Viking Warrior Quotes

You're still... Declan?"-- --Voice hoarse, he said, "Aye, it's me. I will never be your perfect Viking, Regin! I've made unforgivable mistakes. I've no family or friends, and my men hold no love for me. I'm scarred inside and out. And I'm bloody askin' for you anyway!

Start being honest with her. Aidan always let her know what he was thinking. And he fairly much treated her like a queen.” Lothaire sneered, “That’s the worst bloody advice I’ve ever heard!” Brandr bowed his chest. “And why’s that, leech? She cared for Aidan once—she will again.” “Precisely. She cared for Aidan,” Lothaire said. “I knew of Aidan the Fierce—no mortal could kill that many of the Horde without my hearing about it. And I know that he was a bold, blond Viking who was like a god among men. Women wanted him and men wanted to be him.” He sighed. “Reminded me of myself.

Welcome to warrior paradise, where you can listen to Frank Sinatra in Norwegian FOREVER!

Legend claimed Berserkers could move with such speed that they seemed invisible to the human eye until the moment they attacked. They possessed unnatural senses: the olfactory acuity of a wolf, the auditory sensitivity of a bat, the strength of twenty men, the penetrating eyesight of an eagle. The Berserkers had once been the most fearless and feared warriors ever to walk Scotland nearly seven hundred years ago. They had been Odin's elite Viking army. Legend claimed they could assume the shape of a wolf or a bear as easily as the shape of a man. And they were marked by a common feature-unholy blue eyes that glowed like banked coals.

Some are born to love, and some to fight. How can I ever succeed at both?

Man without a sword is still a warrior, but one with no shield is just a target.

What I did cannot be forgiven, any more than it could have been avoided.

Any self respecting Scot knows that a good tartan is the solution to everything: it tells you where you are, where you belong, who your friends and family are. Forget the Vikings: those guys just can"t hold a candle to a delicious battle-weary warrior whose fighting skills and wicked sex appeal have spawned a thousand Scottish heartthrobs.

I wanted to see the moment he realized that everything he had done to me—every slap, every punch, every kick—was kindling. It built me up into a raging wildfire, and now it was time for him to burn.

An uncertain warrior is no warrior at all.

It is a man’s world in which we live, Skraeda. Let them think us lambs, when truly, we are wolves.

I open the toilet door and step out, my internal fire re-stoked, ready to face my demons, fight if need be and win. I’m raging, focused like a jungle warrior after his second bowl of tiger-cock soup.

The past is like a great stone that lies on the bed of a river, hidden from view but shaping the currents of the water as it flows by. You cannot read the currents in the river of your own life, and navigate them safely, if you do not understand what causes them. You must know your past, for it will shape your future.

He lowered his voice. "You are a true shield-maiden; you do not turn from a scar on a man's face."I looked at him and did not lower my eyes. "My father was an ealdorman, and his brother ealdorman after him. He taught me that a scar is the badge of honour of the warrior, and this I believe."He regarded me for a long moment. "I think I am glad we did not face your father and his brother in battle," he said, "for they were of better stuff than what we have found here."In saying this, he gave my dead kinsmen much praise. I felt that praise came rarely from the Danes, and took a strange pleasure in hearing him say this. I did not speak, but he lifted his cup to me, and I again took up mine. - Sidroc the Dane to Ceridwen

But there will be no redemption for me. I will become the most unmerciful of murderers. I accept my fate.

He who lives without discipline dies without honor.” Icelandic Proverb

Dying a thousand deaths in my head to protect you is better than losing you one time in the flesh." ~ Gustaf Ræliksen

As long as it makes you happy. For the rest of my life, I will do whatever it takes to ensure it. As my wife, you will not want for anything. What you desire, I will provide.

She woke from dreamless rest to find her lap filled with wildflowers-blue and gold violets, white starworts with bright yellow centers, wild geraniums, purple heather, pale lavender bellflowers, creamy butterworts...a treasure trove of nature's jewels. "Where did these come from?" she asked her warrior husband. He leaned back on his elbows and studied the sea. "Some trolls came by and left them." "Trolls picking flowers?" "More believable, surely, than me doing it?" She laughed and surprised him by competently weaving the summer's late blossoms into a garland for her hair. "How is it you know how to do that," he asked, "when you are so thoroughly undomestic?" She threw a purple aster at him and laughed again. "I thought I was managing to conceal that." "Oh,certainly.

19th century,

All good things originate with the Creator God, he'd been taught, and the Song of Life was no exception.

If we are to survive, I must start and end my war this same day.

The rabbit comes easily to the clever wolf who waits.

I never imagined in a million years that someone could see me the way that you see me and make me feel that I’m worth something. And I hope, beyond all hopes, that I do the same for you.” Slowly she lifts up her head and rolls over to the side, blinking up at me with tears swimming in her eyes. “You mean that?” she whispers. I can’t help the lovesick puppy smile that I know is spreading across my face. “I mean it. I mean it with every beat of my Viking heart. “A savage heart,” she whispers. “A warrior heart.” “A hearts that’s all yours.

Can’t a girl wear something pretty without you getting ideas of bedding her?” Naya reached up, putting her hand behind his neck to pull him down for a kiss. She’d never get enough of touching him. Of trusting him.

But the attitude that Viking society held up as the ideal one was a heroic stoicism. In the words of archaeologist Neil Price, "The outcome of our actions, our fate, is already decided and therefore does not matter. What is important is the manner of our conduct as we go to meet it." You couldn't change what was going to happen to you, but you could at least face it with honor and dignity. The best death was to go down fighting, preferably with a smile on your lips. Life is precarious by nature, but this was especially true in the Viking Age, which made this fatalism, and stoicism in the face of it, especially poignant. The model of this ideal was Odin's amassing an army in Valhalla in preparation for Ragnarok. He knew that Fenrir, "the wolf", was going to murder him one way or another. Perhaps on some level he hoped that by gathering all of the best warriors to fight alongside him, he could prevent the inevitable. But deep down he knew that his struggle was hopeless - yet he determined to struggle just the same, and to die in the most radiant blaze of glory he could muster.

These invincible barbarian warriors committed acts of untold cruelty upon the unsuspecting citizenry, slaughtering all those before them in a frenzy of blood and fire and then drinking their chocolate milk right out of the carton.

The Rafa Nadal the world saw as he stormed onto the Centre Court lawn for the start of the 2008 Wimbledon final was a warrior, eyes glazed in murderous concentration, clutching his racquet like a Viking his axe. A glance at Federer revealed a striking contrast in styles: the younger player in sleeveless shirt and pirate’s pantaloons, the older one in a cream, gold-embossed cardigan and classic Fred Perry shirt; one playing the part of the street-fighting underdog, the other suave and effortlessly superior.

Of course most people underestimate the warrior characteristics of the Anglo-Saxon and Norman peoples anyway. It takes a heap of piety to keep a Viking from wanting to go sack a city.” —Jerry Pournelle, in a reply to reader e-mail, in Chaos Manor Mail 141, February 19-25, 2001

He burned,his body drawn bow-taut. If he did not sheathe himself soon within his wife's silken depths... She looked at him directly, her eyes wide and candid. "All day I have wanted to...touch you." His dark brows rose. All day? Well that was certainly pleasing but it didn't make his condition any easier to bear. Harshly, he said, "You don't have to ask permission to touch me." She shrugged her lovely, almost bare shoulders. "I know,but under the circumstances..." Her gaze drifted down his body, rather pointedly, he thought. Which definitely did not help matters at all. "You can touch me later," he said and reached for her again. She pressed her palms against his chest, tossed back her gleaming hair, and laughed. Really,he was going to die from this. "Just a little now...please?" Dragon squeezed his eyes shut and reached deep down inside for the control that was so instrinsic a part of his warrior's nature.It had to be in there somewhere.Any moment now he'd stumble across it.

It was there she had conceived the extraordinary notion of learing to read,for so long her proudest accomplishment. But no longer. Now it had to give way before her pride in being the wife of the Dragon. They entered Winchester on horseback and rode along the broad, straight avenue that led to the palace. People pressed in all around the, staring at the stern-faced warriors rank on rank behind the mighty lords whose names ran like quicksilver through the crowds.The Hawk was known in Winchester and his banner drew cheers, but Viking warlords in the king's city were something new. Heavy silence descended in the wake of the jarls of Sciringesheal and Landsende.

If my brother, Dægan, was still alive to herald this moment, I know he would have something poetically moving to say. But where I lack in speech, I make up for in determination. Let my actions speak for themselves, for I will have my vengeance. As the last living son of Rælik, I will defend my father’s honor and uphold his noble name. Rally the men for council—my Æsa needs me.” ~ Gustaf Ræliksen

The male sphere of Norse shamanism consisted of the elite warrior groups known as the berserkir ("bear-shirts") and the úlfheðnar ("wolf-skins"). The berserkers (as we'll refer to the members of both of those groups for the sake of convenience), were shamans of a very different sort. After undergoing a period of rigorous training and initiation, they developed the ability to fight in an ecstatic trance that rendered them fearless - and, according to some sources, impervious to danger - while nevertheless inspiring a tremendous amount of fear in their opponents by their behavior, which was at once animalistic and otherworldly. Perhaps needless to say, there was no ergi associated with being a berserker. Quite the opposite, in fact - the berserker was seen as something of a model of manliness.

we don’t hate violence. We hate and fear the wrong kind of violence, violence in the wrong context. Because violence in the right context is different. We pay good money to watch it in a stadium, we teach our kids to fight back, we feel proud when, in creaky middle age, we manage a dirty hip-check in a weekend basketball game. Our conversations are filled with military metaphors—we rally the troops after our ideas get shot down. Our sports teams’ names celebrate violence—Warriors, Vikings, Lions, Tigers, and Bears.

This is a central point of this book—we don’t hate violence. We hate and fear the wrong kind of violence, violence in the wrong context. Because violence in the right context is different. We pay good money to watch it in a stadium, we teach our kids to fight back, we feel proud when, in creaky middle age, we manage a dirty hip-check in a weekend basketball game. Our conversations are filled with military metaphors—we rally the troops after our ideas get shot down. Our sports teams’ names celebrate violence—Warriors, Vikings, Lions, Tigers, and Bears.

Their gazes locked,he said,"I made a mistake." "Confusing your wife with a goat?" What was that he had thought about the difficulty of having a wife who was a truthsayer? He took a breath,let it out slowly, and sent with it a prayer. "There was a time-a brief time-when I considered you might be guilty." Truth. Rycca smiled. She freed her hands, cupped them to his face,and rose on her toes to touch her mouth to his. "What is that for?" he asked, caught between relief and bewilderment. Likely she would always keep him so off balance and likely he would always be glad of it for truly fortune smiled upon him. A great knot seemed to be untangling in his chest. "For believing me." "I only briefly didn't," he repeated. "No,I mean for believing I am a truthsayer." "And you know that because-" She laughed and took his hand again. "Because you are a wise and canny man, Lord Dragon. You could as easily have insisted you never even flirted with the thought that I might be guilty and thereby saved yourself what must surely have been an uneasy moment for a husband." He was slightly stung but not too much, for her ready forgiveness was as a balm over all else. "Generally speaking, I do tell the truth for its own sake." "I never thought otherwise. And I would be as truthful with you. Last night, I realized suddenly that I was not afraid. All things considered, that was rather ridiculous but it was how I felt nonetheless." The knot was definitely gone. Indeed, a great warmth seemd to suffuse him. If a woman who had every reason to fear Vikings could be tied to a punishment post by her own Viking husband and not be afraid, that could mean only one thing. "You trust me." "And you trust me." At that moment, looking down at her, his face held nothing of the mighty warrior and jarl. He looked instead like a boy handed the world. She wanted only to give it to him again and again. "I would say," Rycca murmured, "that for a rocky beginning, we are managing well enough." It was an incongruously happy note upon which to discuss a dead man.

She swung her legs around his waist and crossed her ankles behind his back. “I like the way your mind works,” she panted before losing herself in the sensation of his hardness rubbing against her core. Lief took the few steps across the room to the bed in record time and flung her down on the covers. He leaned back to tear his clothes off. “My mind hardly works at all when you are near.” She chuckled leaning back on her elbows, enjoying the view of naked flesh being revealed. She rose up on her knees and traced the ridges on his chest and abdomen. As her fingers trailed down toward his proud shaft, he captured her wrists. “Be careful.” He smiled down at her. “I’m loaded and might go off any minute.” She laughed. “You’ve been watching too many old Western movies with Harold.

Don't you think Rycca would like to hear about Hadding, the warrior Odin rescued from his enemies? Indeed, so would I for as I recall, the last time I asked about him, you told the story in great haste without the scantiest details." There was a gleam in her eyes that Rycca had come to understand meant she was up to something, but she had no idea what might lurk behind so seemingly innocent a suggestion. Dragon grinned and looked at his brother, who leaned back in his chair and laughed. When Rycca appeared puzzled, Cymbra said, "I confess, when I noticed how attentive you are to Dragon's stories I was reminded of myself. At Wolf's and my wedding feast, I persuaded Dragon to tell a great many tales. He was the soul of patience." "He was?" Wolf interjected. "I was the one with the patience. My dear brother knew perfectly well I was sitting there contemplating various possibilities for doing away with him and he enjoyed every moment of it." "Now how could I have known that, brother?" Dragon challenged. "Just because the wine goblet you were holding was twisted into a very odd shape?" "It was that or your neck, brother," Wolf replied pleasantly. He looked at Rycca reassuringly. "Don't worry, if I hadn't already forgiven him, that sword he gave me would force me to." "It is a magnificent blade," Dragon agreed. "They both are. Every smithy in Christendom is trying to work out what the Moors are doing but..." "It's got something to do with the temperature of the steel," Wolf said. "And with the folding. They fold more than we do, possibly hundreds of times." "Hundreds,really? Then the temperature has to be very high or they couldn't pound that thin. I wonder how much carbon they're adding-" Cymbra sighed. To Rycca, she said, "We might as well retire.They can talk about this for hours." Wolf heard her and laughed. He draped an arm over her chair, pulling her closer. Into her ear, he said something that made the redoubtable Cymbra blush. She cleared her throat. "Oh, well, in that case, you might as well retire, too." Standing up quickly, she took her husband's rugged hand in her much smaller and fairer one. "Good night, Rycca, good night, Dragon. Sleep well." This last was said over her shoulder as she tugged Wolf from the hall. Her obvious intent startled Rycca, who even now could not think herself as being so bold, but it made both the Hakonson brothers laugh. "As you may gather," Dragon said in the aftermath of the couple's departure, "my brother and his wife are happily wed.

In ancient times, soldiers called it going amok—a descent into the battle craziness that took you out of yourself and dropped you into the warrior’s world of blood and darkness. Going amok was a form of insanity prized by the Greeks and Spartans and Vikings—it made for great warriors. Thus did Achilles slay Hector, Beowulf defeat Grendel. But unless you bring your heroes back to themselves—with a ritual purification or with a journey of some sort, like Odysseus’s long struggle home or World War II vets taking weeks to sail back across the sea together—there is a price to pay when the bloodied warrior returns. These days, soldiers return from Iraq and Afghanistan alone and in a matter of hours. We drop them back into society as if they were widgets that have simply gone missing for a while. But a lot of the widgets are bent hopelessly out of shape.

The day wore on.While yet Rycca slept, Dragon did all the things she had said he would do-paced back and forth, contemplated mayhem,and even honed his blade on the whetstone from the stable.All except being oblivious to her,for that he could never manage. But when she awoke,sitting up heavy-lidded, her mouth so full and soft it was all he could do not to crawl back into bed with her,he put aside such pursuits and controlled himself admirably well,so he thought. Yet in the midst of preparing a meal for them from the provisions in the pantry of the lodge,he was stopped by Rycca's hand settling upon his. "Dragon," she said softly, "if you add any more salt to that stew, we will need a barrel of water and more to drink with it." He looked down, saw that she was right, and cursed under his breath. Dumping out the spoiled stew, he started over. They ate late but they did eat.He was quite determined she would do so,and for once she seemed to have a decent appetite. "I'm glad to see your stomach is better," he said as she was finishing. She looked up,startled. "What makes you say that?" "You haven't seemed able to eat regularly of late." "Oh,well,you know...so many changes...travel...all that." He nodded,reached for his goblet, and damn near knocked it over as a sudden thought roared through him. "Rycca?" She rose quickly,gathering up the dishes. His hand lashed out, closing on her wrist. Gently but inexorably, he returned her to her seat. Without taking his eyes from her,he asked, "Is there something you should tell me?" "Something...?" "I ask myself what sort of changes may cause a woman to be afflicted with an uneasy stomach and it occurs to me I've been a damned idiot." "Not so! You could never be that." "Oh,really? How otherwise would I fail to notice that your courses have not come of late? Or is that also due to travel,wife?" "Some women are not all that regular." "Some women do not concern me.You do,Rycca. I swear,if you are with child and have not told me, I will-" She squared her shoulders,lifted her head,and met his eyes hard on. "Will what?" "What? Will what? Does that mean-" "I'm sorry,Dragon." Truly repentant, Rycca sighed deeply. "I was going to tell you.I was just waiting for a calmer time.I didn't want you to worry more." Still grappling with what she had just revealed,he stared at her in astonishment. "You mean worry that my wife and our child are bait for a murderous traitor?" "I know you're angry and you have a right to be.But if I had told you, we wouldn't be here now." "Damn right we wouldn't be!" He got up from the table so abruptly that his chair toppled over and crashed to the floor.Ignoring it,Dragon paced back and forth,glaring at her. Rycca waited,trusting the storm to pass. As she did,she counted silently, curious to see just how long it would take her husband to grasp fully what he had discovered. Nine...ten... "We're going to have a baby." Not long at all. She nodded happily. "Yes,we are, and you're going to be a wonderful father." He walked back to the table,picked her up out of her chair,held her high against his chest,and stared at her. "My God-" Rycca laughed. "You can't possibly be surprised.It's not as though we haven't been doing our best to make this happen." "True,but still it's absolutely incredible." Very gently,she touched his face. "Perhaps we think of miracles wrongly. They're supposed to be extraordinarily rare but in fact they're as commonplace as a bouquet of wildflowers plucked by a warrior...or a woman having a baby." Dragon sat down with her still in his arms and held her very close.He swallowed several times and said nothing. Both could have remained contentedly like that for a long while, but only a few minutes passed before they were interrupted. The raven lit on the sill of the open window just long enough to catch their attention,then she was gone into the bloodred glare of the dying day.

It was as she remembered, a haven of comfort and serenity. With a glad sigh, she kicked off her shoes and sat down on the side of the bed.Smiling, she patted the mattress beside her. Her husband scowled. It seemed to have become his habit. "We aren't here to relax." "Wolscroft may not even be in the area. It could take days for this to be settled." "He's here," Dragon said with certainty. "He will know what happened at Winchester, and he will be looking for a way to stop us before we can threaten him further." Privately, Rycca believed the same but she saw no reason to stress it. Nothing would happen until dark. Of that she was confident. Which meant... "We have hours to fill.Any ideas?" When he realized her meaning,he looked startled. With a laugh,she scrambled off the bed and went to him. "Oh,Dragon,for heaven's sake, do you really want to mope around here all day? I certainly don't. I still haven't gotten over being afraid Magnus was going to kill you,and I simply don't want to think about death anymore. I want to celebrate life." "There are three hundred men out there-" "Which is why we're in here." She raised herself on tiptoe, bit the lobe of his ear, and whispered, "I promise not to yell too loudly." A shudder ran through him. Even as his big hands stroked her back,he said, "Warriors don't mope." "No,of course they don't.It was a poor choice of words.But you'll be pacing back and forth, looking out the windows, or you'll go get that whetstone I noticed in the stable and sharpen your sword endlessly, or you'll be staring off into space with that dangerous look you get when you're contemplating mayhem. You'll be totally oblivious to me and-" He laughed despite himself and drew her closer. "Enough! Heaven forbid I behave so churlishly." "Speaking of heaven..." With the covers kicked back,the bed was smooth and cool.They undressed each other slowly, relishing the wonder of discovery that still came to them fresh and pure as their very first time. "Remember?" Rycca murmured as she trailed her lips along his broad, powerfully muscled shoulder and down the solid wall of his chest. "I was so nervous..." "Really?" Fooled me....Ah..." "I'd never seen anything so beautiful as you." "Not...beautiful...you are..." "I can't believe how strong you are. Why am I never afraid with you?" "Know I'd die 'fore hurting you? Sweetheart..." "Ohhh! Dragon...please..." His hands and lips moved over her, sweetly tormenting. She clutched his shoulders, her hips rising, and welcomed him deep within her. Still he tantalized her, making her writhe and laughing when she squeezed him hard with her powerful inner muscles. But the laughter turned quickly to a moan of delight. She looked up into his perfectly formed face,more handsome than any man had a right to be, and into his tawny eyes that were the windows of a soul more beautiful than any physical form. A piercing sense of blessedness filled her that she should be so fortunate as to love and be loved by such a man. Her cresting cry was caught by him, hismouth hard against hers, the spur to his own completion that went on and on,seemingly without end.

Take off your clothes. Better yet, I’ll do it.” “Oh, no!” She stepped back quickly in alarm, which prompted a swift frown from him. It vanished when Rycca said, “I saw how you manhandled that tunic. You aren’t about to do the same to this gown. Just wait a moment . . .” Even as she spoke, she deftly undid the laces down the side of the garment and lifted it carefully but quickly over her head. Her husband was in a mood, ridden by tension she could not understand. She wanted to placate him, yet she also wished to surrender to the urges he so effortlessly unleashed within her. Naked save for the gauzy chemise that hid nothing from his eyes, she stood before him, her head lifted proudly to conceal the quivering she felt within. She gloried in his gaze, hot and potent, raking over her. But when he reached for her, she stepped back again. “I ask a boon, lord.” She had never asked him for anything—save freedom and that he could not give. Caught, knowing he could hardly refuse, Dragon rasped, “What?” He had not meant to be so curt but speech was almost beyond him. He wanted her with a desperation he had never felt before save every time he lay with her, and even then he usually managed to maintain some semblance of control. Not now. He burned, his body drawn bow-taut. If he did not sheathe himself soon within his wife’s silken depths . . . She looked at him directly, her eyes wide and candid. “All day I have wanted to . . . touch you.” His dark brows rose. “All day?” Well, that was certainly pleasing but it didn’t make his condition any easier to bear. Harshly, he said, “You don’t have to ask permission to touch me.” She shrugged her lovely, almost bare shoulders. “I know, but under the circumstances . . .” Her gaze drifted down his body, rather pointedly, he thought. Which definitely did not help matters at all. “You can touch me later,” he said and reached for her again. She pressed her palms against his chest, tossed back her gleaming hair, and laughed. Really, he was going to die from this. “Just a little now . . . please?” Dragon squeezed his eyes shut and reached deep down inside himself for the control that was so intrinsic a part of his warrior’s nature. It had to be in there somewhere. Any moment now he’d stumble across it.

The Swedish royal family’s legitimacy is even more tenuous. The current king of Sweden, Carl XVI Gustaf, is descended neither from noble Viking blood nor even from one of their sixteenth-century warrior kings, but from some random French bloke. When Sweden lost Finland to Russia in 1809, the then king, Gustav IV Adolf—by all accounts as mad as a hamburger—left for exile. To fill his throne and, it is thought, as a sop to Napoleon whose help Sweden hoped to secure against Russia in reclaiming Finland, the finger of fate ended up pointing at a French marshal by the name of Jean-Baptiste Bernadotte (who also happened to be the husband of Napoleon’s beloved Desirée). Upon his arrival in Stockholm, the fact that Bernadotte had actually once fought against the Swedes in Germany was quickly forgotten, as was his name, which was changed to Charles XIV John. This, though, is where the assimilation ended: the notoriously short-tempered Charles XIV John attempted to speak Swedish to his new subjects just the once, meeting with such deafening laughter that he never bothered again (there is an echo of this in the apparently endless delight afforded the Danes by the thickly accented attempts at their language by their current queen’s consort, the portly French aristocrat Henri de Monpezat). On the subject of his new country, the forefather of Sweden’s current royal family was withering: “The wine is terrible, the people without temperament, and even the sun radiates no warmth,” the arriviste king is alleged to have said. The current king is generally considered to be a bit bumbling, but he can at least speak Swedish, usually stands where he is told, and waves enthusiastically. At least, that was the perception until 2010, when the long-whispered rumors of his rampant philandering were finally exposed in a book, Den motvillige monarken (The Reluctant Monarch). Sweden’s tabloids salivated over gory details of the king’s relationships with numerous exotic women, his visits to strip clubs, and his fraternizing with members of the underworld. Hardly appropriate behavior for the chairman of the World Scout Foundation. (The exposé followed allegations that the father of the king’s German-Brazilian wife, Queen Silvia, was a member of the Nazi party. Awkward.) These days, whenever I see Carl Gustaf performing his official duties I can’t shake the feeling that he would much prefer to be trussed up in a dominatrix’s cellar. The

Even human bones are not exempt from male-unless-otherwise-indicated thinking. We might think of human skeletons as being objectively either male or female and therefore exempt from male-default thinking. We would be wrong. For over a hundred years, a tenth-century Viking skeleton known as the ‘Birka warrior’ had – despite possessing an apparently female pelvis – been assumed to be male because it was buried alongside a full set of weapons and two sacrificed horses.11 These grave contents indicated that the occupant had been a warrior12 – and warrior meant male (archaeologists put the numerous references to female fighters in Viking lore down to ‘mythical embellishments’13). But although weapons apparently trump the pelvis when it comes to sex, they don’t trump DNA and in 2017 testing confirmed that these bones did indeed belong to a woman. The argument didn’t, however, end there. It just shifted.14 The bones might have been mixed up; there might be other reasons a female body was buried with these items. Naysaying scholars might have a point on both counts (although based on the layout of the grave contents the original authors dismiss these criticisms). But the resistance is nevertheless revealing, particularly since male skeletons in similar circumstances ‘are not questioned in the same way’.

If we focus on the meat, this contrast is, financial death and warrior death, a split which Oswald Spengler calls 'hunger death' and 'hero death'. The hungry human, in a 9 to 5 existence is threatened, dishonored, and debased by financial worry and the fear of mental starving, which stunts possibilities, chokes consciousness, produces darkness and pressure not less than starvation in the literal sense. You can lose your whole life-will through the gaping wretchedness of living in the modern world of debt and work. The tragedy is that in the modern world, you die of something (starvation, disease, boredom) and not for something (death by action). In waring and fighting, you sacrifice for higher policies, you can die for something higher, you full for a metaphysics, a mode of consciousness higher than your meat body. On the other hand, economic life merely waste you away. Spengler writes, 'War is the creature, hunger the destroyer, of all things'. In war life is elevated by death, often to the point of irresistible force whose mere existence guarantees victory. But in the economic life hunger awakens the ugly, the vulgar, and wholly un-metaphysical form of fearfulness for one's life under which the higher form of being a human miserably collapses and the naked struggle for survival of the human beast begins. By the warrior, Evola isn't writing about what Henry Kissinger called 'dumb, stupid animals to be used as pawns in foreign policy'. Evola's metaphysical fighter need no longer be a Viking or a Helene, like king Ragnar or Achilles. That world has vanished. The modern soldier has no metaphysics. Evola writes about the struggle within. It is within where the struggle for essence takes place.

She hadn't said a word about his comment concerning marrying her. If she was of the French nobility, she might not wish to marry him. But still, he was of the mind he would change her thoughts concerning the matter - despite that he had no title or lands to call his own. What Highlander could say that he had a wife who would fight a Highland warrior, wielding only a pitchfork, or that she would raise a Highlander's sword to fight a Viking warrior to protect him? Her stories fascinated him, and he was thinking that if he had a bairn with her, how she would tell the child her delightful tales. And he would settle down with them to listen, too. Most of all, he loved the way she worried about his health, snuggled with him as if it was for more than warmth, and even kissed him back when he weakly attempted to kiss her earlier.

God is not mocked!'' the domnall said sternly and Crowbone turned and laughed, hefting his sword on to one shoulder. '' of course he is Priest'' he called out as he went. ''His son was sent to promise an end to wicked folk. Odin promised an end to ice giants. I see no ice giants priest - but the world is full of wicked men.

Rollo is considered to be the great-great-great-grandfather of William the Conqueror. Through William he is a progenitor of the modern day British Royal family, and in addition, a precursor of all present European rulers and a large number of claimants of dissolved European thrones. A genetic examination of the remaining parts of Rollo's grandson, Richard I, and great-grandson Richard II, has been done, with the aim of determining the beginnings of the renowned Viking warrior.

Researchers presume that climate change may have been disastrous for the Vikings' western settlements. Falling temperatures throughout the region – after 1200 A.D. – would have made navigation more difficult and shortened the growing seasons in the Artic regions of the Northern Hemisphere, and so it was that by the 1500s Greenland was empty of any Norse settlers.

Ragnar Lothbrok, the famous Viking, is still a mysterious historical figure, hidden in myths and links to a few chieftains. He was the father of legendary figures such as Ivar the Boneless, Halfdan Ragnarsson, Bjorn Ironside, Sigurd Snake-in-the-Eye, and Ubba.

Kievan Tsar Vladimir consented to become a Christian ruler in 988 A.D. Based on a number of historical documents Vladimir had reviewed the various religious options, rejecting Islam because of its prohibition of liquor, while choosing Orthodox Christianity because of the grandeur of its churches and ceremonies.

In the year 970, the Greek historian Leo Diaconus witnessed a band of far-traveling beserkers as they fought against an army of the Byzantine emperor, his employer. He says that they fought in a burning frenzy beside which ordinary battle rage paled in comparison. They roared, growled, bayed, and shrieked like animals, and in an especially eerie and uncanny way. They seemed utterly indifferent to their own well-being, as if lost to themselves. Their leader, who embodied all of these traits to an extreme degree, was thought by Leo to have literally gone insane. Leo and Byzantine forces were veterans of countless battles, so the reactions elicited by the Scandinavian's behavior in Leo and his companions strongly suggests that what they witnessed in that battle was something unique to the Scandinavians, and something which chilled Leo and the Byzantines to their core.

when we passed the Hells Angels clubhouse they were giving cans of beer out to little kids. “Repeat after me,” ordered a drunken Hells Angel dressed as a Viking warrior. “When I grow up I’m going to be a badass.

I want her to be neither dressed nor undressed, neither fed nor unfed, and moreover she must not be all alone, but nevertheless no man may accompany her.

But none may go to Valhalla except warriors that have died bravely in battle. Men who die from sickness go with women and children and cowards to Niflheim. There Hela, who is queen, always sneers at them, and a terrible cold takes hold of their bones, and they sit down and freeze.

Berserker is a viking word for a warrior who goes so crazy when they fight that it is impossible to stop them. The stories say that Cú Chulainn’s eyes would bulge and his muscles would expand and his veins would stick out like ropes when this happened to him. You didn’t want to be anywhere near Cú Chulainn when he went berserk because he would pretty much kill anything in sight, and those seven pupils meant that he could see a lot of things! But Cú Chulainn was famous long before he fought Queen Maebh’s army and there are many stories about his boyhood and even how he was born.

Where the British made landfall with small, scrawny, scurvy-ridden landing parties eager to trade, the Vikings made landfall with large, strapping warriors eager to satisfy more basic instincts.

All she loves is her people and power. He should have learned by now to forget about soft things. The world is harsh, and he is a leader of warriors.

I screamed a battle cry like a damn Viking warrior as I flung my palms out, aiming for the nightmare creature and sending blue and red fire to consume it on blazing wings. The Nymph shrieked as it burned before bursting apart, leaving a trail of black smoke hanging in the air where it had been. Diego’s eyes were wild with panic as he stared between the black smoke and me. “Shift!” I commanded, my voice unintentionally thick with Coercion as my worry for my friends compelled me to make sure they got to safety. Sofia’s eyes widened a moment before a pale pink Pegasus burst from the confines of her skin once more. I skidded to a halt in the mud beside her, reaching down to heave Diego back to his feet. He swayed unsteadily and I shoved him towards Sofia without wasting time on being gentle. “Climb on,” I said. “And fly as far from here as you can get!” I tried to turn away as Diego clambered onto her back but he caught my wrist. “Come with us, chica, it's not safe for you here either-” “I’m not leaving Darcy,” I replied dismissively, pulling my arm back. “But the two of you need to go.” Sofia flapped her sparkling wings as my Coercion gripped her and my heart twisted at the concern in their eyes. “Don’t worry about me,” I added as they took flight. I watched for a moment as they sped towards the sky then turned back to my hunt for Darcy. Darius roared behind me as his flames took out another Nymph but a second leapt around the blaze and onto his back. I sucked in a sharp breath, drawing on the well of power within me as I started running back towards him. Darius spun around, the razor sharp spines on his tail swiping within inches of my face as he tried to dislodge the creature but it clambered all the way up until it was lodged between his wings. He swung his head around, snapping at it as he tried to rip it off of him but he couldn’t twist his head into that position. The Nymph released its rattling breath and my knees buckled as it weakened me. I staggered forward, my hand landing on Darius’s front leg as I tried to steady myself. The Nymph shrieked excitedly and drove its probes into the flesh between Darius’s shoulder blades. A roar filled with pure agony escaped him and he fell forward onto his chest as pain wracked through his body. Where my hand still rested against him it was like I could feel that pain within myself. I felt like I was tearing in two, my soul ripping free of my body and the deepest sense of dread filled me. Darius swung his head around to look at me, one huge, golden eye reflecting back the image of a girl who was breaking in half. He snarled at me, striking his nose against my chest to knock me back a step. As I stumbled away from him, he struck me again, a deep growl echoing from his throat as he urged me to run. I stared at him in shock for a moment and he trembled as more pain tore through him. “So fucking bossy,” I snapped, shoving his big Dragon face aside as I moved closer to him instead. “You probably are stubborn enough to die here rather than let me help you.” Darius growled at me but I ignored him as I leapt up onto his leg and started climbing up the side of his big ass Dragon body. (tory)

The Viking warriors created “warrior cults” of the bear and the wolf. The ones that were members of the bear cult were known as the berserkers. They raided all across Europe, and their appearance was described as notorious due to their timing and speed. Whereаs Berserkers were considered men who fought аnd behаved like beаrs, the Ulfhednа, wаrriors of the wolf cult, were considered to be men who becаme wolves. They wore wolf skins and howled in battle, аnd their behаviour influenced lаter Europeаn werewolf folklore. Unlike the beаrs, they hаd no shields. Lаter, they eventuаlly merged with the berserkers in nаme, yet continued to prefer their own methods.

The Viking warriors usually fought with spears. They used the spear for thrusting, throwing, and killing. Some of them were highly experienced and could catch a spear in the air.

I find myself wanting to lead the charge for justice, sword in hand and screaming a Viking battle cry.” She frowned. “You did have battle cries, didn’t you?” He laughed. “Some of the best. Remind me the next time we’re up on the mountain, and I’ll teach you a few. I’d do it now, but we’d probably upset the neighbors.” “Do I get my own horned helmet?” He looked a bit insulted. “My tribe never wore anything like that. But if you want to, you can borrow one of my knives to wave around and menace the local fauna.” He was making fun of her. She just knew it. “A knife? Why not a sword?” “Because you couldn’t lift one of my swords, much less swing it. One of my longer knives would be the perfect size for a little bit like you to brandish while you practice screaming oaths in old Norse.” From the way he chuckled, he obviously found the whole idea hilarious. She loved making her husband laugh. From Judith’s memories and her own, she knew that Ranulf had gone way too many years with no joy in his life. That didn’t mean she wouldn’t extract a little revenge. She tweaked a lock of his hair. “Well, I might not be able to lift your sword, my Viking love, but if you keep making fun of me, I’ll flatten you against the nearest wall and keep you there. How would you like that?” The blue flames were back. “I’d like it just fine, if you promise to take advantage of me while I’m at your mercy.” Now that was an image to be savored. “Are you sure I can’t play with your sword? Right now?” She basked in the warm approval in his eyes. “Only if you promise to take really good care of it.” She slid down to kneel between his legs. “Believe me, I plan to.

Honor and daring, valor, strength and agility, all these were qualities the Vikings prized and upheld. There was another, somewhat less admirable side to their nature as warriors that the Vikings were only too pleased to highlight. This was their brutality toward their foes.

when Viking warrior Gunnar Dalrata ignites her desire, she must choose between duty and the man she longs for! The MacEgan Brothers Series Volume 2 The Warrior’s Touch Taming Her Irish Warrior The Warrior’s Forbidden Virgin Surrender to an Irish Warrior Pleasured by the Viking Michelle Willingham

Odin’s Valhalla was for chosen warriors,

The sexual roles were so deeply rooted among the warrior aristocracy that the two sexes had different realms for the dead in pagan times (cf. p. 156).

I will never be your perfect Viking, Regin! I've made unforgivable mistakes. I've no family or friends, and my men hold no love for me. I'm scarred inside and out. And I'm bloody askin' for you anyway!

But then, according to legend, a curious thing happened to Thorgils, something he was powerless to defend against for all his thousands of retainers. The crafty King Maelsechlainn of Meath, sent out his daughter with fifteen warriors disguised as maidens, lured Thorgils and fifteen Viking captains to a lakeside tryst, and drowned the lot.

It was better to be loved than hated, Nikolas reckoned, but a warrior couldn’t earn one without the other.

An axe delivers a huge amount of force to a small area of strong, very sharp metal. It is a weapon for attack rather than defence, and good at cleaving through armour. It can break enemy shields and kill a charging horse. Since they require intense training, the users are mostly highly skilled elite soldiers, often aristocrats, e.g. the Saxon huscarls. Type of fight scene: gritty, brutal, battles, attack, historical fiction, fantasy fiction, cutting through armour Typical user: tall brawny male with broad shoulders and bulging biceps, courageous, elite soldier, Viking, Saxon Mostly used in: European Dark Ages to Middle Ages Main action: cleave, hack, chop, cut, split Main motion: downwards Typical injury: severed large limbs, split skulls, cleaved torsos Strategy for lethal fight: severe the arm which holds the sword or the shield, or cleave torso from top to bottom, or cut off a leg then split the skull Disadvantages: big and heavy Watch battle axes in action Here are three connected videos about Viking and Saxon warriors with axes:

The battle raged, the blood, gore and the stench of death of hundreds of the fallen, of both Saxons and Vikings permeated the air around her. With Every move Her chest guard dug painfully into her side from a gouge from a broad sword. Her helm obscured her peripheral vision as it had been her brothers, and sat awkwardly on her head due to its size. No time to catch her breath as the huge Saxon assaulted her, her shield fending off the vicious blows of his claymore. Being nearly half his size, she needed to be nimble and smart, a swift upper cut to his jaw with her shield caught him off balance, followed by a slice from her modified broad sword. The Saxon fell to his knees, allowing just enough decrease in stature for Brynhild to finish him off with a jab to the neck, arterial spray covered her face and chest. No time to rest, the next Saxon was upon her, hacking forcefully at her shield she was sure it would splinter. It took all her strength to maintain her footing. His attack was merciless, forcing her to careen backwards, steel crashed against steel in a maddened melee. She feinted left, then put all her velocity in shouldering him in his midsection, momentum taking him swiftly to the blood sodden ground. In the distance a call to retreat was heard from the Saxon Lord, the battle broke, the Viking horde was victorious, Brynhild slumped down a nearby tree, too exhausted and weak to move her last conscious thought was to wonder who the strong Shield-maiden was that gently picked her up and carried her forward. The next thing she knew, she was in a magnificent Hall, filled with raucous laughter and the scent of roasted boar. The sound of sword play was also heard from a nearby doorway. Warriors sat with horns filled with mead, in earnest discourse of the battles they had fought. A clearing of a throat brought her eyes to the great table at the head of the hall, there stood a heavily muscled bearded, one-eyed Man, the hall was moved to silence as the great man strode toward her. “Welcome to Valhalla Brynhild,” he clapped a hand on her shoulder “You have fought bravely, Please take your place among the warriors and enjoy the feast.” Shouts of Skal! filled the hall. Happiness assailed her, resurrected, to one day fight again for Odin in the twilight of the Gods, The Battle of Ragnarök.

Women in Viking society were described as free and independent rather than suppressed and relegated to menial tasks.

Human history is replete with the fluid movement of people, and tribes and countries and cultures and empires are never, ever permanent. Over a long enough time-scale, not one of these descriptions of historical people holds steadfast, and only a thousand years ago your DNA began being threaded from millions from every culture, tribe, and country. If you want to spend your cash on someone in a white coat telling you that you’re from a tribe of wandering Germanic topless warriors, or descended from Vikings, Saracens, Saxons, or Drogo of Metz, or even the Great Emperor Charlemagne, help yourself. I, or hundreds of geneticists around the world, will shrug and do it for free: You are. And you don’t even need to spit in a tube—your majesty.

And whilst we are on the subject, the monster Grendel preyed on the Danes for twelve long years (AD 503-515). Are we seriously to believe then that these Danish Vikings, whose berserker-warriors struck such fear into the hearts of their neighbours, were themselves for twelve long years rendered helpless with terror by a hairy dwarf; even a 'giant' one?

Ivar became one of the most successful warrior-kings. After several years of ruling, beheading, and conquering, he went back to Dublin and lived the rest of his life there.

The ancestors of modern Ukrainians lived in dozens of premodern and modern principalities, kingdoms, and empires, and in the course of time they took on various names and identities. The two key terms that they used to define their land were “Rus’” and “Ukraine.” (In the Cyrillic alphabet, Rus’ is spelled Pycь: the last character is a soft sign indicating palatalized pronunciation of the preceding consonant.) The term “Rus’,” brought to the region by the Vikings in the ninth and tenth centuries, was adopted by the inhabitants of Kyivan Rus’, who took the Viking princes and warriors into their fold and Slavicized them. The ancestors of today’s Ukrainians, Russians, and Belarusians adopted the name “Rus’” in forms that varied from the Scandinavian/Slavic “Rus’” to the Hellenized “Rossiia.” In the eighteenth century, Muscovy adopted the latter form as the official name of its state and empire.

The Dining Out is a formal affair rooted in ancient history. From pre-Christian Roman legions, to marauding Vikings, to King Arthur’s knights, a banquet to celebrate military victories has long been customary among warriors. British soldiers brought the practice to colonial America, where it was adopted by George Washington’s army. Close bonds between U.S. Army Air Forces pilots and Royal Air Force (RAF) officers during World War II cemented the custom in the U.S. military.

she had the pitiful arrogance of a wolf pup that thought it was much bigger than it actually was.

What people are saying about WAR EAGLES ​5 out of 5 stars! WW2 with a dash of fantasy! I really enjoyed stepping back in time as the race for air travel was developing. One could truly feel the passion these pilots and engineers had for these magnificent machines. The twist of stepping back into a land of Vikings and dinosaurs was very well executed. Well done to both the author and the narrator. ​ Reminiscent of Golden Age Sci Fi This audio book reminded me of some of the 40's and 50's era tales, but what it happens to be is an alternative timeline World War II era fun adventure story. Think of a weird mash-up of a screw-up Captain America wanna-be mixed with the Land of the Lost mixed with Avatar where Hitler is the real villain and you might come close. At any rate, it's load of good fun and non stop action. But don't get distracted for a minute or you'll miss something! There are american pilots, Polish spies, Vikings, giant prehistoric eagles and, of course, Nazis! What more could you ask for to while away an afternoon? Our hero even gets the (Viking) girl! Put your feet up an get lost in what might have been.... 4 out of 5 stars! it's Amelia Earnhart meets WWII This is not an accurate historical fiction book, but rather an action-packed book set an historical time. I normally listen to my books at a higher speed, however the amount of drama and action in this book I had to slow it down. I like the storyline and the narrator however, the sound effects throughout the book did kind of throw me since I'm not used to that and most audible books. still I would recommend this is a good read.​ 5 out of 5 stars! I Would Like to See this on the Silver Screen Back in the late 1930s, the director of King Kong started planning War Eagles as his next block buster film. Then World War II intervened and the project languished for decades. It helps to know this background to fully appreciate this novel. It’s a big cinematic adventure waiting to find the screen. The heroes are larger than life, but more importantly, the images are bigger and more vivid than the mighty King Kong who reinvented the silver screen. And what are those images you may ask? Nazis developing super-science weapons for a sneak attack on America, Viking warriors riding gargantuan eagles in a time-forgotten land of dinosaurs, and of course, those same Vikings fighting Nazis over the skyline of New York City. This book is a heck of a lot of fun. It starts a little bit slow but once the Vikings enter the story it chugs along at a heroic pace. There is a ton of action and colorful confrontations. Narrator William L. Hahn pulls out all the stops adding theatrical sound effects to his wide repertoire of voices which adds a completely appropriate cinematic feel to the entire story. If you’re looking for some genuinely heroic fantasy, you should try War Eagles. Wonderful story War Eagles is a really good adventure story. ​5 out of 5 stars!

The same is true of the horned helmet for which there is not a scrap of contemporary evidence. Viking warriors were much too sensible to place a pair of protuberances on their helmets so ideally positioned as to enable an enemy to knock the helmet off. It is a pity to abandon the iconic horned helmets, but alas, they did not exist.

It is demonstrated in the words and acts of the old warrior Beorhtwold as he prepares to die fighting against Viking invaders next to his lord, Beorhtnoth, at the Battle of Maldon in AD 991: Hige sceal þē heardra, heorte þē cēnre, mōd sceal þē māre,    þē ūre mægen lytlað. Will shall be the sterner, heart the bolder, Spirit the greater, as our strength lessens.

The Warriors ended up beating the Vikings in the league championship game on a sweet feed from Danny to Ty at the buzzer.

today the commercial ancestry market is worth billions and relies on a weak supposition that the composition of your DNA will reveal the identities of your forebears in time and space. At best it’s a fudge, a spell to bewitch your romantic and sentimental urges—to belong to a tribe of Vikings, Anglo-Saxons or other noble warriors. But really it’s just gassy bullshit. What modern genetics has shown unequivocally is that while there are differences among people around the world, which manifest broadly as

very soon, for two reasons. First, the Wessex fyrd could only be kept in the field for a short period. Soon their supplies would dwindle, and the need for the men of Wessex to return to their fields and shops would begin to sap away the strength of the Saxon shieldwall. Second, Alfred had a very ominous foreboding about Guthrum’s strategy. The Danish king had clearly chosen a position easily reached from the sea and well connected to the waterways of Wessex. Why would he choose what was clearly a naval base when he had come with land forces? Wareham was the perfect stronghold for a ship army. But where were the ships? Alfred knew that at any moment swarms of Viking longboats were likely to arrive, bringing thousands of Danish warriors, doubling or tripling Guthrum’s army and killing any possibility the men of Wessex had of repelling this attack. Guthrum must be driven from Warehem immediately. Alfred’s desperation showed in the approach he finally chose. Once more, he paid the danegeld. Of course this wasn’t the sort of tactic that could work over any extended period of time, but it was enough to extract Guthrum and his troop from Wareham. It should also be pointed out that, as disastrous as paying the danegeld had been for East Anglia and Mercia, Alfred’s previous payment had been temporarily successful. It had seemed to buy a few years of peace. Alfred clearly felt uneasy about this payment and made two extra demands as he negotiated the Viking withdrawal. First, the two armies exchanged hostages. A selection of Wessex men were taken into captivity by Guthrum, and Alfred chose an assortment of the most distinguished Danish noblemen to remain with him. These hostages were to ensure that the two kings honored their pledges to one another. If Guthrum failed to keep his end of the peace bargain, then Alfred would be free to exact his revenge on the Viking hostages, and vice versa. Second, Alfred insisted

You never gave up, min kjaereste. You may feel broken or ugly, but you have the spirit of a warrior. In my homeland, you would have been respected and honored for your scars. My people see wounds as badges of honor. You didn’t let your enemy win—you never quit fighting.

Another example of the same attitude, this time on a less cosmic and more humble scale, comes from the life of the warrior-poet Egil Skallagrimsson. According to his saga, toward the end of his life, one of his sons died, after the others had died before him. Such was the depth of Egil's grief that he planned to kill himself, but his surviving daughter convinced him instead to use his poetic talent to compose a memorial poem for his lost children. Egil's poem is called The Wreck Of Sons (Sonatorrek). In it, Egil bemoans his lot in life and curses Odin, his patron god, for having made him suffer so much. But Egil finds that this suffering has also carried a gift within it, for his anguish inspires him to compose better poetry than ever before. He lets loose an eloquent cry of both despair and joy, or at least contented acceptance. The final three stanzas read: I offer nothing With an eager heart To the greatest of gods, The willful Odin. But I must concede That the friend of the wise Has paid me well For all my wounds. The battle-tested Foe of the wolf Has given me A towering art, And wits to discern In those around me Who wishes well, Who wishes ill. Times are dire, Yet glad is my heart, Full of courage, Without complaint. I wait for the goddess Of dirt and of death Who stands on the headland To bear me away.

The linguistic root of “Ukraine” means “edge” or “border land.” The territory that became known as Ukraine is mostly an extended plain with few natural borders. Ukraine and Russia both assert a common origin in Kyivan Rus. This medieval kingdom was established by Viking warriors who intermixed with local Slavic tribes in what became known as the “Rus lands,” which were ruled from Kyiv (the capital of Ukraine today). Despite their shared lineage in Kyivan Rus, modern Ukraine and Russia clash bitterly over claims of common identity, as Russians portray it, versus separate identities, as Ukrainians assert. Kyivan Rus disappeared from history when the Golden Horde, the Mongols, sacked Kyiv in 1240.

The Swedish royal family’s legitimacy is even more tenuous. The current king of Sweden, Carl XVI Gustaf, is descended neither from noble Viking blood nor even from one of their sixteenth-century warrior kings, but from some random French bloke.

Angantyr was king in Reidgotaland for a long time. He was a great man and a great warrior, and from him sprang royal dynasties. His son was Heidrek Wolfcoat who was long king in Reidgotaland. He had a daughter named Hild. She was the mother of Halfdan the Valiant, father of Ivar Widegrasp. Ivar Widegrasp came with his army to Sweden, which is told of in the sagas of the kings[23], but King Ingjald the Ill-Advised feared his army and burned himself and all his retinue with him in his farm at Raening. Ivar Widegrasp laid under himself all of Sweden. He conquered Denmark and Kurland, Saxony and Estland and all realms east as far as Gardariki. In the west he ruled Saxony and that part of England that is called Northumbria. Ivar subjected to himself all Denmark, and then he set King Valdar over it and gave him Alfhild, his daughter. Their son was Harald Wartooth and Randver who was afterwards slain in England.

One account exists of how a French soldier disarmed one of the warriors only to have her take him down with a judo shoulder throw and tear out his jugular with her teeth.

The saga teems with life and action, with memorable and complex characters from the heroic Gunnar of Hlidarendi, a warrior without equal who dislikes killing, to the villainous, insinuating Mord Valgardsson, who turns out to be less dastardly than we first expect. Unforgettable events include Skarphedin’s head-splitting axe blow as he glides past his opponent on an icy river bank, or Hildigunn’s provoking of her uncle to seek blood revenge by placing on his shoulders the blood-clotted cloak in which her husband was slain... Just as in the Norse poem Völuspá (‘The Seeress’s Prophecy’) the gods met their doom (no mere twilight) at the hands of brute giants and monsters, after which a new and peaceful earth arose, so do the terrible events of Njal’s Saga lead finally and at great cost to a dignified resolution bearing the promise of a better time. (Robert Cook(

The Vikings were a long time coming. The product of 8,000 years’ worth of lives lived — hunters, farmers and metal-workers; masters of boats, carved in stone and crafted from timber; traders in amber, furs and oil; warriors and kings;

THE VIKING TERROR Bitter is the wind to-night, It tosses the ocean's white hair: To-night I fear not the fierce warriors of Norway Coursing on the Irish Sea.

Eanwulf, appointed by King Ethelwulf