Ominous clouds gathered overhead as the cold winds teased the exposed flesh of the warriors. They nervously faced each other. A misty rain began to drip forth from the heavens, firm earth turned into brown shackles that bound the feet of those who stood before each other in life, and those who had stood before each other in death.
Time stood still. The ravens quieted. Thor raised his hands to the menacing skies, his deadly weapons on high alert. A plea for clemency broke the eerie silence that had gripped the battlefield.
“Odin, god of Thunder, god of the brave Norse warriors, give us courage in life. Give us courage in death. Let the drums of the gods prepare us to make our sacred journey to Valhalla this day.”
A hundred drums relayed their message of death upon the winds. A thousand wooden spears beat their prophetic warning upon the earth. A choir of ten thousand feet stamped their melodic sound of conquest. A vicious Norse battle cry would be the last sounds that many of the enemy would hear this day. Without warning the drum pounding, the spear beating, and the foot stomping ended. Voices silenced.
“Warriors of Asgarde, brave men of obedient children, valiant husbands of dutiful wives, and gallant sons of proud forefathers…grasp your shields bravely, wield your spears valiantly, swing your swords courageously.”
Upon their sacred orders, the Viking line began to move slowly at first then it picked up speed and all the while the terrifying shrills of their battle cry pierced the morning quiet. Deafening. Frightening.
Two lines met and blood flowed. Flesh…pierced, stabbed, impaled carried upon muted beams of sunlight. Screams of terror echoed through the countryside, the fields cried tears of remorse.
As the lament of the fields echoed in his ears, Thor gazed into the eyes of his adversary. Fear reflected back to the Norse god, the smell of victory hung in the air. No words were spoken in this primordial dance of death.
The first swipe of the razor sharp broad axe found its mark, a severed head bounced wildly along the damp grass having breathed its last breath. It skipped like a stone over the tranquil surface of a millpond. A lifeless body careened in the opposite direction. The next forceful swing of the axe penetrated deep within a still quivering headless torso before it was impaled upon a cold column of stone. The acrid smell of warm entrails spewed forth from a once living soul permeated the cool of the afternoon. Thick trails of warm blood ran down a sacred yellow runestone painting grass of green the unwelcome hue of death.