THE GABLE WALL was burning. Flames licked its stout timbers as thick grey smoke roiled up into the thatched roof above.
The king’s hall was aflame. The battle was lost. The kingdom had fallen.
There was a mighty crack, then the great double doors of the hall crashed open, smashed in by the power of a Hun battering ram. Hun warriors poured in, their mail shirts and iron helmets glinting in the firelight.
Twelve Aesir warriors formed a line across the centre of the hall, their round shields locked together to form a wall. Each shield bore their sacred symbol, an angular knot of three interlinked triangles. Their angry eyes glared at the Huns from behind the iron visors of their helmets. Their spears were levelled and ready for battle.
Standing before them was their king. He was taller than everyone else in the hall. His long iron-grey hair fell around his shoulders and his beard cascaded down the glinting iron mail that covered his chest. Like his warriors, his helm was visored but only one eye – his left – glowered from behind the face guard. A bloodied bandage covered his right eye. The king’s sword was sheathed at his waist, his shield was slung across his back and he stood with arms folded across his chest.
At the sight of the waiting Aesir the Huns rushing into the hall paused, reluctant to charge further despite their superior numbers. For a few moments the two enemy sides regarded each other in silence, the only sound the crackling of the flames that licked the timbers above. Lumps of burning thatch began to drop down from the roof.
A Hun warlord shoved his way into the hall through the throng that clogged the broken door. He was Uldin, cousin of the Hun King and the commander of the victorious army. Despite his rank, he was dressed the same way as his men, in leather and iron. His higher status was shown by the gold rings that wrapped his arms and the necklaces that decorated his neck.
‘What are you cowards doing?’ Uldin harangued his men. ‘They are beaten. Finish them!’
By Uldin’s side was a young Hun nobleman. He had long black hair and keen eyes that watched everything with a cold, hungry gaze that at times unnerved even his closest companions.
‘Is that you, Uldin?’ the king of the Aesir said. ‘And is that little Attila beside you? One of Mundzuk’s sons? Is King Oktar too scared to come here himself and instead sends his lapdogs?’
‘There are enough of us to deal with what few warriors you have left,’ Uldin said, his lip curling into a sneer.
‘But it seems they’re too frightened to attack us,’ the king of the Aesir said with a provoking smile. ‘Don’t you know the first rule of leadership? Don’t ask anyone to do what you are not prepared to do yourself.’
Uldin gave a derisive snort. His sword in his right hand and his left thumb shoved into his belt, the Hun commander swaggered out in front of his men, approaching the line of Aesir shields.
‘You think I am scared of you?’ he said. ‘You’re finished, old man. Your pathetic little kingdom has been a thorn in my people’s eye for too long. You’ve resisted King Charaton, then King Oktar. Now it is I, Uldin, and my warriors who have brought you at last to your knees.’
‘Through the treachery of one of my nobles!’ the king of the Aesir said through gritted teeth. ‘Otherwise you would have failed like all the rest.’
‘Regardless of how you came to it, defeat is now your lot,’ Uldin said. ‘Why continue to fight? Surely you know it’s hopeless. You fought well. There is no shame in doing what so many other nations have done already. Submit now to King Oktar. Become part of his realm.’
‘And live like slaves for the rest of our lives? Never!’
The king of the Aesir’s voice thundered around the burning hall as he swept his sword from the sheath at his waist. The slightly curved blade flashed like lightning as it reflected the flames. An audible gasp ran through the watching Huns.
They all knew the mighty reputation of that sword.
‘Just hand over the sword and surrender,’ Uldin said. ‘Save your life and those of your men.’
‘Surely you know the legend of this sword, Uldin?’ the king of the Aesir said. ‘If it is drawn it must taste blood.’
‘So that is your answer?’ Uldin said, raising his own sword. ‘Very well. King Oktar will reward me with my weight in gold when I present your severed head to him.’
Uldin rushed forward, screaming a wild battle cry. Emboldened by their leader, the Huns charged after him. Uldin swept his sword at the king of the Aesir, who countered the blow with his own sword. The two blades met in a clang of metal on metal that resounded around the hall.
With astonishing speed, the Aesir king lunged forwards, driving the point for his sword into Uldin’s right shoulder. It split the Hun’s armour as if it were wool and plunged deep into the flesh beneath. Uldin cried out, as much in surprise as in pain. The tendons of his right arm severed, the limb went slack and Uldin’s sword clattered to the ground.
The king of the Aesir pulled his sword back. Then with a mighty sweep he severed Uldin’s head from his shoulders. It tumbled to the ground, his helmet making a dull clang as it hit the tiles that decorated the floor of the hall.
With a great roar the Aesir warriors charged forwards. The Huns saw the hate in their eyes and knew they had entered the strange fighting trance those warriors were famous for. Once in it they seemed to feel neither pain nor pity. It was a kind of war madness their king inspired, and each warrior somehow took on the strength of ten men and killed without mercy.
The interior of the burning hall dissolved into battle chaos as shields clattered against shields and weapons sang the bloodthirsty chant of steel on steel.
Then came a great groaning sound that drowned out even the din of battle. Attila looked up and saw that the burning roof was collapsing. He stumbled backwards, shoving fighters out of his way as the great timbers began to fall.
Now aware of the danger, the others began to run as well, though the crush of men in the hall meant it was impossible to move fast or far enough to get away. Attila found himself flung to the floor as men fell over others in their desperate attempts to escape. Someone landed on him and all went dark.
With a deafening crash and a blast of scalding hot air the roof timbers crashed to the floor, spreading burning, splintered wood and smouldering thatch in all directions.
Then relative silence descended. The ring of battle was gone and all that could be heard was the crackling of flames and the groans of the dying.
Attila shoved aside the man who lay on top of him and scrambled to his feet. The man was a Hun, but he was dead, his head smashed in by a block of falling timber. Had the other man not fallen on top of him it would have been Attila’s skull that block had stoved in.
He looked around at the scene of chaos and destruction. Most of the roof had caved in. There were burning and splintered beams scattered everywhere, burying friend and foe alike. It seemed very few others had survived, and those few were in a terrible state.
Attila’s eyes widened as he spotted something on the floor a few paces away. Half covered by shattered wood from the roof lay the great sword the king of the Aesir had borne. It must have been knocked from his grasp as the roof collapsed. A few paces away was the king’s body, part of the beam that had felled him lying across his back.
With trembling fingers Attila reached past the burning wood and pulled the sword clear.
Holding it before him, he watched in fascination as the reflections of the flames around him danced along the blade. He felt he could sense the strange power the sword bore within it. It was like it was calling to him, and to him specifically, a call that spoke in silence to something that lay deep in his heart.
Attila smiled, continuing to look at the sword for long moments.
‘What’s that you’ve got there?’
A familiar voice broke his reverie. Looking around, his face fell into a scowl as he saw Bleda, his older, overbearing brother, had entered the hall through the shattered entrance.
‘It’s the Sword of the War God, brother,’ Attila said. ‘And it has chosen to fall into my hands.’
Bleda raised an eyebrow. He held out his hand.
‘Well, you’d better give that to me,’ he said in a demanding tone. ‘It belongs to King Oktar and we must now return it. What of the king of the Aesir? Oktar will reward us greatly when we give him that one’s head.’
Attila hesitated for a moment, his eyes flitting back to the beauty of the sword, then with a sigh he obeyed his elder brother and passed the sword to him. He drew his knife and turned to begin the unpleasant task of decapitating the king of the Aesir’s corpse.
Attila stopped. He blinked, unable to believe what his eyes told him.
The body was gone.