They called themselves Vikings. Claimed to be warriors. But there was nothing warrior-like about groups of madmen whose only goal was to rape and kill. In the texts the seer had, he described them as raiders, plunderers, and traders.
But the Angleheim history books described them differently; they referred to Vikings as turds; spawned from the devil's bowel movements.
Ragnar's face gleamed with excitement as he heard Dag mention Vikings.
"Yes, I want to become a Viking, just like your father!"
"Not me," I responded. "I'm a skald."
Dag frowned.
"You can call yourself whatever you wish, Sigurd, but a skald is no different from us," he replied, his tone a little annoyed. "As long as you have the mark of a god on your body, your path must be that of a Viking."
Sadly, he was partially right. To assimilate, we had to kill, but we couldn't kill each other. That's why they traveled the seas in search of worthy opponents. They journeyed to the west to a place we called Angleheim to fight warriors known as Mages.
These Mages used magic, but not Odin's or Freya's magic. They used the magic that comes from mana. Most of our slaves were also from Angleheim, including one of the Earl's wives.
I couldn't tell you how many times I'd heard the story of how Earl Björn claimed a lord's daughter after capturing his fortress.
They told the story so many times that I began to suspect the Earl himself was paying men to tell it. This wife in question was easily distinguishable, as she had auburn hair while most of us had brown hair.
"There is no honor in being a skald. All they do is tell stories after the battle is over. Learning history and how to read won't be of any use when a man tries to chop off your head in battle." Ragnar interjected.
"Great men learn history so they don't repeat the mistakes of the past—" I countered, but Dag cut me off.
"Enough of that," Dag said, silencing us with a wave of his hand. "To answer your first question, Ragnar, yes, you will be learning how to fight. Not to brag, but your father here is a seasoned warrior."
I could tell that much just by looking at him. In the north, a man's accomplishments were shown by the number and quality of arm rings he possessed. My father had seven golden arm rings. For reference, the Earl had ten gold arm rings.
Out of all the many powerful warriors in the village, my father was the closest to the Earl in terms of power. Some say he even rival him.
"Before we start your training, there is an important task you must see to," Dag paused, grinning like an idiot like he always did. "You must give your weapon a name. All great weapons have names and when you die, it will travel with you to Valhalla."
"I already have a name thought up." Ragnar quickly said, "My true name is Ragnar Stormborn, Son of Thunder. My weapon will be named after my true name, just like all the great Vikings did. I will name my weapon Storm-Catcher."
My father patted Ragnar on the head, a proud smile etched on his face. His eyes then drifted to me.
"What about you Sigurd?"
Unlike Ragnar, I hadn't thought of any fancy names for my weapon, nor was I great at naming. When I looked at my axe, all I see was a shiny new weapon that reflected the beautiful light of the sun like a mirror. I watched the sun's raze glinting off the steel and blurted out the first name that came to mind.
"Sun-Kisser."
My father and brother looked at me confused.
"Sun-Kisser?" They both said in unison.
"Oh… alright then. Next I want the two of you to come at me with your weapons. If you want to practice getting accustomed to your blade first, then go ahead."
Ragnar immediately began practicing with his sword. His sword technique seemed to improve every day. He was the marvel of the village; sometimes my father would let him fight against grown men to prove his worth to the Earl.
I walked over to a small tree and positioned the battleaxe. In one swift motion, I swung the axe at the tree, burying it deep into its thick husk. The spot where the axe impacted turned to ice and fractured but it wasn't enough to topple the tree.
If my Máttur had been stronger, I could have frozen the tree from the inside and shattered it with a single blow.
My assimilation was far too slow. I had seen young kids, three years old, further along in their assimilation than I was. I had to spend half the day draining my mana just to avoid dying, and the other half training.
I had done the calculations, and the growth most kids my age achieved in a week took me a year to replicate. That gap would continue to increase as I got older. That's why I never used my Máttur in front of others; I didn't want them to see that my assimilation had barely made any progress.
This world was harsh, and my life would be a living hell if I didn't find a way to increase my power.
"How did you do that?"
I turned around to see my father's surprised face staring at me. His mmouth was gaped open as he stared at the tree in disbelief. He touched the tree to see that the section I had chopped was completely frozen.
"I channeled my Máttur into the axe," I explained.
He looked at me as if I had just performed a magic trick. It was as the seer said: most people only had surface-level control over their Máttur. They relied on raw power to force the Máttur out of their core rather than practicing technique and skill.
For that reason, a simple technique like channeling Máttur into a weapon was all but impossible.
It was a crude method, the seer always said. Power without proper control is like Jörmungandr—eventually, he will bite his own tail.
I tried to get used to the battleaxe as much as possible before we were ready to spar. When the time came, Ragnar and I stood side by side. Our original plan was to spread out and flank him on both sides, but Ragnar, being a hothead, charged in, swinging.
He possessed exceptional speed, which he never failed to use. Whenever he moved, small sparks of lightning surrounded him.
My father jested while dodging Ragnar's attack, as if they were playing a game. I steered clear of their fight, looking for the perfect chance to attack. The opportunity arose when my father's back was turned to me.
For a second, I thought I had him, but he flipped the switch in a matter of seconds. His right knee impacted the bridge of my nose with a sickening crunch. Blood spurted out of my broken nose smearing my entire face.
I naively lowered my weapon, thinking it was all over, but just then—
"Never drop your guard."
He followed up this lesson with a brutal blow to my stomach. I doubled over on the ground in pain. It felt as if he had caved in my chest with his knee. As I struggled to breathe on the ground, everything went quiet. Soon after, Ragnar fell beside me, a sizable cut on his head. Dag had took his sword and used the hilt of it to bash him over the head.
While we suffered on the ground Dag laughed over us.
"You didn't think I would give you a lecture did you? You will learn through pain; that is the Viking way."
Our training continued like this for weeks. Soon, it became a small victory just to have fewer injuries than the day before. Dag didn't let up on us; every mistake we made was met with swift, brutal punishment.
It was drilled into our heads that if we didn't want to get hurt, we had to be stronger, move fast, and, most importantly, fight like our lives depended on it. Because most of the time, they did.
With the way he fought, we weren't sure if Dag was trying to kill us, nor were we brave enough to question it. Instead, we fought like every breath could be our last.
"Listen up, you two," Dag said as Ragnar and I lay bloody on the ground. "In about a year's time, the Jomsviking will be coming to our village. They'll be looking for new recruits, warriors, to go on raids in Angleheim."
Raids? He said it as if it was a casual task like watering the crops and tending to farm animals.
"But why? What's the point of traveling across the sea to murder people who have done us nothing?" I asked.
Dag frowned, his eyes sharp as he stared at me.
"You know damn well why," Dag snapped. "This place is no better than a grave, Sigurd, frozen for half the year and starving the other. But to the west, to the west, the land is rich."
"They have six months of summer, and it only snows for two months; then it's back to spring. We've only stayed here this long to build an army. All the northern lands are recruiting men. Men who are tired of burying their family members due to cold or hunger. Men who are ready to pick up an axe… or a sword and fight for what they want. In the summer of next year, we are sailing west and both of you are going to be on that ship."
My father was dead set on the idea. I personally didn't want to be involved in any war, but just like them, my path also lay west. If I was going to rid myself of mana, then I needed knowledge. Knowledge that only lies in the west.
I will get on the boat as a Viking but I will travel as a Skald.