Well. Here be the tale of what Gorm did on the Volga, and what immediately followed it. I am well aware of the fact that it contains rather heavy influences from Beowulf, and from Michael Crichton's Eaters of the Dead. Both of which I am rather fond off. Anyway, This adaptation is my Intellectual property, that of Jared G. Juckiewicz. And all of the traditional warnings and this tale does reference to Slavery, and (admittedly generally obliquely) Sex.
Day Three of travelling. Feeling much better today, and have declared that on the morrow, we shall be spending our day wandering the streets of wherever we stop for the night tonight. However, till then, Lydia continues to demand the tale of my life. It's a good help for her learning English, as I speak in that tongue, explaining the words she doesn't understand. As a wolf, she is very good at determining context, being able to tell from my scent those feelings each part of the tale brings. Vixen helps with the translation, even if her Russian and Georgian is not as good, and certainly not as modern, as mine. It helps that Immortals tend to naturally be good at languages, even from an early age. Decidedly useful, considering how widely travelled any immortal is liable to be.
Anyway. The first day I was questioned about my time in the Thirty Years war. That topic was started when Lydia asked how I met Vixen. A chance comment from that led to a brief overview of my time at the Danevirke, and my tale of Verden. Today, apparently, I am to go over the time following that, when I left the service of the Carolingians. Well. After Verden, I spent the next three years, up until Seven Eighty Five, fighting for Charlemagne against Widukind's Saxons. Saxony and Frisia were crippled as autonomous regions, And Charlemagne's peace was enforced. After that year, he moved us into Iberia, which is now called Spain, against the Moors. But it was work that wore on my soul. Oh, not the fighting, and certainly not the killing. But Verden had changed my veiw of Charlemagne, And after a time, working for a man who, to me, seemed to have more concern for the souls of his foes than his sworn men, it got too much for me. I left his service, and headed north. And north. Into Norway. As my money ran dry, I began to look for work, and realised I knew little. I could hunt. I could keep herds, but that is seasonal work, and not something itenerant, transients labourers are often hired for. Livestock is expensive. I knew the merchants trade, but without funds, had nothing to trade. So, once again, I fell back on combat. I took to sea with a company of reavers, Vykingr, they called themselves. All up and down the coast of Angle-land and Alba, we raided, and for a time, I was as close to happy as I had been since Frisa died. We would spend the spring, after the planting, and the fall, before the harvest, at sea, harrying Alba, now Scotland, and the Angevin lands, know known as England. We would raid Eirin's Isle, now called Ireland, and the coastlines of Frisa and the Low Countries, and even what would become Normandy and Brittany. True, raids on the mainland were rarer, and more dangerous, for Charlemagne kept his lands well defended, but they also paid well, and Frankish steel was amongst the best forged. Of course, that changed in Eight Hundred and Fourteen when Carolus Augustus Magnus, Emperor Charlemagne, Died. Then, his empire began to tear itself apart, and we had rich pickings on the Frankish coasts. Sixteen more years, I spent with the Vykingr. I learned to sail, I learned to row. I learned to navigate by the Sun, and by the Stars, and by the other signs. I learned what the presence of seabirds meant about the proximity of land, and which Whales and Dolphins could be seen inshore, and which only far out to sea. I learned what lands were where, throught the Northern Oceans. I learned how to keep prisoners, how to stay healthy on the limited provender at sea. I fought, I feasted, I drank. In between the raiding seasons, I was hosted by the Jarls who sought my service, treated as a man of position. It was a new feeling for me. And then, around Eight Hundred and Thirty, getting bored of the western coasts, after a full forty years travelling them, I word of an expedition heading east. To Aideigju to trade. I went with as a hired bodyguard, for it was unknown for Vykingr to stay in close to the Scandinavian shores and pray on returning ships. From Aideigju, I took ship east and south alongst the Neva, to Lake Ladoga and thence onwards to Holmgaard. I was given the offer of a position in Holmgaard, but I turned it down. Instead, I again took ship as a bodyguard, down the Dneipr river. It was towards the southern reaches of the Deipnr, where one makes the transfer to the Volga, when the ship was attacked. I saw it coming, smellt it rather, the scent of fellow wolves, the first I had met since my time with the Suomi. They lept aboard, Eleven of them. Four were fully wolf-shaped, and another four were in the half-wolf form most folk associate with Werewolves. The other four were human, laying around themselves with broadswords, parrying deftly with large round shields. I immediately shifted part way, but did not discard my shield or broadsword. I had made alterations to my maille and gambeson that permitted me to wear both in either form, although the effectiveness was slightly less than in a normal coat. Fighting with a blade, and the claws on my shield arm, and my shield, and my fangs, and even the claws on my feet where a lower limb was left exposed, I was able to prove my mettle to the assailants. To the degree that when everyone else aboard the ship was dead or taken, they settled for wearing me down. For three days and three nights, the combat raged, always two on one. The newcomers would switch out when one got tired, and had time to eat, and to drink, and to rest. I had none. By the fourth dawn, I could barely lift my blade. I was forced to yield. I heard, even as I bared my throat in expentance of naught but a swift death, one of those I had been hired to defend mutter quietly that, though I had failed in my task, by my efforts I had earned my keep.
To my shock, and amazement, the other Wolves did not slay me. Instead they adopted me, and so began my first, and only stint in a pack of Werewolves. It turned out, rather swiftly, that I was one of the more dominant wolves in the pack, and I swiftly wound up second only to the Alpha, Buliwyf, who these days is known by the name of Beowulf. The others claimed names that matched their skills. There was Skald, as skilled with the kenning as with Wodin's Claw or as Wodin's Bane. Their was Ragnarok, the Berserker who in a fight would lose control. He was death to all who crossed him. Or the names of Wolves of myth. There was a Freki, and a Geri, and a Fenris. And I made a Gorm. We had a Haakon, for what Norse crew is complete without one. There was one called Ulfric who was the son of a Jarl, although a less dominant Wolf was hard to find. Always upset him, poor man. We had an Eirik, called Rauda, which means the Red, although he was not the one of fame. No, he earned that name for the colour of his hair and his fondness for blood. The last two in our happy little pack were one who called himself Gall, a word from the Gaedhill of Eirin's Isle, meaning Foreigner, and a man who called himself Thorgrimst, and he looked the part. We based ourselves out of what would one day be called a Longphort in a different place, a fortified camp on the banks of the Volga. We raided anywhere we could take a ship. We took gold, silver dirhams, and gemstones, trinkets, anything we could sell to those merchants and caravans who stopped by the longphort. But the most valuable of our trade was in Manflesh. Men for ransoms, and for the fields, and the mines, and the Caliph's armies. Manflesh for the Wolves and for the Gods. And Girls. They were the most common of the trade goods we had to barter. And, to my shame, I was as willing to deal in human lives as any on the Volga. Yet more evidence for my being damned.
Sixty years me and my pack lived on the Volga, raiding and trading. It was a good life, for us. There was abundant food for those with money, and drink. And of course, when you consider what our merchandise was, we were rarely without... companionship. There was game, even if the local wildlife tended to be a shade on the scraggly side, and if one wanted a more challenging hunt, well, the occasional warrior would be taken prisoner. And any of us could afford to 'release' one of our thralls. And then a number of things happened at once. In Eight Hundred and Ninety Two, the King of the Longphort died. His heir had not been named, but their were two candidates. Buliwyf was one, although it was only really our dozen who supported him, and the other was a man named Tyrkyl. Now Tyrkyl had more who supported him, but few of them were willing to do it openly. And it was into this tense situation that their stepped a man by the name of Ibn Fadhlan. He was an Arab, from Baghdad. Sent as an ambassador by the Caliph to the lands of the Tsop Vlad, who ruled the Volga Bulgars, some journey north even of where we were. Almost as far again as we were from Baghdad. Now, he needed an offer of free passage from the king of the Longphort, or odds were he would be slain or enthralled in a raid. Unfortuneately, we had yet to name a king. We hadn't even held the funeral of our old king. We couldn't, until a new king was named. Ibn Fadhlan, and his chief of staff, an old man named Melchisedek, and his servant boy, Achmed, learned of this quandary when dealing with some of the lower ranked traders present, to replenish supplies. They tried to offer gifts to both heirs, to get rights of passage from both. Tyrkyl refused, saying it wouldn't be proper. Buliwyf granted him them, after some consideration. This led Tyrkyl to think that Buliwyf was plotting to steal the throne, and led him to some rash behaviour. At a feast, they tried to assassinate him. First with poison, and when that failed on accounts of him smelling it, and spurning the dish, with steel. He slew Tyrkyl and his men with his bare hands.
Now that we had a new king, we were able to properly bury our old King. His longship was prepared, his body laid out in state upon it, his weapons at his side. One of his slave girls volunteered to travel with him. She was fed Liquor, and each of the old Kings Huscarls slept with her. Then, when she was drunk out of her wits, and almost unconcious from exertion and pleasure, Buliwyf and Tyrkyl's lieutenant strangled her, whilst the Old King's Soothsayer, the Angel of Death, smothered her. She was laid beside him, and the ship was burned with all in it. Ibn Fadhlan and his companions watched, and it fell to me to explain everything, for I was most travelled of all the Pack. I even knew some Arabic, off men who had fought with the Moors I had faced in Iberia.
Off course, this meant that Ibn Fadhlan had to negotiate new Safe Passages. His previous ones had been given by Buliwyf the mercenary leader on behalf of the Pack. Not by King Buliwyf of the Volga Longphort. This did not make him happy, but a distraction appeared. A messenger arrived from a King Hrothgar, a minor king in northern Sweden. He had Buliwyf's oath of aid, from long ago, and was calling it in. His people were being harried by a militant tribe of Suomi, the Grendel. They wore bearskins, and wielded clawed clubs, attacking at night, or in the mists and fog. And Hrothgar and his men could do nothing to halt them. Buliwyf in turn consulted with the Angel of Death, who said that for success, thirteen must go, and that the Thirteenth must be no Norseman. Brief consultation produced a solution. Melchisedek was too old. Ibn Fadhlan would not be dissauded from his task. But his servant boy was young, and strong and fast. If he would come with us, Ibn Fadhlan could have his safe passage. It was agreed. Both parties left on the same day, the Longphort being given to Tyrkyl's former Chief Lieutenant. Travelling north was awkward and complicated, but it was easily done, and we crossed the Baltic just after the ice left it.
We arrived on the coast of Sweden, near where Buliwyf believed Hrothgar to hold his court. And Buliwyf was right in his belief. Within a day, we had been challenged by a scout. Buliwyf's response was simple. "I am the son to Hygiliac. Called Buliwyf. We have come at the Behest of Hrothgar, to serve him in an errand". We were then led to Hrothgar's keep, the great mead hall of Hurot. It was set on a hill, surrounded by smaller Longhouses. There were signs of other habitation, further afield, as we ascended that hill, but wide and scattered, and signs that some of it had been abandoned. Around the village itself, there was no wall, no ditch or bank, no moat. Not even a fence. And hardly a man betwixt fifteen and fifty. We had an audience with the King, where he told us tales most would deem fanciful. Of beasts that walk as men, and men with the look of, and who move like, beasts. Had he not just recruited a dozen such beings, we would have scoffed. We could learn nothing concrete, so we thought to bait them into battle. We took an empty longhouse, and all feigned sleep that night. And attack they did. When the battle ended, we discovered to our dismay that they surely had greater strength than normal man. Each of us had slain at least two, and even the Arab, Achmed, had managed to maim one. But there were no bodies left lying, and Freki and Geri had been slain, their heads taken. Well, that settled things for us. Their blood on our blades seemed really enough, but tasted strange, not wholly human. They had a tint of the Bear about them, not as much as a shapeshifter would have, but more than a man should. We decided to arrange defenses. The outer settlements would be abandoned, as well as some of the Longhouses on the outside of the village. Those we collapsed as best we could, dropping the supporting pillars, and leaving ship-shaped mounds. A ditch was dug aroundst the remainder, and wooden spikes were planted. An opening was left, and a gate was fashioned from a cart. The people were quiet. Some investigation discovered that they thought our efforts would case the Grendel to rouse a Dragon, a fire-serpent the locals knew by the name of Korgon, and that evening, in the twilight, through the mists, we saw a long serpent of fire writhing it's way towards us. As it closed it became clear that it was but Cavalry, with torches. We fought off the attack, but Gall and Eirik, Fenris and Ragnarok, also fell in battle, their heads taken. This time there were bodies left, caught on the spikes, or unhorsed in the ditch. From the taste of the dead, taken in secret, in our lodgings, they were men who had fed on slain Bear-sarks, Werebears, and on Trollsblodet, Trollsblood. In doing they had gained strength, and resilience beyond the scope of mortal men. We were faster, but they matched us in might and in difficulty to kill. And we could not hope to defend the village. So we set out on their trail. We trailed them to a camp, which we looted and burned, but it could not have held all who had attacked us.
So we sought out a seer. She told us to slay the priestess, the Mother of the Grendel. And the leader of their warriors, the Bjorning. And she told us to seek both where the Hammerborn and the Sealord meet the Mother. Well, Skald puzzled through that. The Hammerborn would be Thor, born to wield the hammer Mjollnir. The Lord of Thunder. The Sealord referred to the ocean god Njord, and to his realm. As for the mother, that would be Sif, the goddess of the Earth. The locals told us that meant the caves below the Thunder Cliffs, where they claimed Dragons laired. Turned out later that they were wrong, but that be another tale. So, we travelled to the top of the Thunder Cliffs, and we descended. We struck into the caves, and Buliwyf slew their Mother, taking a mortal blow. We cut our way clear of that dark place, losing Thorgrimst in the process, and were forced to flee, abandoning our gear in favour of haste. We fortified Hurot as best we could, whilst Buliwyf sat waiting on his doom meeting him. The wound had been poisoned, the blade silvered, and the tip had shattered in the wound. None of us would be able to remove all the shards, not without tearing him up beyond all hope of recovery. So we sat, and regretted his fate. He was saddened by the fact that he would die as a pauper, with naught but his hands. For our services, Hrothgar promised him a kings burial. They attacked again in the early twilight. We fought like the wolves that we are. Buliwyf met the Bjorning in single combat. Wolf fought Bear, and both fell, joined together in death. The Bjorning's death broke their will, and we drove them back into the hills. Buliwyf was indeed buried as a king, in the same manner as his predecessor on the Volga, and the pack broke up. Skald went travelling as his name-sake, and Haakon took it upon himself to return Achmed to Baghdad with a king's ransom in silver. Ulfric followed him as far as Holmgaard. I stayed. I owed no fealty to Hrothgar, but I would avenge my brethren on the Grendel. I would even meet a Dragon, the one the locals called Korgon. But that is a story for another day.
Historical facts... I have manufactured the Grendel out of almost whole cloth. Most of the tale is a variation on the Anglo-Saxon Saga, Beowulf, drawing inspiration heavily from Michael Crichton's book, Eaters of the Dead, and the film adaptation of that, The 13th Warrior. As for the behaviour of the Norse on the Volga, it is drawn almost directly from the manuscripts of Ibn Fadhlan, who did in fact exist. He was a ninth century Arab, who was named ambassador to the king of the Volga Bulgars, supposed to convert them to Islam. And like a large number of Islamic travellers at the time, he wrote a record of his journey. Which could almost be an anthropological text. Whilst such manuscripts do of course show the prejudices of the Islamic peoples at the time, they are fairly dispassionate.
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