“How many more raids must we complete until your greed is satisfied?” Halle spoke amongst flickering flames challenging to consume all. He held his mother’s amulet carved with the rune of ‘Ginfaxi’, meaning courage in combat.

“Is the son of Hati’s clan worried?” Arne mocked, hinting a growing smile.

Two men spoke in Old East Norse amidst a sea of stars.

Halle sighed at his friend’s antics. “I fear nothing but dishonour.”

The man who had a piercing gaze of a hawk stared at the towering figure before him. Halle stood much larger than him even when crouched behind the campfire.

Arne guffawed a mighty chuckle into his groomed beard, “Halle we are no longer nobles, but savages in the eyes of others.”

“Let them believe so, not all of us are barbarians.”

“I believe they call us Norsemen, pirates from the north who rape and kill,” Arne watched Halle’s face twist like a rag in disgust. Amused, he taunted the behemoth of a man further, “Am I wrong?”

To his surprise, Halle answered.

“No, yet it angers me when they think we are barbaric for wearing trousers when they don flimsy hoses to cover their scrawny legs. We groom and bathe more than those filthy nobles from Francia.”

“Yes, yes, and we merely plunder or raid for land and loot,” Arne taunted back.

Halle knew his comrade spoke the truth, not every warrior that went on this blood-stained path was like him. These repeated trips of near-death always brought out the animalistic side to people, but others knew to control the inner beast.

Halle, a mortal human that made the king of Norse gods, Odin smile in favour of his methods. He followed the unspoken laws of the battlefield. He struck his sword to any that pointed their blade towards him and gave the flower of mercy to those who surrendered.

His victims became thralls, sold to the highest bid, which often came from the slave’s family if he or she had one. Thrall's treatments mirrored servants with no rights, property of any individual who bought them. A twisted moral compass Halle embodied, but he followed it with no mistakes.

“We do not kill those who surrender, most of the people viking wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for the council’s law,” Halle growled.

He stared into the fiery tints of yellow. Flames danced eating upon the wood he’d fed into the campfire, similar to how the ancient laws ruled the North. Inheritance allowed for future generations to prosper and when the eldest brother alone inherited his father’s lands, it burnt all the other sibling’s opportunities.

Few rich and poor men set out to the seas searching for new prospects, instead of staying as farmers or lower classed traders. Those who remained continued in their positions, making up most of the Norsemen. They would not survive without trade, for a substantial amount of their food came from it.

“Some of us would still be here and you know it Halle,” Arne argued. He contemplated why the chief’s son of the Hati clan, a prestigious tribe agonised over such small matters.

“The trading roots are invaluable to us, we gain wealth, fame after battles and women if lucky. Others conquer land and some fools wish for adventure. Aren’t you here for the same reason?”

“Are you calling me a fool Arne?” Halle glared with eyes yielding pale blue irises in a pool of white. If stares could kill, Arne would be drowning in his own sea of blood.

“Let me ask then. Why are you here if not for wealth, fame or women?”

This was the biggest question which plagued Arne’s mind for months. They’d travelled the seas together, fought men on land and brought demise to those that challenged their might. None could stop them, save for a cavalry of men or an army of knights on foot.

This did not make them impossible to kill. The Norse warriors bled red, died from infections and dropped dead like flies if their wounds weren’t treated.

Danes made up most of their warrior group, sons belonging to wealthy tribes from Danmǫrk. Few were poor, there always existed the exception though. Halle joined the crew with a shirt of riveted chainmail, ‘hauberk’ which reached to his knees weighing down his shoulders. Shield in hand and one-handed axe. They thought he would meet death in the beginning raid with such little gear, almost considered naked in the battlefield.

An ‘Ulfhednar’ is what the crew learned to call Halle after the first victory, champion of Noreg fighters. A name for those who others deemed to be formidable amongst the elite of shaman-warriors. Their spirit animals being wolves.

It was a first for Arne to meet one, Halle acted differently from the rumours on Ulfhednars. Always patient, deathly quiet sometimes to the point they’d forget his presence. But when he spoke, the whole room focused on him as his commanding voice gathered their attention. And once more he captured Arne’s ears that listened to Halle’s answer for why he joined their crew.

“Experience, to see the outside world for myself. My grandfather spoke of the faraway lands as more shocking than Thor’s thunder.” Halle’s hands rubbed at the amulet still in his hands that once belonged to his grandfather, passed down to his mother and now to him.

“Was he right?”

Halle shook his head no.

“I plan to return home to Noreg by the end of this viking, this will be my last.”

The word viking wasn't known to be used for warriors but for, ‘freebooting voyage’ or ‘pirate raid’. It was later that the term came into infamy amongst people after the viking era that they called these Norse warriors as the fearsome foes they were ’vikings’.

Arne knew the day had come for this Ulfhednar to leave, he’d seen the way Halle carried himself after every battle. Less excited with each fight seeing the lands that men anxiously fought over for. To him, it’s value matched dirt and soil. A man knowing no lust for silver coins, Arne had never encountered a man such as Halle.

“It won’t be the same without you leading our battles.”

“Don’t get yourself killed after l leave.” Halle grasped Arne’s shoulder before leaving the tent hidden amongst trees. Built in secrecy so they could plan the best spot to raid the ship in the sea before they could soon port on land to trade.

Many days spent hopping onto various islands gathering resources till they met the fated goods. The rest of the crew, one hundred and forty men including the two commanders were either slumbering in sleep, preparing for the raid or were excited. Restless with energy.

“What was it that you planned to ask when you came searching for me anyhow?” Arne said as his friend was on his way out. He heard the man was looking for him.

“What do you plan on doing after these vikings?” Halle inquired.

Arne pondered before responding, “I am not of noble blood like you, and the share of loot for vikings is not as much as I would like it to be. I’d rather take my chances and join the Jomsvikings.”

“Hmm, the mercenary group. I’d thought they were destroyed by the past king of Noreg.”

“They were when they sailed to your lands under the leadership of the Danmǫrk king, but they are no longer obedient to anyone. I desire wealth that can stretch across the deep waters that Njord holds.” Arne daydreamed about it frequently imagining sceneries of gold coins.

“Enough about me, what about you Halle? Why do you not have a family yet, you’re beyond old for not having a wife or child.”

“Speak for yourself Arne. You also don’t have a family and are older than me,” Halle mocked.

“Fool, l can’t have a woman if l plan on joining the Jomsvikings. This is one of their rules, a fine rule. Who needs women?!” Arne cheered out.

“You probably can’t even get a woman to pity you for your ugly-boar face and hawkish eyes.”

Arne pulled Halle into a headlock ruffling his tidy hair, laughter escaped the man's mouth seeing the brute grimace in pain. Both bonded from facing many battles and having their age relatively close helped. Twenty-eight winters for Halle and Arne thirty, both considered in the prime of their lives.

Norsemen counted age by winters they lived through. Two seasons for them, an engulfing heat of the blazing summer and winter’s tides of frost. It did not mean autumn and spring did not exist, winter and summer just held more significance.

Impossible for the two not to grow closer to each other, as Arne made the effort to become closer with the Ulfhednar. Eyes sharper than a hawk’s pupils, he saw worth in their friendship whereas others feared to approach Halle.

Arne glimpsed straight through his friend’s daunting presence and saw, but a common man seeking adventure. He dared to call him a fool because he was one—A strong fool at that, as Halle wrestled Arne to the floor.

God Freyr welcomed vast lands with an abundance of rain, feeding soil with nourishment, whilst Thor’s thunder struck in anger. The weather of feral nature sought to flip the ship with it’s crashing waves at sea, making the merchants on board cower.

They travelled in a cog, ship vessels which boasted of much space for cargo, yet still maintaining its speed. Franks waited for the storm to calm down, praying to their Christian god not knowing the true chaos hid amongst the fearsome waves. The long night called for words, or else they would go insane within the endless seas shrieking with numberless cries.

Sweden, Denmark and Norway were where Norsemen were bred and born, they had different names in the 11th century. The kingdoms were titled Svíaríki, Danmǫrk and Noreg, each had their personal warriors.

Svíaríki (Sweden) had fighters called Rus earned from pillaging the Arabs, Byzantines and England. Horses were one of their staple trade and weapon as they rode on them with uncanny swiftness.

Danmǫrk (Denmark) brought forth Danes, the most infamous group amongst the North. They numbered the most that took up arms against the armies of Anglo-Saxons.

Noreg (Norway) birthed the fiercest warriors, Berserkr and Ulfhednars. The most spiritual warriors who worshipped and sacrificed beasts. Untamed, only defeated through stopping their beating heart. They followed behind the Danes attacking England and Francia.

The kingdoms weren’t united and certainly had blood feuds at times. Different clans or tribes diligent to each territory, Franks spoke in the old tongue of french dialects, langue d'oïl. A language spoken in the northern regions of France from the eighth century to the fourteenth.

They called them all Norsemen out of ignorance.

“Those bloody Norsemen. If it weren’t for them, we wouldn’t have to be so worried at sea.”

Other men chorused the same ill will towards the warriors from the north. Some bore insults.

“You mean barbaric fools, their clothing is more equivalent to an animal’s hide.”

“They are nothing, but brutes that hold swords. Worth less than cattle.”

The crowd of men who gathered flocked to further insult the men that had made their journey so burdensome.

A lone man spoke up, “Aren’t any of you scared of cursing yourselves with the Norsemen’s wrath?”

He spoke with wisdom, older than the rest with his white-tinged beard to illustrate his age. The innocent men before him spoke with wrath gained from a lack of knowledge, having never come across the Norsemen. Still, green around the ears. Youth in search of riches and new sights to regard, never have partaken in a war or battle. Some were lucky through their journey, and others were taking their first trip as merchants.

One of the guards gripped onto his wooden scabbard attached to his waist.

“They’d need an advantage of many more men than us to stop our path. We stand strong with one hundred and fifty men on board. Besides that, it would be unlikely for us to be found—”

Waves crashed into the side of the vessel, forcing the guard who spoke up to gulp, “We need only fear these storms.”

The sea's waves to each merchant during storms were known to munch on small ships like small meals, yet the elder amongst the youthful merchants shook his head. Disappointed in these greenhorns. “What we must fear is not nature, but the men that use the opportunities of the sea’s gift.”

“And what would that be, old man?”

“Concealment.”

“They wouldn’t be able to hide amidst these waves, they would have to be crazy to travel with but their feeble ships.” Grinning toothily, the knight acting as a guard argued back.

“You call them barbaric, yet can’t seem to admit them as insane?” The old man sneered, finding the group in front of him comical.

“What is your name, merchant?” A voice ordered behind his sea of guards that spoke poorly on the Norsemen.

“It’s disrespectful to ask for a name and not introduce yourself first.” The old man responded in kind.

“Let it be.” Guards parted to allow everyone to see a man draped in noble clothing. He commanded his knights to not act rashly, as they were about to reach the handle of their swords.

Mystery surrounded the charismatic man, who was shielded with authority. His words to the manner he carried himself spoke of wealth. “I apologise for my unruly manners. l am Eudes Barnard from the kingdom of Francia, son of viscount Amis.”

Francia, the ancient name for what is now in the 21st century termed as France. Franks were the people of the old kingdom. The man of Francia origins stared with curious eyes.

Eudes Barnard did not know whether the man before him was of Irish or Frank blood from the way he dressed. His white hair did not show his line of descendance, most of the merchants here were either Irish or a Frank. The senior did speak in langue d'oïl, but the mouth of a merchant was always deceiving. Eudes knew the elder merchant must’ve possessed power behind him to act with such rudeness before a noble or knight. Or else, he’d order his men to behead the man this instant.

“I am a commoner honoured with the title of Baron. My name is Ulfberht from the Francia kingdom as well.”

Eudes’s eyes furrowed in displeasure hearing the man’s rank below him and even the lack of etiquette, as Ulfberht didn’t mention his family name. He hadn’t been born into the rank either earning the title through honour, the lowest form of nobility. The name was familiar though, and Eudes could not help but try to recall where he had heard of this senior.

“Ulfberht...wait you don’t mean to say the ’Ulfberht’ who forges swords.”

Eudes pupils widened in shock, staring at the man across him in a new light if it were true. But why was he here on this trip, as a merchant? Eudes wanted to know and more importantly purchase a sword from him.

“The one and only, It seems you know of my family’s works.” Ulfberht hooked the corners of his wide smile to the end of his cheeks.

Fresh merchants gasped at the news, knights and guards stared at the man as if he were covered in a glistening gleam within the ship’s spare room above deck dimly lit from candles. Everyone desired nothing more than to purchase the man’s infamous swords, which spread widely in rumour. Swords perceived to be above the highest grade achieving its title of being the best weapon in all of the north and south seas.

Each blade branded with the name Ulfberht on its flat face. There were many fakes, but a true warrior knew the worth of a sword with the test of its edge and its weight. The man before them claimed to be the renowned Ulfberht, they desired proof though.

Eudes called out to the Baron, a lower rank. Even if the elderly man held no noble blood, he called out to him respectfully as he himself wanted an Ulfberht sword.

“May we see one of your works if you plan to sell them.”

“You wouldn’t be able to afford them and besides I'm not here to sell but to learn.”

It cleared up Eudes’s misunderstanding of why Ulfberht was here. The man was searching for new knowledge as a blacksmith not pretending to be a merchant. However, this did not confirm his identity.

“Can we see you prove your name master craftsman?” Eudes asked.

“Might as well, l have nothing better to do than let my mouth ramble on to let time pass by,” Ulfberht said. “You, the guard that called me an old man.”

Ulfberht pointed to the knight that had acted in a discourteous manner towards him. he regretted heavily knowing there was no chance now he would ever lay his hands on one of the most famous swords.

“Yes sir.” He tried to repair his poor image in the senior blacksmith’s mind.

“Pull your blade out and give it to me.” Ulfberht rushed the guard to take it out, as the man in question fumbled with his scabbard.

Observing the sword in hand now, searching for every minor detail. The master craftsman finally spoke.

“This sword was crafted with quite rudimentary skills, to a novice it would appear to be a well-shaped blade.”

Ulfberht swung the sword causing people to shuffle back.

“Unequal weight built into the hilt, along with wrinkles on the flat blade places it below a grade. I’d say this was crafted by the hands of the Gosse family of blacksmiths, seeing the way it was ground down at the point. Am l right?”

The knight’s jaw dropped down wide open. He nodded in surprise, others around him gasped once more.

“It appears you are Ulfberht, yet to see so much from minor details. You were able to know which family of blacksmiths crafted it?”

Eudes’s awe for the man took one more step, he wanted to recruit the senior as his personal blacksmith.

“I know all the famous smiths in Francia to Normandy,” Ulfberht said.

“You’ve met the Normans?” Eudes could not help and be in shock for the third time.

The Normans from Normandy, south of the kingdom of Francia had been originally Norsemen who had made a negotiation with the king. They offered protection in return for land. In the era of the 11th century, they lived more quiet lives trading with many nations.

The fierce warriors still held their might of origins from being past Norsemen, pirates of the sea and land. Eudes did not dare to mistake between the two, Norsemen and Normans weren’t allies. At times they fought battles waging for many days until one of them gave in or retreated.

“There was a need for me to meet Normans, a blacksmith must know how a warrior wields their blade to perfection. What other people but Normans who were originally the most feared foe on land and sea to test my sword’s quality in their hands.”

“A bold statement.” Eudes spine shivered to know a group of Normans carried the infamous branded Ulfberht swords.

“One needs to be bold, to forge a sword.”

Eudes nodded at the senior's wisdom. He recalled Ulfberht prior words on how Norsemen were to be feared. It irked him that the blacksmith believed his words to be true, when seeing the entourage of knights he brought with him. The other merchant guards paid to protect their cargo was also enough to discourage any foe.

“Have you encountered Norsemen before master Ulfberht?” Eudes tried to butter the man up referring to the senior as a master.

“I’ve met them more than once since there is no more death penalty such as two centuries ago to trade with them. The last time I met them was when they raided the ship l was on.” Ulfberht halted at his words, reminiscing the scarring events that etched onto his soul. “It was a bloodbath.”

The senior did not continue to explain and Eudes offered no more questions seeing the blacksmith retreat into his corner. They were near the ports, where soil would soon greet them.

“Holy father, l pray for mercy on our sinful souls,” Ulfberht murmured watching flames lick at the candle with its fiery tongue on top.

Nightmares haunted him from that gruesome day, old wounds on arms throbbed. He’d nearly lost a hand if he hadn’t shouted out who he was. But even with the knowledge of his name, they marked their brand onto him as Berserkir. They were warrior rivals to Ulfhednars, possessing the spirit animals of bears.

In mind and body, Ulfberht trembled hoping to not meet them again.

Too late were his prayer’s to be heard as the true storm struck, welcoming them with the beasts from the north—Norsemen.

The god from pagan religion, Odin watched over his mortal sons that worshipped him day and night. Another battle, they whispered his name for him to witness their victory letting dead warriors reach Valhalla.

“May Thor give me his strength,” a Dane said.

“Let Tyr witness our law on the high seas,” another Danmǫrk brother whispered.

“Let Odin see us with honour,” Halle murmured amongst many others besides him rowing oars.

He grasped his mother’s amulet hoping the runes gave him courage. Poles with flat blades steered the ship, as wind blew heavily into the sail. Amongst them were youths and veterans from Danmǫrk and Halle from Noreg, who donned a Fredrik helmet.

A beauty of iron sculpted by the hands of a master paired with Halle’s possession of a sharpened Spatha sword. It’s point threatened to pierce through bronze and iron. He wielded a round shield in his other hand, etched with the symbol of the full moon.

Trademark of the warmonger Hati clan’s warriors from Noreg who devoured foes like the wolves they were. It was strange for one of them to join the Dane’s raiding crew, but there laid an alliance between the two for now.

Year 1063, where king Harald Sigurdsson of Noreg and Sweyn Estridsson ruler of Danmǫrk held a truce that brought Danes and Halle together. If only for a short moment to raid this merchant ship.

Halle wasn’t meant to be here, as he had run from responsibilities of being the chieftain’s son to sneak into the crew.

He’d heard whispers of the raid, during the council assembly called, ‘thing’ between three chieftains. It was rare for them to be all in one place and not begin to argue.

His father, leader of the Hati clan.

Odell, ruler of the Sverke tribe.

Both born on Noreg lands, the most surprising of chieftains was Frode from Danmǫrk. They’d spoken in secret after the assembly, most definitely about plans for more political power. It did not matter to Halle though, all his attention focused onto the upcoming raid.

The sea's breath washed over their bodies. Water and wind crashed into two longships holding seventy men each, hidden amongst the empty light of the night. Vessels copying the bodies of dragons. Figureheads at the front sculpted to be the monsters of legends to curse their enemies with terror.

Wooden dragon heads that looked ready to breathe fire in the darkness. Their Danish ships advanced amid erratic waves causing the journey to meet many bumps. They’d nearly capsized, Halle managed to regain order with his booming voice. Their prey would not hear them for Njord, god of the seas shrouded them in a blanket made of a thousand waves.

The warriors did not fear death on sea or land, their gods would keep them safe. Thunder cracked, lashing out like many whips echoing in the sky gifting a moment of light before darkness blinded them once more. Just as how the Cog ship was able to travel through the voids of black, they had their sole methods as well.

Stars blessed them with navigation and the moon’s directions led them to find a ship full of riches. In storms, it was much more difficult to travel, yet these warriors breathed and lived amongst the sea.

“This little storm won’t stop us!” Halle yelled. Warriors laughed at the tides that could swallow them whole.

The pair of ships separated no longer near, Halle commanded them to get closer to the side of the vessel slower than theirs. The merchant’s ship in view for the taking, their hunger for treasure grumbled. They caught the attention of the crewmen on the Cog, their veil of waves gone. Too close, yet a large amount of distance to board the other ship. Their main goal was to draw attention.

Halle smiled knowing best how to grab their foes ears and capture the enemies eyes. Quickly he hid his precious amulet underneath chainmail, as he pulled out an instrument of battle from his waist made from the long horns of cattle. A war horn, he blew into it signalling a drifting slaughterhouse ready to board the merchant’s ship.

No point in trying to be stealthy, he left that to Arne to be sly and flank the side with archers. Norse warriors began chanting, shouting their allegiance to the god’s they stayed faithful to, but all screamed the name Tyr by the end. He ruled with many names, son of Odin, god of law, elder brother to Thor and most important of all—God for formalities of war.

“TYR!”