A single raiding ship made the merchant guards serene, some taking humour in it. They caught sight of roughly seventy men on board the Norsemen vessel. It felt as if the opponent was insulting the knights stating less than a hundred men were necessary to slay an entire merchant ship of one hundred and fifty.

The guards did not witness a herd of boats attempting to ravage their vessel. But one ship scampering across waves to plunder and it roused laughter. Confidence rampant, vigour escorts taunted the approaching foe.

Laughter diminished in turn, amongst ranks of guards for they heard an encroaching yell of Norsemen. Noises crawled into their ears like insects. Whispers carried by the wind at first, then cries later becoming a storm of shouts—bloodlust itself reeked the air.

The ever-growing maddening screams trembled hearts beating faster, pumping horror into their bloodstreams. Armour covered the guards from head to toe, they were a force to be reckoned with, yet the Norsemen made them pale in the face of insanity. Knights no longer made light of the enemy seeing barbaric bellows of howls with clamouring weapons beating against shields.

This foe announced their location in a heartbeat not caring whether their prey knew where they lurked. Distance between the two ships grew smaller by the second. Moon high in the sky, faces of carved dragon heads at the front of ships greeted guards and crewmen. Hands shaky, weapons wavering, Francia knights prayed to their holy father hoping Jesus Christ would bless them with salvation.

The merchant ship’s captain, who’d seen many battles did not wince in the fateful meeting. He’d expected them to raid their vessel, and only the son of a viscount with his entourage of escorts could make him set sail. Fortunately, more merchants brought guards to venture out to sea as well.

He squeezed his core for one loud breath declaring, “PREPARE FOR BATTLE!”

Woken from stone-like bodies moving to gather more men against the warriors from the North, Norsemen. Merchants shrank into corners of the spare room keeping a select few guards with them. They should’ve realised all hands were required on deck to engage with the enemy. Blood drenching the wooden planks, staining the sail awaited them, as combatants bearing round shields, swords, axes and spears rowed near.

Guards steeled mind and body, chainmail felt much heavier than usual. Breathing grew unsteady, lightning thundered into the clouds ripened with woe. Droplet after droplet, soaked from the murderous storm, another force of brutality approached with greedy eyes.

“Fire!” The merchant ship’s captain ordered his men to shoot.

Arrows shrieked in the air dancing with spirals towards Norsemen. Shields blocked projectiles meeting them with an impenetrable force, a wooden wall formed from a formation of stacked shields. Guards continued shooting in hope of a stray arrow piercing through.

Bleak hopes, dreams exposed raw to be crushed as the dragonhead clashed to the merchant’s vessel. Rope thrown pulling the two ships together, Norsemen heaved to bind them together.

Halle howled, “BOARD THEIR SHIP!”

An onslaught of colliding weapons. Knights donning kite shields opposed the smashing round shields threatening to take another step onboard. Chaos blossomed, men grunted with the momentum of their bodies heaving forward. Strikes swung from behind shields; Norsemen, guards and knights lusted for blood amongst the blue abyss.

The merchant forces were winning, pushing back against the onslaught of Norsemen. They outnumbered them by more than one to two. A rough voice comparable to a wolf’s growl commanded, “HOLD YOUR GROUND!”

Halle ordered his men to go beyond their mortal limits. Grinding of teeth, jaws locked tightly shut with veins popping. Danes planted their legs down mirroring stumps rooted to the floor of the ship.

The captain kept his eye out for more bombarding ships, he doubted seventy men on one vessel alone raided. Too late to notice, arrows bombarded his crewmen from behind. Split between two sides: gathered knights, guards and crewmen's momentum halted. Archers flanked their blind side, emerging from the darkness of Thor’s storm.

Arne commanded, “Another volley!”

Artillery tactics employed, aiming for weak points of the formation and directing escorts to cluster up together. They decorated the merchant’s ship with fallen men pierced by arrows.

Chain mail could save them once from an arrow, but when archers rained down on you with multiple shots, it pierced through the already worn rings of metal. If death did not take you and you still lived, two fates were left.

Most met with internal bleeding stemming from their insides and broken bones making it harsher to move. The last possibility; becoming a porcupine full of arrows restricting their range of movement.

Slowly, the merchant’s force diminished. Losing more men, a warrior managed to slip through their ranks and board the ship of loot. A wolf hungry for blood, his name—Halle.

One word rang in his mind, KILL.

The sole moment provoked havoc. Crewmen archers focused on him, aiming for limbs to bite onto with arrowheads. Halle’s shield protected the majority of his body. A moment of distraction was all the North warriors needed. They pushed, hauling their bodies forward and more men began to dash past the knight’s shields.

Arne finally met his comrade on the Cog ship, Halle’s face dripped blood onto blue eyes glinting with bloodthirst. Covered in not his own blood but the enemies he’d slain one after another. Arne faltered, but he masked it with a grin lest he showed fear.

Two commanders leading forth now one hundred and twenty North warriors against one hundred guards. The odds were in their favour, as guards met the Danes’ bloodlust.

Exhausted, merchant escorts surrendered after three hours seeing comrades die left and right. Reversed, Nearly two to one, they bore no chance anymore against Norsemen. Enough bloodshed was spilled on this night. Morning came with their defeat, dried pools of blood left broken men in the presence of corpses.

“Rally them up and tie them down with rope!” Arne shouted, “Kill any that refuse.”

Reluctant, some put up a fight and were beheaded immediately. The witnesses lost all their spirit and morale plummeted to the bottom of the sea. They failed to gain victory, but better to be alive to see the next sunrise. Blood stained wooden planks leaving red smears, as Norsemen strolled cautiously on board the ship.

Halle kicked a door down, ready to block any arrows launched at him with his shield. Bestowed with the scenery of an old man in his late forties, some nobles in their thirties and youths trying to become merchants.

The words of a slumbering beast still roared in Halle’s mind seeing prey. He needed to KILL, but he refrained with a honed bloodlust trained by many years. Take them as thralls, do not senselessly kill, he repeated to himself.

“Knees on the floor!” Halle roared in langue d'oïl for Franks to understand.

The Irish understood without having to understand succumbing to their knees. Archers behind Halle ready to execute any who dared to challenge his authority.

“Hand any valuables over, lie and you’ll be—” Halle gestured with a thumb sliding across his throat. Merchants gulped knowing instant death would be met if they objected.

Ulfberht crawled, face planted on the floor. He begged when in truth he scowled at meeting these warriors again after he met them a year ago. Memories urged to flood through with horrors he’d seen, the man before him reminded Ulfberht of the berserkir he encountered.

Cold eyes bearing down the weight of mountains onto your shoulders. Challenging you to stare into its gaze, Ulfberht knew better that he’d be devoured first for any displeasure gained by the Berserkr. He saw the same tattoos long ago, running down the man’s arm.

Ink blotches and streaks marking the warrior’s shoulder. Ulfberht did not know that these same tattoos were runes, the language of Norsemen, Ulfhednars also inscribed them onto their bodies.

He pleaded in langue d'oïl, “Berserkr please have mercy on me. You may have heard of my name Ulfberht—”

(The term Berserkr is the singular noun to the plural terminology of Berserkir)

Halle threw a sword down beside Ulfberht’s head, thin strands of white hair fell. He crouched to meet the grovelling old man and looked at the knights in the room. Some gripped onto the hilts of their swords and Halle grinned speaking the common tongue of Francia men, “Throw your weapons down unless you don’t want to be spared.”

Eudes paled at the words and shouted to his knights, “Throw down your weapons fools, do you wish to die?!”

“Sir Eudes, they may kill us if we surrend—”

“We may die if you don’t yield your stubbornness. Have mercy on your family and sons because if l die! I'll make sure hell awaits you in death,” Eudes hissed.

“Drop your weapons!” Commander of the viscount son’s escorts shouted, almost pleadingly to his fellow knights. Swords and bows dropped, they became truly defenceless with their weapons collected.

Dragged outside to the shining sun welcoming them with the storm and moon’s death. No more rain, but ropes embracing the knights.

Halle cautiously observed the crying old man kneeling to his feet. He’d met many who tried to kill him when his guard dropped, even when one surrendered. Vigilance never wavering, he told the Danes behind him that he could manage the old man. They left without fearing Halle would be in any danger, it’d be the elder in true danger if he gained the Ulfhednar’s wrath.

“What can you offer?” Halle inquired in no rush to claim loot, as any cargo treasure was shared.

“Swords...swords sharper and stronger than any you wield Berserkr.”

The senior stammered at first before pride imbued his voice. It did not irritate Halle one bit, but the name Berserkr did.

“Do not call me a Berserkr, Frank.”

Halle twisted onto the hilt of his sword pulling it out from the wooden planks.

He spoke with authority, “Speak the name once more and I’ll make sure you meet your grandfathers early.”

Ulfberht swallowed hard upon his saliva, he noticed sweat dripped from his forehead. More nervous in comparison to when he’d met the bloody Berserkir a year ago. Ulfberht cursed himself for thinking the man was a Berserkr, but he thought the markings on Halle’s arm indicated him to be one.

He glanced up quickly and avoided Halle’s dreadful stare asking, “What may I call you?”

Halle stroked his blonde beard thoughtfully pondering. “Ulfhednar.”

Ulfberht had never heard of the name before.

He nodded and continued, “Ulfhednar, my name is infamous amongst the Franks and Normans. I am a blacksmith who goes by the name of Ulfberht.”

“Never heard of you. I’d rather simply sell you as a slave, or a worker for the mines.”

“Wait no, please! You can gain more from negotiating with my family. They’d offer you the greatest swords or even an axe. We can make an axe for you!” Ulfberht cried out in alarm at the thought of being sold as a slave.

His elderly hands were still useful, capable of making one last creation of perfection.

The door behind Halle creaked open and the behemoth of a man sprung from his feet about to strike. A Norsemen would’ve known better to knock before interrupting Halle’s conversation with the old man. He earned the authority of a commander amongst the Danes with his skill and had hammered into them manners to knock on a door before entering.

Arne’s eyes opened wide and he flung his head to the side barely dodging the elbow strike to his nose.

“Horse breasts, it’s just me damn it!” Arne cursed out in Old East Norse.

Halle thought an enemy managed to escape and was seeking shelter, it wasn’t a first for it to happen.

“I should’ve known you would enter without knocking.”

“Yes, yes, sorry for having to dodge your elbow, which nearly killed me. Besides that, who is this old man?”

“Ulfberht.”

Arne questioned in langue d'oïl practising the language he’d started learning out of interest. It was always best to know what your foes were commanding their warriors to do, “...Ulfberht, as in the blacksmith?”

Ulfberht brightened with pure joy at having this saviour recognise his name. He’d never been so happy in his life for a stranger to know him.

“Yes I’m the Ulfberht, not a fake and l can prove it.”

“Why is he important?” Halle had no clue to the importance of the name Ulfberht.

Smiling gleefully, Arne clobbered Halle with his calloused knuckles. “He forges the most expensive swords, it’d take me an entire lifetime to buy one, maybe not for you considering you’re the son of a jarl.”

Jarls were another name for chieftains. They were of noble blood but below Kings and Queens. Halle nodded confused.

He didn’t fully comprehend the significance even still. “Cost does not equate to quality.”

Ulfberht sagely agreed yet had to argue for his life. “Once you see the weapon’s I've forged for lords you’ll understand.”

“I don’t need another sword, I’d rather just trade him as a slave and be done with him.”

Arne gasped, “Are you crazy!”

Ulfberht wanted to shout the same words. He thanked Arne in his mind, calming his pulsating heart that urged to explode at Halle’s cruel words.

“Halle, your sword is dirt compared with Ulfberht’s swords. Fine if you don’t believe me...old man prove it.” Arne crossed his arm’s sighing in frustration at the stone wall he liked to call Halle.

“It’d be my pleasure.”

Ulfberht stood up and reached into his waist to pull out a knife branded with his name. It showcased the custom trademark of his works. Arne and Halle seemed unfazed when in truth their gaze held onto the weapon. They did not hesitate to kill Ulfberht where he stood if he attacked.

Ulfberht handed the knife over smiling without knowing the chilling thoughts both the Norsemen shared.

He did not display his works to anyone unless familiar with them or they bore enough coins in their pockets to satisfy wants. And he certainly had many, desiring the finest ores. Ulfberht had but one wish now, to be back on land as still a wealthy man, not a thrall.

He’d heard of the terrifying tales of freed slaves retelling their stories, often being mistreated with the same level of respect as livestock or a pet. Loathing the idea, Ulfberht hoped to reclaim freedom.

“It’s a fine knife,” Arne slid his finger across the blade’s edge drawing blood. “That’s for sure, much sharper than the ones I have at home.”

Passing the knife over to Halle, he flipped it in the air testing the weight of the weapon. It was more akin to a variation of a dagger crossbred between short swords than a knife. Certainly light, it danced in Halle’s hand.

“It’s good. let’s test its strength,” Halle smashed the blade’s flat side against his knee with a disturbing amount of force. A shrieking ring came out from the long knife as if it was to display it had just been inflicted with gruesome pain. If a blade were to scream with a ringing sound, it would mean it wasn’t loose. An unsecured hilt or blade was easier to cause damage to the blacksmith’s works.

No bent reflected on the weapon. Ulfberht thanked himself for pouring all his effort into the masterpiece but gasped at the next stunt Halle pulled. The warrior thrust the knife out towards a wall, piercing it into the wood with ease. Wrenching the blade out, Halle grinned.

“It’s hilt and blade are tightly secured. Quenched and tempered quite well, you weren’t lying old man.”

“Please—call me Ulfberht,” the senior stammered.

He stood staring at the thin hole on the wall aghast towards Halle’s show of strength.

“You know quite a lot about blades Ulfhednar,” Ulfberht said.

“I have a blacksmith friend in Noreg, but that does not matter. Hmm...Ulfberht, you’ll make me a sword worthy of a lord before l free you.” Halle’s response brought an open jaw from the old man.

“Ber—I mean Ulfhednar. It takes much time, at least six months for me to make one blade of high quality. Do you mean I’ll be enslaved until I finish such a sword?”

Halle smiled seeing Ulfberht’s pained expression begging for another choice, “call me Halle from now on instead of Ulfhednar. Those who l let speak of my name number very few, be grateful.”

Ulfberht yearned to curse heavily and spit at Halle’s devilish stare. He winced with every word flowing out his mouth, “Thank...you Halle, but I can offer you—”

“I do not care for swords you can gift me that would take a matter of weeks to make. What l want is a personalised sword, shaped for me alone to wield. One year sounds fair enough.”

Halle craved for one blade with a thin taper, edge strong enough to handle powerful strikes without dulling and a point adequate for piercing through weak points. A well-forged sword that could deal with chainmail and do the impossible or one that could be close to accomplishing the achievement of threatening armour. As to kill a warrior, their armour must be worn or poorly crafted to pierce through. Most of the times, Norsemen aimed for vulnerable parts such as below the helmet or within the visor. Or at times the legs if not padded enough.

Thoughts going in endless loops for Ulfberht. he did not know how to escape Halle’s request. Ulfberht had offered swords to the Berserkir he once met in return for his freedom. If Halle desired wealth Ulfberht could deliver, yet giving his own time to build a sword for him.

The man pulled at his white hairs stressing over the notion, one year as a thrall, possibly more if it weren’t to Halle’s taste. He wished one mere blade of standard quality would quench this warrior’s greed since those took two weeks at least to forge.

For a man with fame and overflowing coins to lower his head, Ulfberht wanted to die. But he would live, if not to build one more masterpiece. He hadn’t believed in his lifetime the last blade he’d craft would be for a warrior on par with a Berserkr. An ‘Ulfhednar’, the elder wondered how many lives Halle could reap with the sword he would craft.

“I’ll...I’ll do it,” Ulfberht sighed.

He sensed that he had traded his soul with the devil.

“You never had a choice in the first place.” Halle’s smirk mimicked that of Satan and Ulfberht paled at what path laid before him.

Arne chimed in, “You certainly are one lucky fool to gain your own custom sword by the hands of the infamous Ulfberht.”

Halle hollered a light chuckle. “Was the cargo’s treasure not enough for your greed?”

“You know it’ll never be enough, l want to become a jarl, just imagining people serving me makes me smile.” Arne’s cheeks raised showing a true look of glee.

“It’s not as great as you think to be a jarl or even the son of one.”

“Yes, yes you’re the most miserable of us all with wealth and glory. Let’s tie the old man up already and speak with the son of a viscount.”

“I’m not that rich since I don’t have my father’s support.”

Halle tied rope along Ulfberht’s hands and legs bringing him to the other group of captives. Mouth gagged and unable to move. The smell of fear lingered on all the men, Danes kept watch on them whilst their commanders spoke between each other returning naturally to the East Norse language.

“What’s a viscount doing here sailing the seas?” Halle asked Arne as they strolled to a spare room on the Cog ship. He wasn’t complaining, it was a fortune to discover one to steal him of all his wealth.

“Son of a viscount,” Arne corrected. “He wanted to make some quick coins.”

“What did he bring for trading?”

“Spices, herbs, wine and fine cloth.”

Halle questioned, “The other merchants?”

“Mostly clothing of some sorts and jewellery. You can swap your old amulet with something of more value, there is silver and gold.”

“This amulet is a treasure l will never replace.” Halle held onto one of the last objects that belonged to his mother.

Arne shrugged his shoulders. “Suit yourself. More treasure for us Danes.”

“I remember l had to fight for those goods amongst you Danes when I first joined,” Halle recalled the many duels he had. The Danes stopped challenging him once they became awed by his strength. They treated him now as a commander on par with Arne, their most skilled warrior.

“Luckily enough l never duelled you.” Arne in good humour elbowed Halle’s ribs.

The behemoth of a man replied seriously, “You could’ve beaten me.”

“It would have been a fight to the death and l like living, thank very much.”

“You humble yourself too much for a man of such greed.”

“Well. l know my strength.” Arne stared at the blood of Halle’s foes coating his armour in red smears.

No wounds to show any depictions that he’d gone for a viking, sometimes Arne pondered if the god’s had favoured Halle too much. His brute strength mocked men who’d been training from the age of six but he held a sense of honour none could blemish. The Dane commander thanked Odin for not giving Halle the cunningness of Loki, for Ragnarok would arrive early if such a monster existed.

“I’m still surprised a brute like you can speak langue d'oïl and our dialect,” Arne said.

“East Norse wasn’t as hard.”

“You speak as if langue d'oïl was easy.”

“It wasn’t but two years was long enough.”

“It took me five years, you ungrateful animal. I should split your skull open and see how that brain of yours works.”

Arne knocked his knuckles into Halle’s Fredrik helmet.

Halle did not have Odin’s wisdom but had the learning capabilities swifter than the ships they sailed upon. The man had learnt to speak the East Norse dialect spoken by the people of Danmǫrk and Svíaríki. When they’d first met they could barely understand each other with Halle’s West Norse.

Nonetheless, as the months passed, Halle spoke no different than them with the hearty curses and slurs of a son from Danmǫrk. Arne also came to find out Halle spoke langue d'oïl, the language he’d studied for years with thralls he captured from Francia. The man defeated every problem he encountered.

“You are as great as the challenges you face,” Halle spoke with confidence.

“Another retelling of wise words from your late grandfather?”

“Yes, is it not true?”

“It’s very much true, but most die if they meet a challenge too great.” Arne thought of the sixty men who died in the period of four vikings. Their raids started small, but they became greedy wanting the riches of merchants.

A sacrifice of life for treasure, the sight of silver coins overcame Arne’s pain of his lost comrades and having to later tell wives their deaths. Anyone could drop dead and become the poor souls that never gained the riches they desired.

It could be Arne or Halle that died when an arrow pierced through a worn ring within their chainmail. If the mistress of misfortune cursed them with a strike that slipped through their visor, the eye section exposed in their helmets. They could die in a single moment. But today was not their day to meet death. Danes grieved for the fallen ones and celebrated in their stead.

Meeting the son of a viscount, Halle and Arne noticed the young man trembling in his bindings afraid.

Eudes murmured in despair, “I should’ve brought another twenty men. No, it wouldn’t have been enough, fifty more.”

“Eudes Barnard, we’ve heard much about you. We raided this ship specifically for you.” Arne lied giving the same sinister smile when haggling for money.

“You speak langue d'oïl...Please don’t kill me! l haven’t done any wrong,” Eudes cried out.

“Are you sure? do not lie and mock me when I can slice your throat right here.” Arne placed the edge of his blade at the man’s throat.

In truth, Arne bore no ill-will to Eudes, he’d simply wanted to be amused with whatever sins the son of a viscount committed.

“I’ve...slept with the daughters of house Allard and the house of Laferriere.” Eudes could not help and squeal his misdeeds.

“And?”

Arne continued to prank the noble, whilst Halle frowned upon the scene. His blade slowly dug harder into Eudes neck to 'gently' persuade him to speak.

“I love my lady servant more than my fiancé!”

Arne could not help and slap at his knees, roaring a mighty chuckle making him roll on the floor.

“Did you hear him? The son of a viscount fell in love with a servant."

Halle nodded not caring, falling in love with a slave or servant for a Francia noble was the highest form of disgrace upon their family’s name, it was as well for Norse nobles to some degree. This antic had gone long enough and Halle sought to calm Eudes down.

“We do not want your head or else you’d be dead already.”

“What do you want from me?” Eudes shrank into his seat, petrified at the two wild savages standing in front of him. Ulfberht was right, Eudes regretted letting his escorts curse at the Norsemen, they’d brought upon this tragedy before him.

“We don’t necessarily want you, we want what your father can give us.” Arne gave the largest grin curving with delight.

It took four days before they could reach the destination where they sold Eudes back to his family, bought with the staggering wealth of his father. The Norsemen sold the remaining people trapped in bindings to different slave traders along their travel home.

The stench of rotting flesh reeked on the ship, they’d stolen and taken for themselves. Bodies of comrades preserved until they could reach back home to the lands of Scandinavia. The journey came to an end as everything did. Danes said words of goodbye to Halle at the main port of Noreg, before they continued on their path rowing back to Danmǫrk. Arne gave him a strong hug embracing his friend.

“I hope to see you again. Hopefully not in a battle against you,” Arne cackled into his groomed beard. He slapped at Halle’s back leaving him to frown at the strong slaps.

“I hope so as well.” Halle mischievously smiled gifting one massive slap swinging Arne’s body forward.

Wincing in pain, Arne held back his grimacing expression and laughed.

“I hope we never meet in war, Ulfhednar. If we do see each other l hope to hear that you’ve become a father.”

Halle nodded his head, Arne had made a common mistake though. He corrected him, “I’m not an Ulfhednar, but thank you for considering me as one. May Odin watch over your journey as you become one with the Jomsvikings.”

He hoped Arne would fulfil his dream to join the mercenary group.

Halle smiled at Arne’s stunned expression and said goodbye to him again. Anyone seeing Halle fight would come to the assumption he was an Ulfhednar, the rising warrior group that fought alongside the Hati clan. It was why it came as a shock to Arne for him to learn Halle wasn’t one.

Their journey together came to a fruitful end and another adventure began for the man following in bindings. Ulfberht cursed, swearing at everything he saw silently regretting his decision with the warrior.

Pulled forward with rope, another day he saw that he never imagined. Both him and Halle travelled onto another ship to see Noreg’s land (Norway), where the most vicious warriors lived. Berserkir and Ulfhednars, the ruthless warriors who breathed the reaper’s stench of death. Some were merciful and obeyed the rules of the Norse gods, whilst others favoured to break order.