost a lot?’
‘I don’t know. It belonged to my brother and, before him, to my father and grand-father.’
‘Can I touch it?’
’Yes, but be very careful. The edge is very sharp now. We don’t want you losing a finger
before you’ve met your first Dane, do we?’ The boy wiped a finger in his shirt and reached
out. He seemed to get slower as he got closer, like a pilgrim with fragile, holy relics before
him. The steel was cold, despite being close to the fire, and his exploring finger left a little
cloudy ring of condensation against the polished surface. His eyes seemed to draw power
from the sword: they grew wider and glinted in turn with the flickering flames.
The man watched the boy, as he had watched many other boys. It was always the sword that
did it. He had seen the same light in their eyes, and he had seen that light flicker and fade
away, fading like the condensation on the blade. He tried to reproach himself for encouraging
the boy. He wanted to tell him to throw the ‘spear’ and the ‘sword’ he carried onto the fire
where they belonged, and go and do some useful chores around the farm. He tried to, he
wanted to, but he could not. His survival depended on the sacrifice of the young men that
boys like Osbert would become.
Osbert drew his hand away.
‘Thank you,’ he said, before turning and running off.
The man watched him go and sighed again. Soon the boy’s father, and other men, would
follow him into battle. Would the boy be an orphan in a few weeks? Would he remember the
man with the beautiful sword, and curse him aloud for the hard times he and his mother
would face in the years ahead? Or would he forget, and thrill his grand-children with the tale.
It was no time to be a king.
Mike Farmer February 1993
Valhalla
The torches smokily burning in the feasting hall
Cast a wan light across the laden benches.
Tonight we eat our fill and quench our thirsts
For in the springtide morning,
At the rising of the sun,
We steer our dragon prowed ships questing across
The Emerald seas,
Riding on the towering waves.
Ever with a glance across our shoulders
Backward to our hearths in the east,
We sail westwards in search of fame and glory,
New lands to conquer, to the clash of sword and shield.
Riches to plunder to fill our ships,
And offer gifts to the Gods.
Comrades to care for after blood-red battle,
Lying wounded and dying.
Victories to celebrate and sometimes to fly
From overwhelming numbers.
And at the years waning
To sail homewards with the onset of winter.
Braving the battering seas,
Returning to our loved ones
To sit again in the hall and see
The empty seats of comrades fallen to the foe.
And raise our horns and meadcups in salute.
And cry to the Gods ‘Our thanks!’
That after Winter’s cold and darkness
There is a promise of another Summer to come.
Now join with me in the cry
That guides the spirits of our fallen heroes
Winging across the Rainbow Bridge
To the doors at the Hall of the Slain.
And shakes the seat of Odin’s throne
And the very foundations of Asgard,
The kingdom of the Gods:
VALHALLA!! VALHALLA!!
author unknown
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