The Tumulus Tombs

A Short Story, by guest contributor 'Atropos'

Eadric awoke from ancient slumber. His limbs were stiff and cramped, barely able to lift the chainmail that sheathed them. His left arm held a round shield, drawn over his body, while his right clutched a straight sword.

He lay there for hours, eyes adjusting to the gloomy barrow. It was a barrow, he averred, though none of his kin warranted such a fine burial. Memories flickered through his consciousness, brief and confusing, relics of a person he had once been.

“Thunor’s hammer,” he cursed. “What is this place?”

He hauled himself up from the stone slab, and stared at the surrounding grave ornaments. Rows of dusty pottery stirred some feeling of familiarity, but the golden ornaments they contained were wholly unknown – there was something Roman in their design. A small heap of coins glinted from the corner, bearing the faces of Commodus and Severus and Vortigern. Only his weapons were undeniably Saxon.

This is very strange. They buried me before I was dead.

And yet… he recalled something. The flash of sunlight from a Viking spear, a twist of pain in his chest.

Well, if I died in battle, this is not Valhalla. Time to get some fresh air.

Eadric levered himself from the slab and stretched his limbs. The old stone door at the end of his tomb took every ounce of strength to shift. An earthen passageway led steeply upwards from there, beckoning with a cool draught.

“So my tomb has a way out. Or else a royal road for grave-thieves.”

The earth squelched underfoot. He emerged on a mist-wreathed hillside, listening to the tinny howl of the wind as it passed through his helmet. There were no flowers underfoot, nor trees nor even overgrowth around. If this were Wessex, it had changed much since Eadric’s time.

For the first time since his awakening, Eadric began to feel frightened. What had become of his wife and family, whose faces he now struggled to recall? And of his shieldmates? How could he hope to find them in this foreign land, when he couldn’t even remember their names?

“Hey! Find your own barrow, Saxon dog!”

Eadric jolted with surprise and raised his shield. The mist swirled to vomit forth a red-haired Viking warrior, brandishing a chipped axe in one hand.

 “Stay your weapon, Viking!” Eadric yelled. “What is this place? Where have you come from?”

The warrior shouted and charged. Their shields clashed – the axe cleaved through mist – Eadric sliced through the Viking’s leg. Prostrate on the ground, with a sword to his throat, the warrior was more compliant.

“I know nothing of this land,” he growled, eyes alight with bloodlust. “I fell in the Battle of Svolder. My axe claimed the lives of a dozen Danish knaves. My place, by rights, is amid the Einheriar, feasting upon Saehrimnir’s flesh until the war of the end of days!”

Here he attempted to rise to his feet. Eadric lifted his sword and stepped away, allowing the Viking to stand. “One more round, Saxon dog. One more death for Valhalla!”

Saxon swords were rare: only the strongest common-folk ended their lives possessing one. As a skilled warrior in his prime, Eadric slew the Viking with little effort. A look of tired relief washed over the man’s face as he juddered out his last breath.

“That was a good kill,” Eadric observed, cleaning his sword on the grass. He swung the blade through the mist, testing its balance and the feel of its hilt, listening to the whistle of iron upon air. “A clean and chilling sound indeed, fine blade. I name you Windshear. Serve me well.” Not an illustrious name. If only he could remember what the sword was named in life…

He wandered uphill. The mist showed no signs of thinning, and only at the very peak could he glimpse the surrounding terrain: hills. Bleak green hills, everywhere, bobbing like chunks above a congealed-soup mist. Not a settlement in sight. The clouds wove such a heavy tapestry that Eadric couldn’t tell the Sun’s position, let alone take his bearings north or south.

“This must be a cursed realm, like Niflheim or Scotland,” he concluded.

With nothing to guide him, he chose a direction and followed it. His feet squelched across miles, over hills and through valleys, past smeared footprints and open barrows. How long had he been wandering – one hour? Six? A hundred? The sky remained grey. Perhaps night never visited this place.

“Those are not a warrior’s thoughts, Eadric. If night does come, these hills will grow cold. Find warmth and shelter, before dusk. And food.”

He traced some of the footprints back to their barrows, but found nothing to eat or drink. Some tombs were scarcely ornamented, while others shone with the wealth of mighty lords. Eadric reversed his steps and followed the footprints forward, hoping their owners could tell him something about this land. They couldn’t: the prints ended in a frustrating patch of earth.

This land is playing games with me, he thought.

 “Help!” cried a faint voice from the mist. Eadric thought it came from uphill; he raised his shield and listened. “Help!” came the cry again, closer and definite. Human figures moved in the murk and billowed into form: a young boy scrambling downhill with a pack of warriors at his heels. Sprinting straight at Eadric.

“Halt!” Eadric bellowed, stretching out his shield arm to bar the fleeing child’s path. He yelled in surprise and collided with the shield, falling dazed to earth. The pursuers – there were three – drew up short, regarding Eadric with grim faces. They looked like brothers.

“Who are you, old man?”

“I am Eadric of Wessex. Who are you?”

“I am Lufric of Winchester. This is my son, Lufwin. And his son, Lufdig.”

Eadric blinked. Here were three Saxon men, no older than thirty, claiming to be three generations of the same family. Anywhere else, he would have questioned their sanity. In this accursed realm, he began to question his own.

“We want the wizard.”

 Eadric looked to see who he had knocked down. The boy was small, perhaps twelve winters old, with blond hair and light eyes like any Saxon lad. There was something of the hare’s hidden strength in him, Eadric thought – a force of character in his stunned expression that belied his frail form.

“What marks this lad for a wizard, Lufric of Winchester?”

“He tried to cast an evil spell on us. Shouted heathen words and danced.”

Eadric prodded the boy with his boot. “Well, lad? Is that the truth?”

“I’m no spell-maker,” he stammered, scrambling to his feet. He stood no taller than Eadric’s elbow. “These men were robbing my barrow-grave! I had to scare them off. They took my knife!”

The Saxons exchanged angry glances. “We were looking for food and he tried to ensorcell us! Kill the miserable wizard!”

Eadric shook his head. “He’s no more a wizard than I am. Leave the trinkets you stole and begone.”

“Give him to us, or taste our axes,” Lufwin snarled. The kinsmen raised their weapons. “I warn you, Eadric of Wessex, these blades have slain stouter men than yourself!”

Eadric drew his sword. “Stay those axes! We have much to learn about this land, before setting to arms against strangers.”

Minutes later, Eadric was wiping blood from Windshear’s blade, while the boy stared at him. A bitter wind stirred the three fallen Saxons.

“Are you going to kill me, too?”

The boy stood seven paces away, fear mingling with awe as he watched Eadric sheath Windshear.

“No. I slay others only when needed.”

“I don’t understand. You fight like a Viking. But you’re not a butcher.”

“Nor are all Vikings, young one. I cast aside the blood-craze many years ago. You need not fear my blade.” He reached up to remove his warrior’s helmet, shaking loose the tangle of grey hair that it protected. “I am Eadric of Wessex.”

The introduction elicited sharp questions: “Which battle did you die in? When was it fought?”

“It matters not. Can’t remember. Perhaps I didn’t die in battle at all.”

“I think you died fighting. Everyone here did. They’re all searching for Valhalla, except you.”

Eadric appraised the lad. “Who are you? How long have you been here?”

“I’m Harold of York. It’s been about two weeks since I awoke in my barrow. I think it’s two weeks, there isn’t day or night here, as far as I know. Or food, or any villages. I made a little water clock with some wine in my tomb, and re-filled it threescore and ten times. That’s two weeks, at least. But Lufric smashed it and drank all the wine.” He hesitated, bracing himself for a confession. “I’m Anglish, not Saxon.”

“Then I have an Angle for a friend. Are your mother and father about?”

“No, I haven’t seen them in this land. I woke up on my own.” His voice trembled. “Don’t know what they look like. I’ve not forgotten them, but I can’t remember neither.”

“Even so, your parents will remember you. If the Norns permit, I shall take you back to York and find them.”

Harold looked up, full of uncertainty. “I don’t think there’s a York here. We’re dead. Everyone’s died. This is after life. But it’s the wrong place. We’re supposed to be in Valhalla.”

“That is a bad way of speaking, Harold. Get such ill-omened thoughts out of your head.”

“So where’s Luftig’s body?”

Eadric turned to look at the field where he had slain the three Saxons. Not a trace remained of their blood and flesh. Three empty suits of clothing marked their last skirmish, their threads unravelling into mist as he watched.

“We’re dead people in a tomb land. Anything that dies here, dies again, turns into Nifl-mist.”

Eadric watched the clothing vaporise, followed by leather belts and wooden axe-hafts. Soon only a few ornaments remained.

“Why is the metal still there?” he found himself asking. “And why is that knife-sheath untouched?”

“Metal doesn’t turn into mist. Nor stone neither. They’ve never been living.” Harold stepped toward the bodies, but Eadric barred his path.

“These Saxons are not the first deaths you have seen here?”

“No.” Harold pushed past Eadric’s shield and picked up a long, sheathed knife, before hooking its hilt into his belt. “This is my knife. They stole it. It didn’t disappear because it wasn’t theirs. It’s a magic knife.”

Eadric replaced his frown of unease with one of concentration by hitching his shield to hang across his back.

“Where might be best to travel, Harold?”

“Away,” replied the boy, as if the answer were obvious.

“Away where?”

“Away somewhere else. The tombs haven’t got anything useful and the barrow-mounds are roamed by berserk warriors. Even with my knife, I can’t fight big men.”

“Then travel with me. I shall keep you safe, and together we can seek a better land.”

Harold nodded, and they trudged uphill together, two dwindling shapes among pale, forgetful hills.

Editor’s Note

Thank you for reading.

This piece of writing is less of a story and more of a mood piece, or vignette. I chose it for its dialogue-driven portrayal of a slightly unreal, speculative afterlife, which I found rather immersive. However, some readers may feel let down by the way that its freshly-drawn characters fade into the mist without a ‘proper’ ending. What do you think?

If you have writing of your own which you would like to see published here in due course, please let us know in the comments.