8) One Thousand Burning Arrows

A funeral fit for a king

We return to Jomsborg under sail, victorious. We had successfully sacked the village in the north. Plunder was minimal but slaves were ample. Once they were sold there will be profit from this expedition. Yet it is with a heavy heart that we return, for the captain has been wounded. He stands astern at the steering oar, his face grim. Yet those who have sailed with him can feel that his touch at the rudder is less deft. His stance is rigid; too rigid. A few who have served years with him offer to take over and let him rest but he refuses. He will return on his feet and in command.

We had done what we could on the beach. There are others that know more of the healing arts than I, but I watched that I might know for the future. First the commander was given a drink of a foully fragrant sweet leaf crushed and seeped into hot water to dull the pain. Then the wound was rinsed thoroughly with water. Then the healer rinsed it again, this time with a mixture of wine and garlic. The captains' eyes bulged, and he clenched his jaw tight, but he was a warrior, so he did not cry out.

While one man performed this task, another heated an iron rod in a fire, while a third prepared a mixture of honey, spider webs, and moss. We kept a plain iron rod on the ship for this purpose, as Thor looks with scorn upon a sword blade or axe head that has been reintroduced to fire. Once re-heated, that blade will break in battle.

When the rod glowed red, one man lay upon the captains' knees and another on his shoulder on opposite side of the wound and held the captains head down. They gave the commander a stick to bite. The rod was then pressed against the wound with a sizzle. The first time a man witnesses this he often vomits from the stench of roasting meat, like pork that The Gods rejected. If that doesn't horrify a man, the screams of the wounded man will. His flesh is roasted, and he will be horribly disfigured for the rest of his life, but the bleeding stops. Perhaps the bravest of all is the man with the rod. He has to pay careful attention, twisting the rod and rolling it over the wound. If he leaves the rod in one place for too long, the flesh will stick to it and he will rip the cauterized flesh off of the injured man, causing him even more trauma. Many an injured man spit out the stick and bit through their tongue. Yet the captain suffered in silence. Surely Thor would note his resilience.

Once the wound had been cauterized, the mixture of honey, spiderwebs, and moss was packed into it. By now, most injured men would have long since passed out. Yet the captain actually reassured us that all was well. It was not the first time he'd had a wound treated. The whole thing was then closed and covered with a rag, and we helped him to the ship, where he was given strong drink.

Despite our efforts, the wound turned septic. We tried everything we knew but veins extended black from the wound. It swelled and leaked a foul pus and putrid stench. A trader from beyond Miklagard had us cut it open and redo the wine and garlic, then had a seamstress sew the wound closed with silk. Yet nothing helped. We knew he would fall. It took three days, but he succumbed to his wounds. Yet he never once relinquished his grip on his sword.

An odd thing happened while he fought the wound. The people of Jomsborg began calling him a king. To my knowledge, he never claimed this title for himself. He wore no crown. I never heard anyone regale any stories of a coronation. None of the other kings in foreign lands ever treated him as an equal. Yet Jomsborg loved this man. He brought great wealth to the community. Even more important, he dispensed justice with an even hand. His friends knew they would find no favoritism if they ran afoul of the law. The people seemed to award this honorarium out of respect, even love, for the man and the leader. They understood that they might live their entire lives and have little to no direct interaction with him, yet he would still exert a profound influence upon the quality of their lives. He may not have been a king in life, but he was The King in death. The Jomsviking and the people of Jomsborg would ensure that he entered Valhalla with as much glory as any king who had ever lived.

All of the carpenters and woodworkers of the town set to work upon our supply of timbers. They laid down a keel, attached ribs, then bent the planks to form a hull. This ship took the shape of a drakkar, yet much smaller and much less elaborate. It only had to sail once, but we would send our king to Valhalla upon a ship. We would not make an actual drakkar. It would take an entire village working for an entire summer to make one and once it was made it was far too valuable to burn. Nor would we send our king to the afterworld in some decrepit and leaky derelict that had been left to rot. He deserved better. Yet we only had three days. Thus, the kings ship would be smaller, and it would not be built to withstand a storm, but we would make it beautiful. It would be little more than a hull, with no interior work, save for an altar upon which is body would be placed, but every craftsman in the village poured their soul into its decoration. The King would be proud.

No sooner had a plank been placed than carvers went to work drawing designs and runes. The carvings would tell the story of his deeds. I learned much about the commander in these days. Rest assured, he would have endless supply of anecdotes to amuse his comrades in Odin's Hall. Odin must have been anxiously awaiting his arrival, as two ravens maintained a steady perch over the workshop.

The day drew neigh. The ship would make its maiden and final voyage that night. The people of Jomsborg filled it with many the king's possessions. We loaded all that he needed for the afterlife aboard the ship. Furs to keep him warm. A vast supply of food, breads and grains and fruits and an entire steer carcass plus dozens of foul and butter and who knows what else. Several barrels of ale and an equal number of casks of spirits. A staggering array of weapons; a dirk acquired on a raid of the Pictish lands; a two-handed Frankish axe with a beard longer than a man's forearm, bows from Mercia and Northumbria, an Irish knife and even one from the Avar horde, a seax that had been his fathers before him. I could go on, but I forget the rest. No man could remember it all.

An old woman selected to represent the Angel of Death. She selected the finest cushions from his hall and arranged them carefully on the ship for the king's comfort. Then she drenched all of it in oil.

She then selected six of his most comely female slaves. They in turn were inseminated by six of the kings most prominent men. When each copulation was complete, the man told the slave to "tell your master that I do this purely out of love for him." The women were to carry this supply of seed to the afterworld to ensure that the king had ample slaves throughout the afterlife. When the slaves returned to the Angel of Death, they were discretely given the milk of the poppy to ensure their pliability for that night's ritual.

Late that afternoon, we gathered at the shore. Villagers openly wept. The Jomsviking brotherhood kept their faces hard as stone. In silence, we mourn. The ravens moved from the workshop to a branch long the shore where they continued their vigil.

One by one, the six important men spoke. They regaled stories of the king's glory and offered us reminders. The king may have left our ranks, but we still owed him our loyalty and our thanks. He ruled with a steady hand and will be missed. His heart may be still, but tonight he will dine in Odin's Hall and drink his fill.

Now we broke our silence and as one gave a mighty roar in tribute.

When the words had all been said, the Angel of Death returned. One by one she helped the slaves onto the ship. There, she discretely slit their throats, that they would not be burned alive. The priests of The White Christ might be barbaric enough to burn people alive, but not us. The six men carried the king to the shoreline and placed him upon the cushions. Then they raised his hand that all could see his sword, firmly grasped. They then lowered the bloodworm one last time upon his chest and passed sjaund out to us all. They took the first drink of the funeral ale, but we all raised and emptied our horns.

As we drank, the Angel of Death gave the ship a push out into the bay. We then drank another horn of the ale. Later, that night we would all finish the sjaund. Only after it had been finished would the king's family be able to claim their inheritance.

Once we'd finished the second drink, the bowmen formed up, one hundred men strong. As the setting sun cast its glorious refulgence upon the bay, the bowman drew and fired. The arrows had been wrapped in cloth and soaked in pitch and lit ablaze. The ship slid gently upon the waves, and the ravens spread their pitch-black wings, taking flight out over the bay. A sendoff fit for a king! Ten times, the men drew and released, and as night fell and stars appeared, one thousand burning arrows pierced the sky.

The bowmen knew their job and the arrows hit their mark. The longship burst into flames, the smoke rising high in the king's eternal night. Nothing will be the same for any of us. The flames rage higher and gnaw at wood and flesh. The flames will burn the ship to the waterline, then the rest will break apart and sink to the murky depths.

On shore we drink in silence, a final tribute to a king who enters through Valhalla's gate.

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