It was night.

A blanket of black velvet coated the sky, allowing pinpricks of light to shine through. Upon that blanket rode a silver disk, illuminating the sea beneath and the single dragonship that rode through the swirling waters towards its destination.

The wind swept off the ocean like an invasion of air onto the frost-covered sandy shores coming into view before the longship. The blonde-haired captain looked up at the stars, then at the rising horizon. The stars said he was on course, but he had yet to see land-bound confirmation. There. He could make out the tiny light of a distant lantern swinging in the wind and knew he was on course. Almost there. The dragon prow chewed through the waves, and then into the surf, bringing him and his crew closer to their destination. As the roiling sea calmed, he gave the warning to his crew of the impending impact.

The ship beached with a resounding clap, throwing those not braced for it to the deck. The crew were Northmen for the most part, and knew to brace themselves when approaching a shore. The few foreigners among the crew learned the hard way how to handle the beaching of a longship- do what the crew does, when they do it. Or kiss the deck and lose some teeth until you do.

The captain called his first mate over and handed him command of the ship by the ancient tradition of placing the man's hands upon the steerboard. The first mate responded by handing his captain a warm, woolen red cloak stolen from a Saxon killed in battle.

"Fare thee well, Torstein Arnesen," the captain said. "I shall not be gone long. Have the men rest for an hour or two, then prepare the ship for the journey home."

"Do not be late, Kjell Atlesen," the first mate replied. "You know how our lord dislikes that."

Kjell nodded, and climbed over the gunwale to drop into the surging tide. He was a tall man, with long legs- cavalryman's legs. Even so, the freezing January water almost reached his manhood. Torstein, a hand or two shorter than Kjell, was very glad that his captain had chosen to deliver the Great Sack himself. The thought of that icy water caressing his crotch made him shiver. He saw his captain had his footing and was looking at him expectantly. Torstein nodded and threw him the Great Sack- the reason for this hazardous wintertime sortie and perilous midnight beaching.

The Great Sack had caused quite a stir when it arrived in the stronghold at Rånåsfoss, Kjell remembered. The jarls and champions were gathered for the annual Midwinter's fires and jultida, to celebrate the returning of the sun. Winter was just beginning, but the priests and the wise ones have confirmed that the sun was indeed beginning its return.

Then, amid the great feast of lutefisk and pinnekjøtt, a whirlwind of sparks and comets erupted. Hardened men cringed at this awesome display of wizardry, while others leapt forward with steel in hand and ‘Valhalla’ upon their lips. The whirlwind contracted and faded, and there was the Great Sack, sitting on the dinner table between the klippfisk stew and reinsdyr steaks.

"Odin!" cried a Birkebeiner jarl. "What mysterious thing is this?"

A large and bearded Viking Lord from Hedmark poked it with his sword. It did not move, but his sword point slid easily from its canvassed coating. He leaned back, stumped, then thrust mightily at the sack.

The sack repulsed his sword and the resulting unexpected deflection and loss of expected resistance caused the warrior to lose his balance forward. Put shortly, he fell into the stew for his effort, soiling his fine furs and beard.

"Look!" cried a woman, pointing to the top of the bag. She was the only female at the main table, a brazen lass wearing the linked chainmail armor of a warrior. The sword at her side showed signs of much use, and her dark hair was cut short in the way of the Warrior. She was a Viking as much as any man there and better than most, which had earned her a high seat at this gathering of heroes. And they knew it was a well-earned honor she reaped- piles of their champions lay dead in her wake. "There is a scroll, and a seal."

Heilgar hefted his battleaxe. He was a bear of a man, and the axe was well-suited for his brutal style of fighting. "I shall break the seal, and then we can see what is inside this evil bag."

He swung his axe mightily against the waxen seal. The axe shattered.

"Thor's Mighty Hammer!" he cursed. "That axe could crush shields like splinters! Who here has a hammer, that I may smash the thing open!"

"Try reading the scroll," Kjell Atlesen had proposed in a bored voice. "Like Gunnhild suggested."

Heilgar muttered some curses into his beard. That was wise, for though he was a reputable warlord, he knew that both Gunnhild and Kjell could probably best him at a holmgang- especially now that his axe was laying about the fish stew in several very small pieces. Heilgar puffed himself into some semblance of dignity while pulling bits of stewed fish from his beard, then disclosed sheepishly, "While I can track a Svenske across bare rock in summertime, I cannot make neither heads nor tails of those cursed runes."

"I can read runes," Geir Ulfsen said. He moved to the sack and reached for the scroll. He fully expected the sack to dodge his clumsy attempt to seize the scroll, or to zap him with burning lightning or some such. But the sack dumping the scroll into his open palm... that he never expected. He hastily backed up with the scroll in his massive hand and unraveled it.

"It is addressed to the Viking King," he said. "And I quote its contents as: This sack contains all that you need. It was signed with the runes of a master Brythonic priest, or teacher. I can’t decide which."

"Then we must take it to the king," Heilgar concluded. "Who is the Viking King this year? Magnus Olsen?"

"Magnus died fighting in England," Kjell reminded him. "A lucky arrow in a piss-poor raid."

"Harald Sveinsen?"

"Harald has laid claim to the islands north of Britannia, and has given up the Call of the Viking," said another.

"Sven Oskarsen?"

"Dead these two years past."

"Thorir Widmark?"

"Disappeared over the seas to the West."

"That leaves only one, and he is to in the south, on a daring midwinter sortie," Kjell replied. "And you all know who that is."

"That old drunkard is still around?" Gunnhild spat sharply. "I thought him retired eons ago!"

"He is still around," laughed Kjell, adding with a wink, "and he hasn't drank more than two tankards of ale in a single passing of the sun since that night he sired you."

Gunnhild cursed, then rose and drew her sword. "Then I guess it is up to me to visit my father again, and give him this sack and this steel at the same time."

"I will take him the sack," Kjell announced, putting his hand upon the Viking woman's shoulder. "You stay here and guard our realm. The Svensk are encroaching upon our lands in Värmland, while the Danes grow ever stronger to the South. I shall take the Sack to him."

And thus it was decided.


The Great Sack was loaded onto a sled to be dragged down the frozen Glomma towards the sea. Kjell led the expedition, and with him was a chosen crew of one hundred. Alf, the brave son of Thorbald the Withered, was his second in command. He was a good man, a veteran of many duels and even more battles. He was a steady second, who one day soon will be rewarded with a ship and crew of his own, so that he may sail the sea as a Viking lord.

Other worthy warriors were also selected, and quite a few volunteered- for though many had heard the myriad tales of the current Viking King, few have ever laid eyes upon him. It was said he vanished one day from his land-locked realm to begin a new life upon the waves. Tales of his voyages and piles of his plunder returned in such large quantities to lift the starving people of Sudrheim to such heights of grandeur that the surrounding jarls were made envious. Yet men like Kjell Atlesen and Alf Thorbaldsen rallied to those tales and swore their swords to the Viking King. Knowing such strength guarded the otherwise barren lands, the jarls remained in their strongholds and grumbled, but undertook no sorties against him.

The journey went unremarked, fur-clad men pulling their sled of supplies and the Great Sack over the frozen river towards the sea. Soon they would have to seek shelter and begin overland, for the mighty Glomma would empty into the Øyern, a vast inland sea, before narrowing again by Fetsund, where the Viking King had allies. But the travelers would not reach Fetsund in a day, and in passing Lillestrøm, they would not go to Fetsund at all.

A shower of arrows and axes fell among them.

The missiles, launched from the shoreline, scattered about the travelers or rebounded from their thick armor. In some places, arrows stuck in furs, and in only two instances did a man fall bleeding upon the ice.

“Guard the Sack, Alf,” Kjell ordered, slinging his shield from his back onto his hand. “Wulf, you and your comrades return the greeting to our friends over there. There rest of you, follow me!”

Twenty Vikings unlimbered their own bows amid the falling shafts and sent those self-same shafts plus their own flying into the brambles by the shore. Kjell and the rest charged forward, mindful of the ice, but eager to come to grips with those foolish enough to challenge this war party.

Egil Olafsen and his hunting party replied to this challenge by casting down their bows and counter-charging. Though Egil’s men numbered only fifty and their attackers eighty, he did not hesitate. These eighty were on his land, and he was a Viking Lord of note.

Kjell did not know Olafsen on sight, nor did Egil know Atlesen by other than reputation. Thus when the two met and steel clashed, they found themselves in a duel worthy of both their legends. Their swords clanged with horrible strength upon each other and the shields. The footing was treacherous, and the sun low in the southern sky as was normal for this time of year- blinding whoever was facing it. The two lords circled, striking and parrying, each trying to get the advantage.

Around them the men of Lillestrøm fell, and when enough had fallen, the rest knelt and pled for mercy.

“Yield,” Kjell wheezed. The fight had taken a lot out of him after the cold, icy journey.

“I yield to no trespasser,” Egil wheezed back. “I defend my land, as is my duty!”

“We are on the river, fool,” Kjell reminded him. “The river is for all, especially envoys of the Viking King bearing him post!”

Egil backed away. “You serve the Viking King?” he asked in awe. His sword lowered slowly until the point rested on the ice.

“Aye,” Kjell replied. “We bear yon sack to him, as bidden by a mighty wizard.”

Egil knelt. “Apologies, friend,” he uttered, expecting no more than decapitation.

“Stand up, lord,” Kjell admonished, sheathing his own sword. “Offer us hospitality in your hall for the evening, and we will reckon all debts cancelled.”

Egil Olafsen agreed, and thus Kjell and his band acquired warm shelter for the night, in order to complete their journey on the morrow well-rested and fed. On Egil’s advice, they would not risk the treacherous Øyern ice, but rather go west over land to Oslofjord, a large town with a well-traveled harbor. There they can easily hire a ship to take them to the Viking King. Egil himself volunteered to guide them.

Oslo had been ruled by jarl Eirik the Bloody-Handed since the days when the Viking King was but a ship’s captain. From his fortress of Akerhusfestning overlooking a sheltered natural harbor, Eirik commanded all who would enter or leave his town. He sought were-geld and taxes from all travelers and paid homage to neither jarl nor king. His men confronted the travelers, and threatened violence should they refuse to pay. Kjell had smiled and hefted his sword, saying merely "Bring it on, nithing. The Viking King pays taxes to no petty rival."

Those were magic words. Upon hearing the name of the lord for whom the sack was meant, Eirik’s men backed away and allowed the Vikings to pass. Later, when the jarl of Akershus heard for whom the Great Sack and its escort were bound, they were summoned to the festning for a feast and hospitality.

Eirik was an old man, once a legend upon the sea. Now he was considered nothing more than a thief who preyed upon hapless travelers. With his iron hold on the town, Oslo shrank in population and power, while the mighty trading fleets of Hansa ships went to Bergen or Stavanger to trade, leaving but fishermen and few risk-taking traders to come to the once-great market under the fortress.

“So you bear a gift for the Viking King,” he cackled softly. “And enter my realm bearing it. There is a price for such deeds, but because of thy audacity and courage, the price shall be low.”

“We shall pay the were-geld,” Egil Olafsen said with a smile. “And then be on our way. And later, those coins shall be collected with interest by the Viking King, who wishes to install a new and better lord over his old hometown. He wishes to see this town grow, and become the main city of all of Nordheim.”

Eirik blanched. He could call upon four keels of warriors, but those men fight not for Oslo but for fear of his wrath. The Viking King could call upon fleets of warriors, who fight for him gladly. This was not a time to pinch pennies or harbor old grudges. Egil was right. This was an opportunity for conciliation.

“My old rival,” he said, puling on his beard. “He has come far, and the cause of our rivalry has grown so old that it gathers moss in the garden. Since he himself is not present to negotiate an end, I shall make a gesture of peace. An overture for friendship, if you will. On the morrow you will depart, after sampling my hospitality and generosity. You may take you pick of the four ships drawn up on the sand by the market for your journey- and without crew to watch over you. This is my gesture of peace.”

“We accept,” Kjell Atlesen said. “And we thank you. The Viking King shall hear of this gesture, and we who partake of you hospitality shall speak your praise to his ear.

“Good,” jarl Eirik agreed with a nod. “Tonight we feat, tomorrow you sail. Luck and Fair Winds!” You will need them both, the wizened old man thought to himself.



"Ship ahoy!" called Oddmund from the prow. The longship was five days out of the Skaggerak and well into the North Sea. "Looks like a Dansk longship, coming in askew from abaft. I count twenty oars on this side."

Kjell looked to his own ship, twenty oars to a side. They were about even. Still, he was on a mission. He doubted he had the time or manpower to take that ship from its crew and return it to harbor for a hefty ransom. No, he needed the money not, and he had given his promise to deliver the sack first. He would allow the Danes to sail on unmolested, if they do the same for him, and said as much.

"Small chance of that, Kjell!" Oddmund called. "They are coming about, right for us, and gaining speed!”

Kjell looked to his sail and saw it hanging sadly flaccid. There would be little chance of escape by wind power alone, but he had no desire to flee anyway. “Come about,” he ordered, instructing the portside crew to back water while the steerboard side rowed forward. He threw the steering blade as far to the side as it would go, and the mighty ship spun about to face the its aggressive sister.

"Ship oars," Kjell commanded. "Let them come alongside and then we take their ship as well. Armor up, boys, and don't forget to tie your dummy cords to your weapons!"

The men did as ordered, drawing on their heavy armor and tying cords from their belts to loops of steel upon the hilts of their swords. This was an ancient custom, and one well-worth the trouble. Battles at sea were often the same as battles on land, and if one was knocked down, one could lose one's weapon. On land that is no problem- simply pick it up again and keep fighting. At sea, however, that life-saving blade may well fall overboard to be lost in the depths below, or kicked away where it does no good. With a dummy cord, just pull the cord and get your weapon back.

The Danes were rowing like mad to reach the impudent Norsemen who dared violate their waters in wintertime. Kjell smiled- the Danes were tiring themselves as well as wanting to fight with no armor. Silly that, with these temperatures- a man overboard would freeze to death before he drowned. Better to fight in armor. The fool will pay for his eagerness.

"Lift the Sack!" he ordered. "Move it to the front of the ship and await the throwing of axes!"

"We are giving our lives to defend the damned thing!" one Viking roared. "Now you want it placed to absorb axes?"

"Trust me," Kjell replied, remembering Heilgar’s axe. "I know something you do not about that bag."

The Vikings shrugged and did as their captain ordered. The Danes were almost alongside, and Kjell cursed as he saw the ship up close- every other oarhole was used- the ship did not have a crew of eighty, it had a crew of a hundred fifty!

"Cast axes!" the Danish captain bellowed. His men obeyed, and a wave of axes left the Danish vessel.

"Raise shields and Sack!" Kjell replied. The Norsemen raised their shields and the Great Sack.

The wave of axes thudded into shields in some places, but most broke upon impact when they hit the Sack. The Danes cried in disbelief, and Kjell rammed that down their throats with his own wave of axes.

"Grapnels away!" he ordered. The Danish captain echoed the command, and the two ships slammed broadside into one another. The Danes and Norsemen stormed onto each other's ship, blades whirling and warcries screaming.

Kjell cut his was through the Danes and charged the enemy captain. He had to duck a battleaxe and allow his armor to absorb the impact of two swords before he reached him, but reach him he did- standing by the helm of the Danish ship surrounded by the carcasses of his men killed in the Norse axe-wave. Here they fought a holmgang while their men fought and died amidships.

The Dane was a bear of a man, hardy and cruel. Kjell was a giant among his people, tall and muscular. He deflected and parried the great sword of the Dane a dozen times, gaining the man's measure, while he himself hacked only a time or two.

"Eirik sends his regards," the Dane laughed. "And I, Bjørn the son of Bjørn, shall thank him for this delivery of fine Norse meat for my tables."

Behind him, Kjell heard the screams of wounded and dying men- more screams were in the flat Jylsk dialect than his own vocal Østlandsk. He smiled to himself. His armored men were winning over the unarmored Danes. It was time to end this farce and get on with the journey, so that he could the sooner return to pay Eirik back for his treachery.

He whirled about, swinging his sword behind his back to deflect the blow he knew the Dane would launch at his unprotected rear- then continued his pirouette to bring his blade in a lethal arc at neck height with such force that it bashed aside the Dane's parry and neatly decapitated him. The Dane's trunk spouted a fountain of blood and fell, and with him died the nerve of his crew.

The rest was easy. Those Danes still alive were given a choice- to join their former captain, or their new one. Nodding and kneeling, they vowed to serve Kjell Atlesen as faithfully as they had Bjørn Bjørnsen, whose lifeless eyes still glared in surprise at his former crew.

Kjell made his disposition. The new crew was to be divided, and Alf Thorbaldsen was given command of the new ship. Torstein, son of Arne, was chosen to replace him as second on the original ship. Now numbering a respectable hundred thirty, the small Viking flotilla sailed south to fulfill the quest, so that they may sooner repay the blood debt owed to them by a certain lordling in Oslo.

Now Kjell Atlesen stood up to his balls in the North Sea while his ship lay next to him upon a Cananefate shore. He had braved Danske raiders upon the seas, and his own people through Akershus on his way to the sea. Those familiar hindrances he had handled well. But who knew what perils awaited him here, on this foreign shore?

A few strides upon his long legs brought the Viking out of the cold surf and onto dry land, where the man with the lantern rushed to greet him.

"Kjell Atlesen?"

The Viking nodded. When the Sack broke Heilgar's axe, he no longer wondered about how his lord knew and arranged things he could not possibly know. The bondsman with the lantern handed him the reins of the horse he held.

"Over the dunes, three ridges, and then follow the trail. You cannot miss it."

Kjell nodded. He tied the Sack to the horse, mounted, and raced off. With luck, he might be on time.

He was. The North Star had not yet reached midnight when he saw the town over the third dune. In that town, he saw the great Hall of the High King, lit from within and shining like a beacon. He galloped the last few miles and met the opening gate to the grounds.

"I have it, the Great Sack," he announced.

"Well done, Norseman," the guard replied. "The guests have already arrived and are awaiting what thou does bear."

Kjell dismounted, and taking the Sack, strode to the mighty portals that led to his king's hall. The doors were closed, and the noises of merriment issuing from within drowned out his calls to open them, but the huge brass knockers upon those mighty portals offered him assistance. He lifted one, and let it fall. And again.

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