Draugr [2019]

“Ligh Logh Lay, Oh Lay, oh Ligh, oh Lord”

The hymns and hums of men not yet dead rang out from the ships across the water. The village lights in the distance. All they knew sat in that bay.

Time had passed since they left for war. The village continued on, with the families of those men working the fields and grooming the cattle. The lives they led were calm in this desolate place, patiently waiting for the return of those they loved. Women worked while the children played and did their chores, and the old men sat and watched—many too old indeed to help with much, besides entertaining the children when they grew restless. Great stories were common to the warriors of ages past, and inspirations they became to the next generation of fighters.

The village houses and huts stood tall among the short grass, often occupied by chickens or oxen. No ships were in the harbor, as they all were used by the Jarl and his men. While they were gone, the Jarl’s wife Hilgrid led the town. Although there was little to lead. Most people simply lived as they had before, just with more to do and fewer hands to do it with. Harkold the wise lived with his daughter and her ward. He told the boy stories of long-ago battles and wars. He hobbled on a leg, as his left had been broken by time. And he sat on his porch and heard the chimes. Oh, how he had wished to have gone with the men—to again sing songs of glory, to sail in the wind.

While most children helped their mothers tend the fields, some looked for glory before their time. Traversing the small paths inland from the bay, exploring relics of older days. Often they would go where they knew they shouldn't, always pushing the line set by their elders.

One day, a group of three or four went too far, stumbling past the age-old brush and dust to an old site.There was a man sitting on a stone, wearing bedraggled armor. He looked forlorn at the ground and groaned with every breath he breathed out. He looked thin—thinner than could be—to the children who approached where he sat. One said something to him, and his groaning did stop. Slowly he rose and quickly he turned, to show the young what they had found. A rigid structure of bone with little mass clinging to it held its armor on lightly. It wielded a sword, rusted and old. Walking towards them, it smiled and looked with intent. Under its hard leather shoes, the grass bent.

The children returned to their mothers in tears. Shrieks of horror combined with excuses and lies. They all told the same, however, about the man that stood made of bones. When Hilgrid heard as she passed by, she knew what they spoke of. She questioned the children to find what she could, then ran to the hall, ringing the bell and calling the village to discuss what to do.

The children had said that the beast had followed them out of the brush and onto the road. Hilgrid knew, as did others, what the children had discovered: an ancient warrior, whose soul was disturbed, rising from the grave. A Draugr, a monster, an evil of old days. It would not stop with a fright, but would come to take the lives of all in the night. Shaking in fear, the townspeople worried. Who would fight such a thing? Where could they run, where would they hide? As they debated and as they cried, an older man stood up and yelled. “I will fight,” Harkold said in a shout. He walked in the middle and knelt before Hilgrid. Silence fell around the old soldier. He looked up from his stance, he looked in her eyes. “Bless me,” he said, and motioned towards his nearly bald head. Hilgrid did stop, but then laid her hands, for glory and honor in his stead. Rising from the ground, Harkold hid his walk, and left the town square with the gait of his younger self.

He entered his house, looking around, and knelt once again. He asked for the strength, the power, and life, to protect the town and his brothers’ wives.

…

Harkold stood, tall as he could, in his old armor, sword in his hand. At the end of the road that led into town, with a shield more square than round. The women and children stood at a distance to watch the old dancer dance. Leaning against a fence, Harkold watched the trees sway in the wind. Rain fell down, Harkold stood. The sun went down, Harkold stood. The stars fell across the skies, Harkold stood. The night died to light, Harkold stood. And as the sun rose, what came down that road but the beast itself in maliceful gait.

Harkold rose up straight, putting on his helmet, and walked between it and the town. The thing was horrid to his eyes, worse than anything he had seen before. Its dark crimson eyes glowed and burned in the fog of the morning. Its jaw barely held on by tendons falling down, and its arms still spindly and long. It towered above him in height, and its evil heart gave the townspeople fright. Harkold stood.

Its grotesque arm brought a rusted sword into Harkold’s raised shield, nearly knocking him down. The beast seemed to laugh as it rose its sword again from the ground. Harkold’s face unchanging, he knew what he must do. His aging arm swung at its side, taking a chunk but not nearly its life. Laughing again, it taunted the old man and brought its sword into his shield. The old piece of wood shattered this time. Harkold backed away, casting what was left to the dirt. The beast ran at him in speed and jabbed at him, scraping his ribs. Grabbing his side, Harkold watched as the beast kicked at his feet.

Harkold stumbled to the ground and ran a few feet away. Out of breath and in fear, he looked to the sky. He knew all of the heavens watched him that day. He looked past the creature at the families huddled, nervously watching. Gaining his footing, with two hands he swung down on his potent foe. With strength he cracked at its shoulder; it fell backwards in shock. The townspeople cheered as the thing was confused. With another blow he struck inwards at its chest and knocked it over. He drew his blade and prepared to strike, when suddenly its rusted blade pierced his own side. Through his armor and through his stomach the blade cut. And Harkold gasped as he fell to the ground.

The beast rose again and looked at him. Then it turned to the town and began to walk towards the people. They backed up as it drew near, but then it heard a noise. “Again,” said the old soldier, who rose while holding his wound. Evil it was as it smiled at this, and charged Harkold for all it could. Blocking its blows with his blade, Harkold kept it off. Yet it struck again in his side, and he fell to his knees. It let him get up—this it did please. Using his blade, he shook as he stood, under pain and strife. In his head he knew he did not have much life. Harkold looked deep in its eyes, and as he bled, he spit at the thing. The Draugr, enraged at offense, charged yet once again. And Harkold swung with all he had left.

The skull of the monster rolled on the ground as its bones fell again to rest. Next to its body, Harkold fell too, knowing he gave it his best. The women ran past and grabbed Harkold and cried. He looked at the thing lying dead and then in his daughter’s eyes. He knew they were safe. He laid back his head and stared at the sky. The day was dawning, and they were alive. With this final glory, Harkold did die.

…

As the pyre raft burned in fire,The women sang to the glory of Harkold.Across from the water, a noise did arise. As Harkold’s raft floated away,Something new rolled into the bay—“Ligh Logh Lay, Oh Lay, oh Ligh, oh Lord”