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  Part Two:

  A Translation of the Worm’s Head Manuscript by Wilbert Felten-Hayes:

  My name is Magnus the Wise. I am a Dane and a scholar. Some might even say that I am a mystic… Indeed, I have some talent with the Runes. Odin, who surely needs no introduction, protects us as my crew makes repairs to our ship. I watch them as I begin to record the events that took place on this day, the 22nd of March in the year 925 according the new Christian calendar. I sit on this Celt accused beach and write of the fate that befell my Jarl, Jorund the blessed and the valiant sacrifice he made for all who remain.

  We were a band of friends, kin even, Jorund and I, with Skessi the Scald, Raynor the Bear and Svein Lightfoot. Jorund the Blessed! I laugh as it is I who blessed him. It is I that tattooed the rune of protection upon his shoulder and imbued it with magic before every battle. This is how Jorund was able to fight naked with such fury and abandon, striking fear into the hearts of his enemies when they realized no weapon or harm would befall him.

  Our small band had left our home in Denmark many years before, to seek our fortunes in Danelaw. With our Drakkar longship we raided the Mercian coast for many years. Scamasax is as swift a vessel, and nimble to as any seafarer might wish for. It is small, only thirty oars in total, though it holds a good strong crew of able seamen, warriors all and true. Alas we will never see the likes of them again… I drink to them all, Aki, Harald, Eirik, Olvald and the others and I wish them good feasting in the halls of Valhalla. I would like to see Frodi’s wife Sigrid manage to drag him form that particular mead hall for a change. It is only I and a handful of us who survive now, thanks to Odin and the task he bestowed upon Jorund and I. A task I now begin to retell as I sit on this beach surrounded by the bodies of our fallen comrades and the creatures they valiantly slew. The other survivors nervously watch the sea before us as they repair our ship, occasionally casting a wary eye towards the green hills that lay behind. But I know we are safe from further attack, Odin taught me a spell to protect us. I have faith in its protection, as I should, for it came from All-Father.

  As I said, we were once raiders but that ended a few years ago when the tide of fate turned against us Danes and the north again fell under the rule of the Saxon and their king, Edward of Wessex. Actively discouraged from raiding, we were forced to sail escort between Danelaw and Eire for a Knarr, a lackluster merchant vessel. It was on one such journey that the storm took us.

  The storm was like no other I have seen. Huge roaring waves tossed the Scamasax across the sea like a child might skim a stone across a pond. Svien held us firm at the tiller while Ragnor seemed to grow in size and strength as he yelled and threatened the crew to “Pull!” Skessi sat at the front, back to the bow where he laughed, and cursed and sung bawdy songs to encourage the crew, telling them they were far too mean and ugly to die that day- but if they were taken to the bottom of the sea, he would buy them all a drink in Valhalla.

  We were washed south; off our usual course and it was a miracle we were not sunk. Maybe there is, as Skessi often boasted, magic in the old scald’s songs, though I would never have said so to his face. Fearing capsize, we run ourselves aground on the beach of a pretty little cove which was sheltered from the storm. The fishing boats moored to a small wooden jetty hardly buffeted despite the tempest raging beyond the cove’s natural embrace. A small path ran up through the sand continuing continued into the lush green hillock parallel to the beach.

  Disorientated, we felt unsure where we were. Svein, our pilot, suggested the possibility that we might have landed in Dyfed. Such news caused the crew some concern, as none of us had met a Celt before, and so we were uneasy- as we believed them to be magical and sinister. Raynor snorted and sniffed the air, convinced magic was there. Nobody disagreed; the cove’s sides were far too shallow to give so much protection from the storm.

  As we disembarked and secured the Scamasax to the beach, villagers began to hesitantly descend down the path through the hillock’s long grass. As they drew near across the beach all our fears about Celts were confirmed. An odd race, the Celts, we thought, as we watched them come lumbering down the beach. They all shared the same strange features to some degree. Large hairless foreheads, small underdeveloped ears, fat rubbery skin and large staring, unblinking eyes.

  Nary did a single man amongst them appear as if they would make a decent warrior; they did not even have beards. They all looked like crones and witches, even the men folk, if you could call them that. They disgusted us and as we hadn’t pillaged for many years and there was no edict to prevent us from doing so in Dyfed, Jorund commanded that we turn on them. We raped, we killed, and we stole until the villagers were pacified. They put up more of a fight then we had expected at first and some of our numbers were injured but they were no match for our strength, armor, axes and swords. Some of the handful that survives with me here now was among those first injured. I expect they think themselves more fortunate now than they did when they first took their wounds.

  We found a church and three priests hiding within. Grotesque looking creatures, the worst we had seen, immensely fat with hideously bulbous faces, pasty gray skin and the same large unblinking eyes. We slew them and stole their golden headdresses. We demanded more gold and it took the killing of three more villagers before we conceded to their pleas that the village held no more. The gold, they said, was found on Worm’s Head, a small islet south of the bay. They gave Jorund a black stone and told him to throw it into the sea from the islet, saying it will make the gold magically rise from the sea. We threatened them all with a slow torturous death if they lied.

  I remained with our wounded and a few guards while the rest made their way to the islet. After a while we could hear the sound of battle, so we started to make our way back to the beach. The villagers had begun to grow in confidence and had started to follow us down the path. Some of the men folk had even armed themselves with staves and pitchforks.

  Twenty warriors had left for the Worm’s Head and only ten retuned, fighting and running from hideous gray-green skinned frog-like fish headed monsters; sea trolls, that loped and hopped behind them. Two legs and two arms they had, like men, but they were large and powerful with big webbed hands and feet and quivering gills around fat bulbous necks. We regrouped, standing back to back on the beach, forming dual shield walls- to defend ourselves against the coordinated attacks from both the sea creatures and the villagers.

  I saw Ragnor fall when he left the relative safety of the shield wall, enraged and swinging his great axe Ingrid; which he named after his wife. I saw Ingrid cleave into three of the sea monsters before Ragnor disappeared under a mass of spear and trident trusts. I did not see what happened to Svein but we collected what was left of his body and hope to offer him and all our comrades a decent funeral pyre before we leave this accursed beach. Skessi fell in the initial battle on Worm’s Head, when the sea creatures rose from the sea. We had been tricked, the villagers had lied. It had not been gold that was summoned up from the depths when Jorund cast that black stone into the sea.

  So we stood, back to back, brother defending brother, against the ferocious onslaught of the sea trolls and their human allies. All was lost, I admit it- we were done, our lines close to breaking. And then salvation, a horn that sounded so loud, it vibrated through the air like thunder, causing villager and Norse Man alike to fall to their knees holding our ears in terrible agony. The sea trolls seemed able to withstand the horn’s sounding, maybe because they had no ears, not that I could discern. Instead of falling to the ground or even pressing their attack, they all fled. As the pain left my head, I looked up and saw them loping and hopping back towards the sea, the way they had come, towards the Worm's Head. Maybe it was once a giant worm, a sea serpent turned to stone leaving only its spawn, the creatures we fought that day.

  Groggy and in pain, both Norse Men and the villager stood shakily and slowly upon their wearied feet. I remained on my knees, looking out to sea towards the source of the horn blas
t. So it was that I who first saw Odin come riding in that day.

  From the sea he came, standing on a giant half clamshell, pulled by horned horses. Before anyone could react, the horses had pulled Odin’s shell up the beach before us. All Father stood gazing at us all, a tall white bearded god in shimmering robes. Any remaining villager not quick enough to flee perished instantaneously as his gaze fell upon them- freezing their hearts. On us Norse Men, his gaze was much kinder. Jorund and his handful of men, who are with me now, were our only remaining crewmen… Odin fixed his gaze upon every single one of us in turn. No words were spoken- though we all understood. The village, and the creatures we fought were corrupted, heinous, and evil- this was true. Conversely, we were no innocent babes- thus a sacrifice was required of us, to protect our escape. It was I who Odin gave the spell, a similar spell to the charm I always placed upon Jorund’s tattoo before each battle. It was Jorund who willingly volunteered and in turn I tore out his heart, using it to cast the spell that now protects us and our ship. As the others continue to make repairs, I bring this journal to a close. I will bind it well and keep it safe. I have a good piece of leather to use for its cover, it amazes me still- Jorund’s tattoo upon my journal- the nightmare endured, Odin. Though this journey was a trial, I have awakened to the darkness, its powers granted to me by a god... For this, I am deeply grateful.

  The End.

  Copyright 2014 Chris Raven

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