Tale of Ragnar’s Sword

The salty sea stench stung Ragnar’s nostrils, but it no longer bothered him. This had been going on for days now, just like every voyage he took. This time, the smell became different. The very air became different. He could feel it as they sailed closer to the island. This was an island of magic. No doubt that was why the sages had sent them there to retrieve a particular sword. They had said that it was necessary to slay the enemies plaguing Sweden.

He swore he saw eyes from the water watching them sail past, but they quickly sank back under the waves. Whatever sea beasts lurked around these isles, they were smart enough not to fight vikings.

The island was within view now. The tall white cliffs topped with greenery looked the same as the dozens of other islands they’d passed on their long journey, but Ragnar could tell just by the air alone that it was special.

“Is this the one?” one of the Vikings asked.

As if predicting his words, at that moment the raven flew back with a sprig of purple flowers in its beak.

“This is the one,” the chief answered, taking the sprig and inspecting it. “The sages said the raven would return with flowers native to this island. They said to look for the towers by the cliff’s edge.”

They sailed around for a while, taking in the high, white cliff walls. Ragnar didn’t know how he could tell, but he knew that there was something inside those cliffs. There were treasures waiting to be discovered. Yet it was not for them. They were only there for one specific treasure. Anything else would just be a bonus to line the walls of the feasting hall, or be buried in the ground as an offering to the gods. Still, he could tell that something had already risen and fallen on the island. The power had shifted. He could feel it in the air.

The vikings were already preparing; grasping weapons, adjusting their armour, chewing on black bread for a boost of energy. Dozens of them watched the cliffs with anticipation, eager for a fight they could win.

Ragnar looked at the sky and bawked for a second. He thought he saw giant metallic birds soaring over the cliffs.

“What is it, Ragnar?” one of the other raiders asked him.

“Nothing,” Ragnar said, blinking to see nothing but the sky above them. He was always seeing things that weren’t there. Or perhaps they would be there someday and he had just glimpsed them for a second.

“There it is!” one of the vikings shouted, pointing at a dip in the cliff.

All of them squinted against the sun to see a tower peeking over the top with a window of elaborate decorated glass. Another church of the Christian’s god. Their target.

“There’s a way up the cliff there,” one of the more far-sighted vikings said, pointing to a path up the cliff that the locals must have trodden.

“Anchor here,” the chief ordered.

The boat shook as the anchor settled in the ground. They were fully prepared for battle now. Every viking was prepared for death if it meant eternity in Valhalla. None of them were afraid. In fact, they almost craved it. The cause they had travelled so far for seemed secondary compared to that.

“Remember what we’re looking for,” the chief shouted over the wind. “A sword that the christians are guarding. Take anything else you want, but we cannot leave without that sword.”

The vikings nodded with understanding. Ragnar just gripped his axe tighter.

“How will we know which is the right sword?” somebody asked.

“I have no idea. The sages just said we would know which is the right one.”

They waded through the last dregs of the ocean to the shore, not caring for the shock of cold. It soon faded once they reached dry land and the sun shone down upon them as if it were any other day in the peaceful lives of these christians. The vikings filed up the path they’d made to the building. Not a church, a monastary, they called it.

This was far from the first such building which had been raided in England. Ragnar had been a part of many of those raids. It always suprised him that the monks were still so unprepared. Every single time they sailed up to one, they were completly defenceless, screaming in shock and terror as they were slain one by one. This place was no different. The vikings strolled through the stone doors as if they were expected, which technically they were.

His fellow raiders immedietly descended upon the monks, wielding axes and cleaving them down, taking the least feeble for thralls. They forgot immedietly what they were there for. Ragnar remembered. He scouted from room to room, searching for the sword. If it was as valuable as the sages said, it wouldn’t be kept out in the open. It would be inside, probably hidden. He found many treasures in each room he passed through but no sword. The monks cowered as he went, some begging for their lives in a language he didn’t understand. Ragnar ignored them. They weren’t the reason he was there. They could tell him where the sword was, but they couldn’t understand each other.

After searching through each room thoroughly, he still hadn’t found the sword.

“Any sign of it?” he asked one of his friends.

“What?” he asked as he helped himself to the gold plates on the wall.

“The sword. The reason we’re here.”

“Oh, that. There’s no sword here. If there was they would have used it by now. The sages must have been wrong.”

“The sages are never wrong,” Ragnar said as he wandered out to the courtyard. There was something they were all missing. Something that couldn’t be seen.

He spied something out of the corner of his eye. He followed the slight sliver of movement. It was probably nothing, just a bird or a rabbit, but he followed it anyway. He found it was a monk. Instead of running or sinking to his knees to pray like the others, this one remained still. That was odd, even for a monk. He didn’t look as if he were frozen in fear. Ragnar had seen that in enemies many times before. He wasn’t afraid, in fact he was brimming with bravery. The only reason he would have to stand there was if he was guarding something.

Ragnar rushed forward, pushing the monk to the ground. He raised an arm to stop the viking. For a monk, he was surprisingly strong. Ragnar could have cut him down with his axe in a second. He should have, but then he wouldn’t know where to find the sword. This monk had to know. That had to be why he was fighting back.

“Where is the sword?” he said, even knowing the monk couldn’t understand him, and wouldn’t offer it up even if he could. “The legendary sword. I know it’s here. Tell me where it is. We need it.”

The monk’s eyes drifted ever so briefly to the ground. Ragnar followed his gaze. The monk gasped as he realised he had made a mistake.

“Here, is it?” he asked as he released the monk and ran his hand over the paving slab. The monk tried to pull him off, but Ragnar battered him away as if he were a butterfly.

This was it. It was here. The monks were fools not to defend themselves, but they’d had the sense to hide the sword away somewhere that raiders would never find, like under the ground.

The only problem was, Ragnar had no idea how to lift the slab on his own. Not even a viking’s strength could wrench it from the earth. Finally, his hand found a depression underneath the stone. That had to be it. He reached in his thick hand and pulled. The stone lifted. He grinned. The monks were clever, but so was he. He heaved the stone up, grass and moss coming away with it. He had found the hiding place.

The monk had given up on fighting back now, he only stared as Ragnar laid eyes upon the sword. At a glance, it wasn’t that different than any other sword. The hilt was slightly decorated with a twisting pattern and there were symbols carved onto the blade that he didn’t understand. It had gathered many years’ worth of dirt from being underground. Yet he could already tell that it was special. He lifted it up and he knew further. Power radiated from the sword down to his arm. He could almost hear something emanating from it, like a voice whispered in a dream. If he listened closely, he almost heard it saying ‘Pick me up, Ragnar Lodbrok. Cast me aside, Ragnar Lodbrok’. This was definitly the sword they needed.

“It is not made for you to wield.”

Ragnar looked to the side suddenly as the monk spoke in perfect Norse.

“We need it to slay the undead army plaguing our lands,” he argued, not knowing why as he was going to take the sword by force anyway.

“That may be so, but it is not made for your hands.”

Ragnar could see the sense in his words. The sword felt powerful, yet ever so slightly wrong in his grip. It was made for another man and no other. The voice he heard from the sword wasn’t calling out to him. It didn’t change anything. He would be merely borrowing it for a while until it found its way back to its true master. He only needed it for one fight.

“You must place it in the ground,” the monk said.

“I’m not giving it back,” Ragnar said, gripping the sword possesivly.

“I mean when you are done with it. Place it in the ground so it can find its way back to the one who is meant to return it to its true master.”

“A sword cannot know who wields it. It’s only master is whoever holds it.”

“Not this sword. If you insist upon taking this sword, you shall be its guardian. You must ensure it is given to the artisan witch so she can return it to the Once and Future King.”

Ragnar wanted to object. He wanted to run the monk through with the sword as punishment for standing in his way. But he already felt truth in those words, even if it was a truth he didn’t want to face.

He walked away without another glance at the monk. Let this one live and relay the tale to his kinsmen. It wouldn’t matter anymore. Ragnar could feel his eyes boring into his back as he marched away. He hid his shiver until he knew the man was out of sight.

He re-joined the others as they loaded up their goods into the boat. Nobody had been taken by the valkeries today. It was hardly worth it when there wasn’t a proper fight to be had. It made the loot seem less special. Anybody could have come and taken it even without swords and shields.

The monks snivelled as a line of them were led into the boat to live the rest of their lives as slaves. They didn’t realise it yet, but they were the lucky ones. The ones who had died had suffered a far worse fate.

“The gods have smiled upon us. This day will be sung of in the halls for many years,” one of the raiders said.

“For what reason?” Ragnar said quietly enough that they couldn’t hear him.

“What’s that you have, Ragnar?” the chief said, spying the sword in his hand.

Ragnar sighed as he showed their leader. He had been hoping to keep it to himself, but he couldn’t exaclty hide the sword. In a moment, the entire raiding party had crowded around him. The chief had grabbed the sword from his hand and was inspecting it.

“This is the one that sages told us about. This is the sword they sent us to recover,” the chief said as he held it high into the air. “And it is ours!”

Soon he was parading it around to the admiration of the others. They had already forgotten that Ragnar had been the one to recover it. What the monk had said was wrong. He wasn’t meant to wield the sword. Yet as he watched the chief caressing it whilst the rest of them steered the longboat away, he wished he could. It was like the sword was singing to his soul, begging him to wield it whilst it waited for its true master. It was like they were connected already.

They endured the long and ardous sail back to Sweden, through trecherous waters and high winds which battered the longboat. The monks crowded together agaisnt the sail and shivered in their thin robes. Some died of exposure before they even laid eyes on land again. Ragnar’s mind kept returning to the monk who had given him the cryptic warning. He wasn’t amongst the caputred thralls. He shouldn’t let a worthless monk’s words get to him. He was better than that. But if what he said was true and he was meant to wield that sword, he could slay the undead army himself. Yet the monk had said he could only wield it for a short time until it returned to its true master. If that was true then why did he feel so strongly that his destiny was entwined with this sword?

A loud cheer went up when land was spotted and they steered into harbour. Ragnar joined them in unloading the cargo and dragging the reluctant monks to the jarl’s house. He was quiet, a lump in his throat. It was good to see his home again. It was good to take in the familiar smoky scent of cooking fires and roasting fish. He liked to hear the lap of the waves against the longboats. The sights of the Norse god statues leering down on him was welcoming after so long without them. Yet he couldn’t help the nerves twisting in his stomach like a sea snake. This would be the real challenge. This would be where everything came together or fell apart.

The whole village followed them into the great hall. Ragnar felt as if every pair of eyes in the world were upon him, even though he was being ignored. He was only one of many hired hands, not important in the plans of the gods or the predictions of the sages.

The children ran and laughed as if this were all a game. He would have to think of a good story to tell them later when they gathered around him demanding a tale. They were hushed to silence as the jarl stepped forward.

The knot in Ragnar’s stomach turned to fire as he took in Jarl Gunkkel Egilsson. He had never liked the man. Not many did. They only tollerated him because the bands on their arms demanded it. He hadn’t won his position through battle or great deeds as the jarls before him had. He hadn’t even won it thorugh blood. He had bought that throne and manipulated those who stood against him.

Gunkkel ignored the treasure piled before him and the monks shivering at the sides. He only looked at the chief and said, “Do you have it?”

Obediently, the chief handed him the sword that Ragnar had salvaged. It took everything he had not to scream in the middle of the hall that he had found it.

It wouldn’t have mattered anyway as Gunkkel ignored the chief as he snatched up the sword. The rest of the world was lost to him as he took it in. “Is this it?” he asked as he turned to his sage waiting at his side. “Is this the one you prophecised?”

“Yes, this is it,” Helmi, the sage, said as she ran a hand over the blade without touching it. She could clearly feel the magic inside it, just as Ragnar had in the brief moments he’d held it. “Without a doubt. There is deep magic within this blade, forged beyond our realm. Only the greatest of kings or the most powerful of witches may wield this blade.”

“We only need one of those,” Gunkkel said, gripping the sword as if it were already his own. In his mind, it was. Ragnar may as well give up any claim to it, even in his own mind. He had known what the raid was for all along. “Will it slay the undead threat?”

The room fell silent. Everybody leant in closer to hear the answer.

“It will,” Helmi said.

Her words were followed by a chorus of relieved sighs and victorious cheers. Ragnar couldn’t share in their joy, and not only because the sword had been taken from him. He was starting to doubt that what the sage said was true. It didn’t feel right. It didn’t fit with what the monk had said. But why should he trust him over his own people’s sage?

“Then the gods have blessed us at last!” Gunkkel said as he wielded the sword high above his head as if he had already slain every single undead which threatened them.

“But there is a problem,” Helmi continued, her voice strained, like she had wanted to say the words for a long time but had held them back.

“A problem?” Gunkkel said, looking at her, the sword still aloft, unwilling to give up his imagined victory.

Helmi swallowed deeply before she continued. “I also saw that… that… the king who wields this blade will slay the undead army. But in doing so he will be…”

“Spit it out, woman!”

“He will be cursed.”

The room fell silent again as they took in the words.

“Well, so long as the threat is defeated,” the chief said.

“Then this has been for nothing,” Gunkkel said as he tossed the sword with the rest of the loot. “There is no point in slaying the undead army if it comes with such a price.”

The people around him shuffled on their feet, unwilling to admit that maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad trade after all.

“There is something we could do,” Helmi said, shuffling on her feet, already knowing the jarl would hate the idea.

“What?” Gunkkel asked, still sulking like a child.

“The prophecy says that the king who wields the blade will be cursed. It does not say you specifically.”

“So what? I’m not giving up my throne.”

“Well, we could always crown a new king just for the battle.”

Gunkkel finally raised his head.

“The curse shall affect them, not you,” Helmi continued. “Once the fight is won, we can simply switch you back.”

Gunkkel pondered for a moment, which seemed to hurt him. “Could this plan work?”

“It will deal with our undead problem without any harm to you.”

“Then let’s do it. Who shall be our placeholder king?” Gunkkel asked, eagerly scanning the room.

Any enthusiasm he expected to find was missing, as each man cowered back, trying not to be noticed. They had been more than willing to risk Vallhalla agaisnt the monks, because they’d known that was a fight they could win. A curse wasn’t even worth Vallhalla.

Gunkkel frowned at the lack of response then said, “Fine, if none of you will volunteer, I shall choose from amongst you.”

The men became active at once, their eyes wide and panicked. The war chief spoke first. “Ragnar Lodbrok could do it, Jarl Gunkkel.”

Ragnar would have run him through right there, except it would have only proved his point further. He wanted to call him out, but he knew he couldn’t. He could only stand there as every pair of eyes in the room fell upon him. He couldn’t speak anyway, since he was in too much shock. This couldn’t be his destiny. The gods had to have more plans for him than this.

The others looked relieved, glad that the burden was off them. They looked at him as if he were an insignificant worm, not their only hope of survival.

“Who?” Gunkkel asked, squinting into the crowd.

“A member of my warband,” the chief said, dragging Ragnar out by the arm to stand before the king. “A great warrior willing to lay down his life for you.” That was a lot considering he barely acknowledged Ragnar’s existence before that moment.

“Is this true, Ragnar… whatever it was?” Gunkkel asked, taking him in, judging him the way a stronger man would judge a new weapon.

Ragnar eyed the crowd again. The monk’s words rang in his head louder as he tried to dismiss them. He didn’t have any choice, destiny or no. He could not deny the jarl in front of everyone. Instead he bowed to his knee and said, “I am yours.”

“Excellent. Let’s make the switch now so that we can prepare,” Gunkkel said, stepping off the throne as if he were planning a banquet, not the salvation of their people.

The throne looked tall and daunting as Ragnar stepped towards it, every expectant eye upon him. He could charge into battle agaisnt an army like it was nothing, but those few steps were near impossible. Somehow he made it and sat on the throne. He was king. Or at least a puppet on the throne.

The sword he had just pilferred from the monks was placed back into his hands. The jarl’s eyes met his for just a moment and flashed with disgust. This had been his idea, yet already he seemed disgusted to have Ragnar wield the sword. Or maybe he just wished to wield it himself, without the curse.

It felt like it should never have left his hands. It felt as if it had been waiting for him to take it up again. As if the sword had chosen him, if only for a time. That meant the prophecy really was true, Ragnar realisesd with a sickly feeling. It was his destiny to be cursed as a false king. When it was done, he would go back to being a peniless farmer, only this time he would carry a curse with him. And Gunkkel wouldn’t even care. He was only a solution to a problem, but it was a problem which desperatly needed to be solved. He could bear a curse for that, couldn’t he?

“Now, the formation for the army,” Gunkkel said, heading towards his counsellors.

“Just a minute,” Helmi stopped him. “For the curse to be averted, we can’t let anybody know that you are the true king until the undead army is defeated.”

“Really?”

“Well, we probably shouldn’t risk it. You’d best stand aside and let us plan this battle.”

“Yes, that is a good point. I’ll go and conceal myself somewhere until the battle is over,” Gunkkel said, his face lighting up as he practically ran out of the room. No doubt glad for a chance to avoid a battle or having to come up with a long list of strategies and plans.

But then all eyes in the room fell back to Ragnar. It was his duty now, even if it was only temporary. Their lives hung in his hands. Their deaths too.

He gripped the sword, feeling its song now in his soul. What other choice did he have? The decision had already been made for him, but he could still decide what to do with his destiny.

“The undead army have lycanthropes with them,” Ragnar said, more as himself than as a king, as he stepped down from his throne to address the cousnelors. “What measures can be taken against them?” he addressed Helmi.

The sage looked baffled to be consulted for her opinion but once she re-gathered herself, she answered, “They change back into men when their blood is drawn.”

“How much blood?”

“Any amount. But once they are in their berserker forms, reaching them without being killed is nearly impossible”

“Then if we place spears at the head of the line, we can draw their blood and remove them from the battle immedietly. How many spears can you make?” he asked the blacksmith.

“A few dozen each day,” the blacksmith answered, just as startled to be addressed by the king.

“Then start production on as many as you can. Take as many thralls as you like to assist you.”

It went on like this late into the night. Soon they were lost in their plans. Ragnar could still feel the sword humming gently, as if it approved. Ragnar didn’t know why he wanted to prove himself to a sword so badly. If it deemed him worthy, it would be an even greater honour than being bestowed a blessing from Odin. Maybe he was just a puppet, but a puppet couldn’t be killed, unlike a king.

He heard the sword’s hum as he made battle plans. It soothed him to sleep as he lay in the king’s bedchamber. He felt it almost pumping with his blood when he stood on the battlefield. The sword may not have been made for his hand, but it was glad to be there. It wanted to help him to slay these undead foes. It was thanks to this sword that he had been chosen as king, even if it was only as a false king. Yet it was starting to feel to Ragnar like it hadn’t been chance. The sword had wanted that too.

He stood with the rest of the warriors next to the hanging cliffs. He looked to the darkened skies. No signs of the valkeries yet. They were probably waiting in anticipation. He had been there dozens of times before. It was always the same – the undead came when the sun set, slaughtered and drank the blood of all they could reach, then retreated with the first sliver of sunlight. By that time it was already too late for the vikings. Only a few survivors straggled home to the devestated villages and farms.

He saw the shapes moving in the dark. He had come to know them well. The shapes shifted into something almost but not quite human, glaring at them. They clearly came from many different lands, even ones they hadn’t seen yet, and yet their skin was always sickly looking and their eyes sharp and focused. Most distinguishing of all were the fangs jutting out of their mouths, thin as pine needles and sharp as daggers.

Yet he still didn’t hesitate to charge forward, the others roaring behind him. The moon was full, providing the only light for them to see the fangs and claws. It glinted at their swords as they dug into the undeads’ chests, their most vulnerable point that Ragnar had told them to aim for.

For every undead that fell, more swarmed over. It seemed like a never-ending sea. Ragnar’s eyes scanned over them for their leader. The sages had told him that if he could only kill that one, the others would flee. But that proved difficult, not only because it was impossible to tell which of the sallow-skinned monsters was the leader, but because he was the strongest of all of them. He was like darkness incarnate, spreading like a cloak over their land.

Ragnar couldn’t deny the joy as he dug the sword into one undead after another. They clearly felt the same joy as they clawed and bit at the vikings. The ground was soon slippery with blood. The scent of it only sent the undead into even more of a frenzy.

He felt something sharp on his arm. One of the undead was trying to feast upon him. Ragnar swatted it off as if it were a mosquito, and squashed it like one. He had been one drop of blood away from death. Glancing up, he saw that others weren’t so lucky. The undead were swarming them, gaining more ground. Soon they would descend upon the villages and devour them all.

“It’s no good,” one of the vikings said next to him. “How can we fight an enemy we can’t even see?”

“Then don’t use your eyes,” Ragnar said loudly enough for all of them to hear him. “Use your ears. Sense the wind moving. Use your nose if you have to.”

The man swung his axe to his side and sliced up an undead that Ragnar hadn’t even seen. “It worked!”

A woman on Ragnar’s other side smeared a tiny trickle of blood over herself. It drew out another undead, which she soon decapitated. She shared a brief approving grin with Ragnar before she smelled out the next undead.

It was working. Their numbers were thinning. The tide was turning. Ragnar stepped over more and more bodies, the undead outnumbering the Norse.

“Hold the line! The gods smile upon us,” he called out.

A feeling like a chill wind ran over him, even through the summer heat. Everything around Ragnar grew distant as if he were seeing it in a dream.

“There you are, false king,” came the voice like polar ice, tickling his ear.

Ragnar didn’t need to look into the red eyes to know the undead king was next to him. He looked youthful, yet Ragnar saw deep wisdom in his eyes. His skin was coppery like the people of the lands far to the south with green veins running through it. He had clearly once been a human, but was now one only in appearence. Everything else about him screamed ‘monster’.

He moved around Ragnar like a shadow, looming over him.

“I may be a false king,” Ragnar said as he struck his shortsword behind him. The creature dodged to his side. “But at least I still have flesh and blood.”

“I gave those things up long ago,” the lich king said as he loomed in front of Ragnar. “I had no use for them. They were even more worthless than your life.”

Ragnar’s body moved without his control, pointing his sword at his own throat. He looked up and realised the lich was controlling him.

“A coward’s way to fight.”

“I’m still standing, aren’t I?”

His hands shook as the tip of the sword was inches from his throat. He barely held it back. The undead cocked an eyebrow. He was confused. He hadn’t been expecting that. He hadn’t faced a will such as Ragnar’s.

It worked, because he made the same mistake many warriors made; he let his anger take over. He lunged at Ragnar with just his claws, digging them into his throat. They were sharp and strong.

“Why do you want this kingdom?” Ragnar said through the stinging pain. “You were clearly a king once. Why do you want this barren land? We’re so poor, we have to steal riches from others.”

“Because your winter nights last for months. It’s the perfect place for my people to rule. Once we have our hands on it, we can make those polar nights last for eternity.”

“That’s impossible.”

“They said immortality was impossible once, but I found a way.”

Ragnar imagined a land of eternal darkness ruled by these creatures. He pictured his own people hunted as prey. He wouldn’t let his land become like that, king or not. Diplomacy clearly wouldn’t work, so he had to use the one other thing a king held.

He allowed the monster’s claws to dig into his neck and draw blood. He leant in and licked at Ragnar’s blood. He was close enough for Ragnar to stick his blade into his side. His eyes widened as Ragnar’s blows continued, knocking him back.

He recovered and was gone in a flash of black smoke. Before Ragnar could even raise his hand to cover his mouth, he felt the lich behind him again.

“Attacking from behind? Another coward’s move,” he said, swinging his leg backwards and knocking the opponent down.

When he was lying on the ground like a fish pulled from the water, Ragnar raised the sword and plunged it into his back. The creature flailed, its fangs exposed, clawing at the dirt.

The noise around him had stopped. Both viking and lich had stopped to watch, knowing the battle came down to the two of them.

“You are… nothing… but a false king…” the lich said.

“Maybe,” Ragnar said, lifting his head, “but better a false king than a dead one.”

There was a last glimmer of fear in the creature’s eye, and bewilderment that he had been beaten by a farmer of all people. Ragnar took pleasure in that look as he thrust the sword into the creature’s skull.

His body turned to dust, from his feet upwards. With the last of his strength he thrust forward his bloodied arm. Ragnar thought he meant to strangle him or at least land another blow. He raised his arms to defend himself. But instead, the creature thrust his arm to Ragnar’s mouth. With his other arm, he pinched Ragnar’s nose. He was in too much shock to even shake the lich off. He only coughed and sputtered as blood poured down his throat.

The undead’s arms fell as they turned to dust. The last thing the ancient king did was smirk before that too dissapeared into dust.

The other lich realised what was happening and began to flee. A few were held back by the vikings and slain whist the others scrambled away over the cliffs. They were no longer a threat without their leader. They would linger in the shadows for a while before melting into dust as he had done.

“He’s gone. Ragnar Lodbrok did it!” the warriors called out and cheered.

“Hail King Ragnar!” they all cried out.

Ragnar was still in too much shock to take it in. The bitter taste of the lich’s blood still burnt his tongue. It hadn’t turned to ash like the rest of him. He almost felt it beating through his own veins.

He didn’t remember much of the trek back to the town, the thankful sacrifices to the gods, or the celebratory feast. He could barely taste it. It felt odd on his tongue. No matter how much he ate, hunger knawed at him. Even the scent of air was different now. It was only the shock of battle, he told himself over and over. It would pass soon. He was barely even aware of King Gunkkel’s jealous gazes from across the feasting table.

“There, you see? There was no curse after all. I could have slain that lich,” he bragged over and over, but nobody was listening to him. They were too busy re-telling the story of Ragnar’s victory.

He was barely aware as he sat on the throne again and people were telling him, “There are still more of those creatures lingering in the countryside. They’re going after lifestock and have already grabbed a few farmers. What should we do, King Ragnar?”

“Uh, excuse me?” Gunkkel said from the side of the room.

“Send guard to the outskirts,” Ragnar ordered, shaking off the odd feeling for a second to focus. “Seek out the nests of the outliers and kill them. Use fire if you need to. They seem to hate that. Or drag them out into sunlight.” He drew his own arm away from a slither of light seeping into the room. It was tickling his skin.

“Or we could keep the guard in the town to protect our-” Gunkkel said, but nobody heard him. He was forgotten underneath a sea of questions, worries, and matters for the kign to deal with. Whether or not they remembered that he had ever been the king wasn’t important. Ragnar was their king now.

He didn’t let any of them see how he was changing; how food turned to ash in his mouth, how sunlight burnt his skin, or how he craved the taste of blood. He found ways to adapt to it, but in the darkness where nobody else saw, he howled in pain.

None of them saw the curse – the Ragnar had become the same as the lich king.

There were whispers that the king wasn’t aging, even after decades on the throne. There were rumours about why none of his three marriages had produced any children. That was when he knew it was time for him to leave. The kingdom had prospered under his rule. Boats full of cargo sailed into the harbour each day, their winter stores were full, and the halls were full of songs and stories. He had chosen a worthy heir to continue this legacy, but the reign of Ragnar Lodbrok had to come to an end.

He found a fitting end when an enemy king in a foreign land pushed him into a pit of snakes. His curse kept him alive long enough to sneak out when nobody else was looking with only a few bite marks. If they were confused that there was no body in the pit, none of the expresed any of it as they delivered a corpse to his homeland and it was buried in the ground along with the sword that had served him so well all those years.

It hurt Ragnar to see it buried. That sword had become a part of him, almost an extension of his body. But he also knew that he wasn’t its true master. He had only held onto it for a short time. Everything the monk had said had come true. Now he had to watch over it so it could find its way back to its new master.

And it did, centuries later. Ragnar saw that the witch succesfully stole the sword from the museum it was placed in, just as he had stolen it from her homeland years before. It was almost gleefully ironic. She stepped over him, apologised, and he said, “Fulfill the prophecy.”

She and her companion didn’t have time to question him as they ran. He ensured that the police didn’t reach them before a sea dragon took them away. Ragnar hadn’t been expecting that part, but it hardly mattered.

His part was done now. It was all up to her. The prophecy was done, but he still had the curse of eternal life. He could do whatever he wanted now.

He went straight back to the museum, resigned from his job, and got a ticket on the next plane to England. He wanted to return to the island where he had stolen the sword from. He wanted to see what would happen with his own eyes. He wanted to shape his own destiny.

He had an entire eternity now.