A STORY OF AN OUT OF THE ORDINARY VIKING
Ingvar was scrawny, weak, and pale. He lived near the town of Dorestad, located in central Netherlands along the Rhine River, which branched into the Lek and Kromme Rijn rivers. These waterways provided easy access to the North Sea, making Dorestad a bustling trading post-and a prime target for seafaring Viking raiders. The land was flat, without a mountain in sight, ideal for agriculture and commerce, yet vulnerable to invasion.
Ingvar lived in a rickety shack a day’s walk northeast of Dorestad along the Lek River, a primary trading route. He cared for his sickly mother in their meager home.
His mother had once lived in Dorestad, until the day Viking ships entered its bustling port-not to trade, but to plunder. That day, the Vikings took more than gold and goods; they took her purity. Her home was raided and torched, her parents slaughtered, and she was left to endure the Vikings’ cruelty. When they discarded her like a stray dog, she carried a permanent scar-Ingvar was the unwanted reminder of that torment.
She hated him. His light blue eyes were a daily reminder of his fathers’, though she did not know which Viking had sired him. To her, all of them were the same-monsters. Ingvar was the child of her suffering, a living embodiment of the men who had ruined her. The only power she retained over her past was the ability to treat Ingvar with hatred.
“Get away from me!” his mother screamed.
“You need your medicine,” Ingvar said, gently cradling his mother’s head as he lifted a cup of honey and onion syrup to her lips.
Ingvar’s mother was plagued with the wasting sickness that presented itself by uncontrollable coughing fits, fatigue, weight loss, fever, and chills. Ingvar would regularly run half a day into town to get Honey to soothe his mother’s cough, Garlic for her respiratory ailments, and Elderflower to help her with her fever. In the early summer season, he foraged elderflower along the riverbank instead-its peak growing season.
One day, while collecting elderflowers, Ingvar spotted longships with dragon-carved bows. He knew immediately who they belonged to-Drakkar ships, known for their large size, speed, and maneuverability, making them ideal ships for long-distance Viking raids. He dropped his foraging and sprinted home.
“I have to go,” he told his mother. “I may be gone for a while. I brewed elderflower tea for you and I’ve left plenty of food.”
“You’re leaving me to die?“ she sneered. “I knew you were a worthless swine. Just like the wretch you came from.”
“I’m not leaving you to die. There are Viking ships coming. I have to warn Dorestad.”
“And how will you do that? Look at you. You are nothing. Weak. You’re not a warrior. You think you can outrun a Viking ship?” she let out a chuckle, “Be honest-you’re running away because you’re a coward.”
“I don’t know, but I have to try.” He packed his satchel, slung it across his body, and left.
He knew he couldn’t outrun a Viking ship along the river, but night was on his side. Vikings preferred to attack at dawn, using the element of surprise. That gave him an advantage. He ran toward the stars, following the path where the sun would rise beyond the marshland. He had traveled this path countless times for his mother’s medicine, but this time, the stakes were higher. If he failed, Dorestad would be lost.
He ran faster than ever, his calves burning, thighs twitching. He grabbed a handful of nuts and berries from his satchel, washing them down with ale from his waterskin. He needed every ounce of energy to beat the Vikings to Dorestad.
He arrived in half the time it would take a man to walk. The full moon hung low, illuminating the quiet town of Dorestad. The people had no inkling that Viking marauders prowled at their doorstep like a pack of hungry wolves.
Ingvar sprinted through the empty streets, searching for the night watchmen. The only military men he found were drunkards stumbling out of alehouses and brothels. Dawn was near. He had to act fast. Then, in the town square, he saw the answer-a small stone church with its towering bell.
He pushed open the wooden doors and ran to the corner of the sanctuary, where a narrow stairwell led to the bell tower. He climbed the spiral staircase two steps at a time, his heart pounding faster with every step. At the top, he wrapped the bell rope around his sweaty palms and yanked with all his strength. The bell’s deafening resonance shattered the night’s silence.
One by one, candle flames flickered to life. A murmur spread through the town. Monks, startled from their sleep, rushed up from the dormitory attached to the church.
“What is the meaning of this?” the elder monk demanded.
“The Vikings are coming! The Vikings are coming!” Ingvar gasped between breaths.
The commander’s guard arrived within moments, their leader pushing through the monks.
“What is the meaning of this?” the captain demanded.
“I am Ingvar. I live a day’s walk along the Lek River with my mother. Last night, I saw a fleet of Drakkars approaching. I ran as fast as I could to warn you.”
The captain studied him, then turned to his sergeant. “The Vikings are coming! Ready the archers. Prepare for a siege!”
The thick wooden gates slammed shut, sealing the city from the ports. Archers lined the walls, their bows ready. Three towering catapults took position, soldiers filling pots with oil to be set ablaze to launch at the enemy.
Dawn broke. Twenty Viking ships loomed on the horizon.
A tense silence gripped the city.
“READY!” The archers drew their bows.
“HOLD.” The ships crept closer.
“AIM!” The archers reached full draw, some trembling.
“LOOSE!”
Arrows darkened the sky, a deadly storm descending upon the Viking ships. Volley after volley rained down, giving the enemy no chance to respond. Then, the arrows were replaced by a sky full of fire as catapults hurled flaming pots in rapid succession. Most ships became engulfed in flames. Vikings leaped into the water, only to be cut down by another hail of arrows.
Three intact ships turned and fled. Their surprise attack had become their surprise demise.
Dorestad was saved.
The town erupted in cheers. Ingvar’s name spread like wildfire. He was a hero, a legend. His family’s status soared. He was gifted farmland, livestock, and a nobleman’s house. The military appointed him as a Watchman-a scout tasked with patrolling the lands.
He rode home in a wagon to bring his mother to her new home. Surely, she would be proud now. Surely, her shame would fade. For the first time, he was excited to see her.
“Mom!” He flung open the shack’s door. “Mom! I have great news! Dorestad was-“
She lay motionless.
“Mom?” He shook her, but she was cold. Stiff as a log. She was gone.
In that moment, his feat vanished. Deep down, he wanted to save Dorestad so his mother could finally love him. But it had all been for nothing.
He buried her near their old shack. And as he stood over her grave, realization washed over him-he was free. Free to live without her hatred. Free to carve his own path.
For the first time, Ingvar looked ahead.
Would he see battles? Marry? Have children? The possibilities excited him.
His life was his own at last.
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