Gauldal, western Norway.
Summer, 865 AD.
The waters of the Gaula river carried a messenger: a knarr (a merchant and transport ship) coming from the Western Isles with news that would shake the entire fylki (a province or territory under the command of a jarl).
In a wooden house, away from the great hall, a young man of imposing stature, towering over most, received the call of his mother, the jarl Lagertha. He stepped outside, where the summer heat hung in the air, and walked toward the hall as calmly as he could.
Upon entering the Great Hall, he noticed that all the hersar (clan chiefs and local chieftains) of the fylki were present. In the ruler’s chair sat a woman who appeared to be about fifty-five years old, her hair pulled back in elaborate, intricate braids, with a noble bearing.
She held one hand to her forehead, her gaze fixed on the floor, as if she had received terrible news. The moment she saw her son enter, she studied him closely.
All the chieftains around her surrounded a map of the known lands. One of them said to him:
"Hey, boy... What were you doing? We’ve been waiting for you a while."
Hárekr looked at them. He noticed the sadness and worry in his mother, then replied:
"You, great chieftains... why are you gathered here?"
One of them, the one with the thickest beard, laughed with satisfaction and remarked:
"Lagerthuson, a great konungr (regional king) has died in the Western lands... We must prepare for it."
Lagertha looked at him immediately, signaling with her eyes that he should not say more. The warrior understood the gesture and fell silent.
Hárekr nodded. He didn’t know who had died, nor did he care; what really interested him was being considered for the next raids, so he grew excited at seeing them gathered.
Noticing her son’s enthusiasm, his mother turned to the chieftains and the skjaldm?r (shieldmaidens) of her personal guard:
"Leave."
Everyone left the Great Hall, leaving the two of them alone. At that moment, Lagertha looked intently at her son and spoke:
"Do you want to know who died?"
Hárekr looked at her. He still saw her pained by the news, but he answered firmly:
"No. I don’t care at all. What’s wrong, mother?"
"A great friend has died... a man important to your mother."
She said it looking at him intently. Hárekr, intrigued, asked:
"Who are you talking about?"
She nodded slowly and replied:
"Yes. Ragnarr. And we must prepare."
Hárekr waved his hand and replied:
"Mother, we cannot risk the hersar (clan chiefs) for an absurd war. All that fame will go to the sons of that great warrior."
Lagertha grew a little annoyed. She did not like that attitude of her son: he always tended to contradict her. She sighed and said:
"You will take charge of this fleet; you’ll see if you want to go or not."
For the first time, she granted him full military command, giving him the authority he had always desired.
He looked at her. He did not understand why his mother was so affected by the death of an old lover; after all, that had happened long ago. He did not even know if Ragnarr was his true father or not, and she had never clarified it for him.
After the talk, he left the Great Hall. As he crossed the door, he saw that all the chieftains were waiting for him with curiosity drawn on their faces. One of them asked him directly:
"What does the Jarl think? Will we go west?"
Hárekr looked at him and replied:
"All in due time."
He left without adding more, leaving them there, for he had no spirit to talk and it frustrated him to see his mother in that state. Without wasting time, the chieftains entered the Great Hall, accustomed to how eccentric Hárekr tended to be.
That same night, in a room adjacent to the Jarl’s chambers, Hárekr rested. The first watch of the night had fallen, and the young man lay deep in a restless sleep.
His body was covered in sweat, and his forehead burned as if it were boiling.
In his vision, Hárekr stood beside a majestic tree, from whose branches several ravens watched him. He looked around as sweat soaked his skin, feeling that his very soul was experiencing something incomprehensible. At that moment, he heard a deep voice rumble around him:
’How the piglets would grunt if they knew what the old boar suffers!’
’Laughing I shall die...’
The voice echoed away into the darkness, and Hárekr woke with a start.
He rose from his bed, looked around, and wiped his hand across his sweat-soaked forehead. That trance had held him captive until the first light of dawn. He recalled with quickened pulse the words and the echo of that voice.
’Since I was a boy I have dreamed many things... But this time it felt too real. Who was that person?’
The next morning, Hárekr was training with his battle axe when he saw Torstein approaching, one of the most experienced chieftains of the fylki.
The warrior let out a laugh and said:
"Let’s fight, Lagerthuson."
Hárekr looked at him and nodded.
Both began exchanging heavy practice blows with their large axes. After a few minutes, Torstein ended up knocking Hárekr down when he noticed him distracted. A short while later, both sitting on the bank of the Gaula river contemplating the current, the veteran asked:
"What’s with you, boy?"
Hárekr glanced at him and replied:
"Do you believe in dreams, Torstein?"
The chieftain laughed again and answered:
"If you’re going to talk to me about dreams, you’d better go see the seiermaer (the village’s seer and sorcerer)."
Hárekr replied with disbelief:
"What can a seer know about my destiny?"
Torstein simply sighed, rose, and left. Hárekr remained alone, his gaze fixed on the water, pensive.
’Should I visit the seer or not?’
He rose and decided to go. In his fifteen years of life, it was the first time he had decided to visit the seiermaer (seer), a man well known not only in the fylki, but in the entire region.
Arriving at a discreet hut set apart from the village, he saw a man of about sixty hanging animal bones among clay vessels. The old man watched him enter, let out a soft laugh, and said:
"So you finally decided to come. Sooner or later you would."
Noticing that Hárekr still seemed wary, the seer added:
"Do you want to know who the man in your dreams is?"
He paused briefly and, looking at him intently, declared:
"Your father."
Hárekr, impressed, was about to interrupt him to ask:
"My father... you mean the same man who died recently? The great konungr (regional king) of Danm?rk (Denmark)?"
The seer laughed again and answered:
"You are the direct son of King Ragnarr... and also of the skjaldm?r (shieldmaiden) who fought at his side years ago."
At that moment, Lagertha, who often visited the seer, saw her son and heard the seer’s words. She did not get angry; she knew that sooner or later her son would discover the truth. What she did not want at all was to see Hárekr leave for Danish lands, for she had sworn to herself that, after her divorce, Ragnarr would not intervene in the raising of her son.