The Goth
Blood of the North
The icy waves roared. Bitter winds blew the sails of the Northmen’s long boats. Having just pillaged and raided the Christian lands to the south. The decks of their ships were flooded with silver and gold. Meat and wine. Sobbing girls and young women, stolen from their homes.
Along their voyage, they chanced across the winter worn waste of Gotland. High upon the rocks, looking over the thrashing waves. An old woman, an ancient old crone peered down. In these lands she was known as a vǫlur. Sorceress if you speak the King’s English.
Both fearful and powerful she was. Her haggard old body wore the bones of the dead and the skin of beasts. And you would be forgiven to think she was not a beast herself in her mortal guise.
The old crone met with a single warrior from the long boats. He carried with him a fine wooden box. With no desire for pleasantries, he dropped it before her boney feet.
”Tribute” He said “Tribute for a good raid.” The old crone didn’t move a muscle. Not even a glance upon the polished box filled with precious metals. For she had no interest in such things.
”These do nothing for our clan.” She croaked in a voice so aged and foul.
”Take these furs! Or meats! Feed you kinsmen.” The warrior said.
” No…” The old woman said in an eerie whisper, so strange it sent shivers down the spines of the raiders.
” What then!?” He inquired.
” A long ship!” She demanded.
The warrior snorted in anger. “You demand our…”
” Tribute is what I demand, Tribute for I have called down the favor of the heathen gods of old.”
” We have the favor of Wotan, Thor…”
” Yes, the Aesir… but what of Aegir? What of Thyrm? And what of Hel?” The warrior went cold, hearing the names of these beings. For they were forces he dared not dare to dance the dance of death and her minions. “A long boat…or your blade.” She said pointing to the glittering weapon at his side.
The warrior drew his sword, a fine weapon it was, and with cruel cunning. Aimed the tip at the old woman’s heart. The Crone sneered with a grin. Reaching her leathery old hand up. She gripped the blades edge. Traces of blood so black, you would think the warrior had stabbed the night itself.
He tried to put back, but the old witch had the strength of a giant plus three men. He pulled and pulled and pulled some more. The old woman bled and bled and bled until the glittering sword’s silvery blade was as black as night and as cold as death herself.
The warrior fell back. Abandoning the box. The meats. and the sword. He called out “The sword is tribute for a good raid. My thanks to Hel, to Aegir and Thyrm! May we never cross paths again!”
Now the forests of Gotland were barren. Not a single tree had one leaf or quill. Not a speck of grass, grain or fruit. Only bitter winds and deathly snow rained down from the dark night’s sky.
A single man, a Goth as they were known. A Goth man from Gotland! For this was the land of the Goths, you know. A Goth man with hair as white as the snows and eyes as golden as the sun. Hardened by the bitter winds and deadly snows. Turned him into a savage.
He stalked his prey. A poor mother deer, sheltering her two fawns with her warmth and milk. Unaware that the Goth. This savage predator lurked close by. With feral instinct and heathen strength. He pounced upon the gentle mother and her fair fawn twins. With powerful hands and savage jaws, he torn into them. He feasted and feasted and not an ounce of meat was left.
A cackle surrounded the Goth. The cackle of the old woman.
” Vicious beast.” She croaked with a grin. “You feed on the raw flesh and warm blood.”
” What do you ask of me old woman!? I have nothing to gain say you!”
” Have you not heard of the eddas? I have come with a message from the heathen gods of old!”
” I spit on the heathen old gods!” He spit meat and blood at her feet. “And I spit at you! What have the heathen gods of old done for my kin!? My Gotland?! Abandon us! Cursed us! They favor the Danes in their raids and the Swedes in their spoils. They have raided and pillaged us! Taken all. We are left here to die like beasts. I spit on them again!”
His words did nothing to anger her. Her thin lips curled up into a twisted grin. She presented him the blacked sword."
” What is this!? What mischief has Loki sent to me?” The Goth demand.
” No Mischief. But a Offering. A fine sword bathed in blood of the ancient north. A Blade so strong, you can slay fifty men before the night is done.” She croaked.
” What would I do with such a accursed thing?” He snorted
” Go to the lands of the Danes, steal a long boat. To sail your kin to the lands of the Christians. Where they raid for metals, meats, ales and women!”
”What do you ask for this!? Nothing is taken for nothing!”
”Yes…venture deep into the frozen hills. There you will find my strange sisters. Slay them with this sword. Feed on their beating black hearts and bring to me the head of my mother!” The old woman cackled.
The Goth seized the sword in his bloody hands. “I shall feed on their hearts! You shall have your mothers head!” He swore.