A New Valhala [2019]

The twelve knelt down in the courtyard. Stone walls older than time surrounded them, although safety was a fleeting thing, just as life. The bishop’s robes brushed against the stone floor, cracked with nature seeping through. Wet grass left green impressions like cuts along the white-gold fleece that danced across it. The men’s helmets lay on the ground beside them, and their hands grasped swords dug into the ground. The priest’s hands marked each head with a cross of oil, one at a time as he moved down the line. The men heard the blessings in Latin, but did not know what they meant.

They simply nodded and said amen, as they prayed in their native tongue, no longer to Odin but to Jehovah. They knew their old gods forsook them, but they knew God redeemed them. Their hearts burned with anticipation, some with fear, and all with hope. For no longer did they look for the old Valhalla of drunken power, but the New Valhalla—a life of final peace and rest. Some of the men, a few, were young and had seen little battle. Although the rest, most of them, were older—scarred and bruised, with battered bodies and grey hair. The older felt shame burn within their souls, as they recalled what they had done in the past. This battle was not just for glory; it was for redemption of a life lived in darkness. They knew this as the priest sang over them with oil from faraway lands.

The bishop stood back and said a final prayer, as the men and monks bowed their heads. The oldest warrior stood, helmet on hip and sword in hand. He walked towards the priest, who shook at the sight of the figure for no reason besides simply who the man was. He stopped, staring into the eyes of the cleric. Then the old leader bowed his head, giving thanks. The bishop urged him to leave with them on the boats. Although the bishop was young, the Viking was not. He knew that if he did not stay in the gap, the faithful would surely perish to his brother’s men. Shaking his head, he put on his helmet and let out a cry. Eleven others rose and screamed with him, and they ran to the bridge, helmets on their heads and shields on their arms.

With oiled crosses dripping down their faces, and red ones lining their shields, they stood in a line. The army of hundreds marched near, chanting to the glory of old gods. Between them and the boats of fleeing priests and nuns, a thin line of twelve. Each of the twelve bore a new name, and a new Master. The leader of the men yelled to them, bashing his shield with the handle of his blade. The man knew only one song taught to him by a priest.

The army of grey and darkness marched across the marsh and lined at the beginning of the bridge. They sang to Odin’s throne and Thor’s glory, and chanted of blood and battle. Stopping, the army looked to the twelve to hear their voice, to hear their mettle.

A simple, soft song sung by them floated across the water and the stones: “Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia.” The hymn even reached the ears of the boats that ran to safety. The bishop stood sweating and performing the sign of the cross, rosary in hand, in prayer for the men.

As the twelve were done, laughs echoed from the hundreds. Their leader screamed and began the charge. Tightening their hips and digging in their feet, the twelve warriors raised their heads and blades.

Men clashed into their shields and jabbed at their bodies. As the twelve hacked down the hordes, jabs sliced through their sides. The leader, old as he was, stood tall through many cuts. One blade even pierced his armor, into his ribs—yet the attacker was the only one who fell. The hundreds fought for glory of self, and the twelve fought for glory of their new God. Many of the twelve fell as they backed up along the bridge. Two at a time they died, to the blades of many whose minds were nothing but darkness. They fell more and more until only the leader was left. He hacked down at the men as he reached the end of the bridge and walked up the steps. At least twenty surrounded his front in a crest and yet, as many blows as his aging body received, he did not fall. Surely, he thought, “My God is with me.”

Covered in blood, mostly his own, he kicked and flailed as hard as he could at the raiders. Until finally, the sword of his brother struck into his heart. Falling to the ground, he was run over by a rampage. As he lay dying on his side, he turned to see the boats. They were far away across the bay and safe from the men that ran past his body. Closing his eyes, he could hear the song dance along the water from the faithful: “Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia.” He patiently awaited to sing songs of glory in the New Valhalla.