HONOR AND BLOOD: KILLING VS. MURDER IN NORSE AND GERMANIC HEATHEN CULTURE

Introduction

In the warrior societies of ancient Northern Europe, not all acts of killing were judged equally. Among Norse and Germanic Heathens of the pre-Christian era, a sharp distinction was drawn between killing in open battle or legitimate feud, and the crime of secret murder. To modern eyes any unlawful killing is “murder,” but in these early societies honor, openness, and intention defined the difference. An enemy slain in a fair fight or a rival killed openly in a feud could be accepted—even regrettably expected—in a harsh world. By contrast, a man who killed in darkness or deceit was despised as a murderer, a bringer of hidden shame. Even the Roman observer Tacitus, writing in the 1st century CE, noted how the Germanic tribes distinguished open violence from infamy. In his Germania, Tacitus describes how traitors and deserters were hanged publicly, while cowards and dishonorable offenders were drowned in bogs under a cover of mud and hurdles – “this distinction in punishment means that crime, they think, ought to be exposed, while infamy ought to be buried out of sight.”1 Such views, recorded long before the Viking Age, hint at a broader Germanic ethos: killings should be public and acknowledged, whereas shameful deeds were to be literally hidden. This ethos persisted into the Viking Age and is reflected in Norse laws, sagas, and our beliefs of the afterlife.

War and Legitimate Killing

For Norse and other Germanic peoples, life was frequently marked by warfare, feuding, and violent rivalries. Raids and battles were a grim reality of life, but they were also governed by a cultural code of honor. To fight bravely in the open and to face one’s enemy was not only socially acceptable – it was often expected of a capable adult. In fact, warrior honor required that violence be carried out openly and with courage. Killing an enemy in a pitched battle or a sanctioned duel (hólmganga) was considered a legitimate act, not a crime. The slain foe’s kin might seek vengeance or compensation, but the killer’s reputation was not automatically tarnished by the act itself if it was done openly and within the accepted rules of combat. Indeed, dying in battle was thought to be a noble fate rewarded by the gods. Later Norse tales encapsulated this idea in the vision of Valhalla, Odin’s hall, where those who fell honorably in combat were welcomed among the chosen heroes. Also, they could be chosen for Folkvangr.  Valhalla reflects the real attitude that killing in warfare was part of the natural order and could even be a source of honor rather than shame. Even beyond formal war, violent self-help justice was part of the social fabric. Feuds could be legally pursued, and one could lawfully kill to avenge insults or injuries under certain conditions. For example, if a man’s honor was affronted or his family harmed, he might challenge the offender openly or declare a feud. Such killings were “open-air” acts, often witnessed by others or at least openly acknowledged afterward. They were usually followed by public acknowledgment or legal proceedings at an assembly (þing), such as negotiations for wergild (man-payment) – a compensation to the victim’s family – or formal announcement of the deed. Because these acts were done in the light of day, figuratively and literally, society treated them as homicides that could be justified or compensated, not as abominations. The underlying principle was that while the shedding of blood was unfortunate, it was sometimes necessary and permissible in a violent world, provided it was done without deceit.

Najll's son Skarphedinn with his axe Rimmugýgur.

The Crime of Murder in Germanic Law

By stark contrast, murder (morð) was defined as a hidden or treacherous killing – an act carried out in secret, without witnesses, or under the guise of friendship or peace. In Old Norse terminology, a clear lexical distinction existed: víg meant a killing or slaying (often in battle or open fight, but sometime homicide), whereas morð specifically meant – murder - a clandestine killing done by stealth or guile. Medieval Scandinavian law codes, some of which recorded earlier customary laws, explicitly distinguished between these two categories. The Norwegian Gulating Law, for instance, delineated “openly acknowledged homicide” (víg) as opposed to secret “murder” (morð), treating them as separate offenses in the eyes of the law2.

A killing announced to the community and admitted by the killer was not the same crime as an unacknowledged slaying. What made murder so heinous to the Norse mind was not solely the bloodshed but the breach of honor and trust it represented. A 10th-century Icelander or a 1st-century Germanic tribesman would agree that to kill a man and hide the deed was a most despicable act. Unlike an honorable fight, a murder involved deceit – the killer tried to avoid responsibility and deny the victim’s kin the knowledge of what happened. One modern historian notes that the worst crimes in Viking Age society were those involving lying, concealment and treachery. In other words, killing itself was not always dishonorable, but killing combined with lies was. An open slaying could be dealt with through legal means or even grudging respect, but a murderer “who had hidden away the deed and wouldn’t admit to it” was regarded with revulsion3. This reflects a fundamental premise of Germanic honor culture: a man should stand openly by his actions, even violent ones, and accept the consequences. If he instead chose to skulk in the shadows, he effectively destroyed his own honor. As one scholar puts it, medieval Scandinavian justice placed heavy emphasis on notoriety – the public acknowledgment of an act. A homicide committed with witnesses or confessed openly was in a different category from one done in darkness; secrecy itself deepened the guilt.​

 Legal sources illustrate the differing penalties. Typically, an open killer could expect a legal process – the victim’s family might demand wergild (a set compensation in silver, cattle or valuables) or seek a sanctioned revenge, but there was at least a path to resolution. Many Germanic law codes from Anglo-Saxon England to Viking Scandinavia allowed even serious offenses to be settled by payment of fines or weregild to the injured family, rather than capital punishment, as long as the offender did not hide his guilt1. Tacitus observed this practice already in the first century: for most offenses, including homicide, the guilty paid a number of cattle or horses to the victim’s relatives and to the community authorities as restitution​. This system could only work if the killing was known and acknowledged. A secret murder, on the other hand, left the community in peril – there was a malefactor denying justice and an unresolved blood debt. Thus, someone who committed murder (morð) was often not afforded the opportunity to pay restitution. Instead, the murderer would likely be declared an outlaw, stripped of legal protection. In Norse terms, he became a “wolf” (vargr) or morð-vargr in the eyes of society – literally a creature outside the law. Old Norse writings use vargr (“wolf”) as a term for outlaws who can be hunted down like wild beasts, a fate reserved for those who commit especially heinous crimes or sacrileges4.

Photo taken by the Chieftain in Reykjavik of the "Outlaws" by Einar Jónsson who was Iceland´s first sculptor.  The sculpture depicts a man convicted and sentenced to outlawry and his family fleeing in misery.

A murderer, especially one who slew his victim in a particularly underhanded way (such as violating sanctuary or killing a host or guest), could be denounced as a níðingr, the worst sort of villain. The níðingr (sometimes anglicized “nithing”) was a label meaning one utterly without honor – a cowardly, treacherous wretch. It was among the gravest insults in Norse culture to call someone a níðingr, equated with being morally bankrupt and cowardly, and such a person’s life was forfeit. To be branded a níðingr was effectively to be cast out of decent society, just as a wolf is cast out from the fold.

Shame and Honor: Why Hidden Killing Was Despised

Underpinning these legal distinctions was a powerful honor-shame ethic. In a small community, whether a Germanic clan or an Icelandic farm settlement, trust and reputation were everything. People needed to know where everyone stood – who was friend or foe, who was accountable for grievances. An open killing, while tragic, at least kept the social order intact: the killer owned up, and the victim’s family knew whom to blame and how to respond (be it through a feud, legal claim, or compensation). There was even a certain harsh respect for someone who did their killing openly, as it showed boldness and acceptance of consequences. The notorious Viking sagas are full of proud statements at the Alþing (assembly) where men boldly declared “I slew so-and-so” before witnesses, staking their honor on the deed. Indeed, it was expected that if you killed a man, you should announce it at the next assembly rather than hide. By contrast, murder in secret was seen as cowardly and shameful. To stab a man in the night and sneak away, or to poison an enemy, or otherwise kill without giving the victim a fighting chance – these acts were abhorrent. Not only was the murderer deemed a craven, but the secrecy undermined the victim’s family’s honor as well. It robbed them of the opportunity to demand redress, and it spread fear and mistrust in the community. If a killer would not even take responsibility for his act, how could anyone trust his word or character? Norse sources equate such a person with a thief – and theft was one of the most despised crimes because it too involved stealth and betrayal of trust. An old Scandinavian saying was that “thievery is the way of wolves, not warriors.” In the same spirit, a Viking-age writer remarked that while robbery by force was bad, stealing in secret was worse, for the thief had to lie and skulk, whereas a robber at least showed himself3. Likewise, the secret murderer was morally lower than an open slayer. One Icelandic law even stated that a killing done in secret, if later discovered, would be treated with far less mercy than one immediately confessed – because the murderer tried to “do the deed in darkness” and deceive the community. The social stigma attached to murder was so great that even being accused of a hidden killing could ruin one’s name. Conversely, being forthright (even about violence) was prized as a virtue. As a result, warriors took pains to distance themselves from anything resembling murder: if a killing was accidental or unintended, a respectable man would promptly report it and offer compensation, to avoid any hint that he meant to hide it.

Njall's Farm in Iceland where Njáll Þorgeirsson and his wife Bergþóra Skarphéðinsdóttir, grandson, and family were burned in their home. Njall's son in law Kari escaped and took revenge on the murderers.

Judgment of the Gods: The Fate of Murderers in the Afterlife

This strong moral distinction between honest killing and foul murder extended into Norse spiritual beliefs. The Norse expected that the manner of one’s life and death would determine one’s fate after death. A man who fell gloriously in battle might be chosen by Odin’s Valkyries for Valhalla, or enjoy honor among his ancestors. But what of those who betrayed the code? Norse faith provides a dire answer: the worst sinners – murderers, oath-breakers, and the deceitful – were believed to face divine condemnation. In our faith, such wretches would be denied any place among honorable dead and instead be cast into Náströnd, the "Corpse Shore," a ghastly realm in the underworld. Náströnd is vividly described in the Poetic Edda (in the poem Völuspá) and echoed in Snorri Sturluson’s Prose Edda. It is a hellish place on the shores of a venomous river, with a gruesome hall woven from serpents’ spines. Here the most dishonorable souls suffer eternally. The seeress in Völuspá names the types of people she sees wading through those venomous streams: menn meinsvara ok morðvarga, “men who swore false oaths and murderers,” alongside those who seduced others’ wives5. Over them looms the dragon Níðhöggr, who feeds upon the corpses of the wicked. In this chilling image, we see the final resolution of how the gods judge murder: a soul stained by hidden murder (or other deep treachery) is literally consigned to the dragon’s jaws. This is in stark contrast to warriors who die in honorable combat, who might be welcomed into Odin’s halls or the goddess Freyja’s field – clearly, the murderer’s soul had an altogether darker destination. The concept of Náströnd shows that the Norse did not only rely on earthly law to punish murderers; they believed cosmic justice awaited such offenders. The phrase “dishonorable dead” (those who died shamefully or lived as outcasts) would include clandestine killers. Just as their deeds were hidden in life, their afterlife would be in a sunless, horrid place far from the glory of the mead-hall of heroes. It’s worth noting that these Norse ideas resonate with broader Germanic tradition as well. While we don’t have detailed pagan descriptions of the afterlife from continental Germanic tribes, their emphasis on honor suggests they too saw cowardly murder as spiritually tainting. Tacitus mentions no afterlife punishments, but he did remark on the sacred rites and sanctions that Germanic peoples used to enforce oaths and honesty, implying the gods’ disfavor on oath-breakers and traitors. In later Christianized sagas, the worst murders (such as kin-slaying or killing a guest under one’s roof) are sometimes portrayed as bringing down curses or haunting spirits upon the culprit, which may be a Christian moralizing overlay, but it aligns with the older idea that fate itself would hunt the oath-breaker or secret murderer.

Nastrond

Viking Funeral by Italian artist Fortunino Matania

In Norse and Germanic heathen culture, killing was regrettably commonplace, yet it was bound by rules of honor and openness. To kill an enemy in fair fight or to avenge a wrong in the light of day could be harshly necessary, but it was not inherently shameful. Such violence was constrained by community oversight—witnesses, laws, and the possibility of restitution. Murder, however, stood beyond the pale. A murderer by stealth destroyed the trust that knit society together and earned a stigma worse than that of any warrior, even an enemy. He was an outlaw, a níðingr, figuratively a wild beast to be cast out and hunted. Both human law and divine law were believed to abhor the murderer: if he escaped the vengeance of men, the gods would not forget his crime. Thus, the line between killing and murder in these cultures was drawn by the twin markers of honesty and honor. To shed blood openly and take responsibility might be grim, but it was within the realm of the acceptable; to shed blood in secrecy and denial was a lasting shame, punished by scorn in life and eternal dread in death.  Odin’s Warrior Tribe has many active and veteran military – many of us have killed in combat and the line of duty.   Even today in war and line of duty that is justified.

Footnotes

Tacitus, Germania XII. Tacitus observes that among the early Germanic tribes, capital penalties varied by the nature of the offense: “Traitors and deserters are hanged on trees; the coward, the unwarlike, and those stained with infamous vices are pressed into the mud of swamps with a hurdle. This distinction in punishment means that crime, they think, ought to be exposed, while infamy ought to be buried out of sight.”​

This highlights the Germanic belief in making dishonor invisible, a concept related to why secret murder was viewed with such contempt. 2

Recreated bog for disposal of the unwanted in Denmark

The medieval Gulathing Law of Norway (derived from earlier customary law) clearly differentiates víg (open homicide) from morð (secret murder). This division is noted by historians as a well-established principle: the law treated an admitted killing more leniently than a concealed one​. In Viking Age practice, if a killing was done openly and announced at the þing (assembly), it was subject to negotiated penalties (fines or feud), whereas a clandestine killing was a far graver crime with no easy remedy. Contemporary scholars have emphasized that notoriety (public acknowledgment) was crucial in such legal distinctions.

Thilde K. Holdt, Crazy Viking Age Laws (2021), notes that “a killing was not necessarily seen as dishonourable... it happened in broad daylight and was not hidden. If you killed someone, you’d confidently admit to the deed at the Thing… A murder, however, was to kill another and conceal the action. It was a most despicable deed.”​

In Viking society, crimes involving stealth and untruthfulness (like secret murder or theft) were punished more harshly because they betrayed the community’s trust. Openness in one’s actions, even violent ones, was valued as a sign of integrity.

In Old Norse law and literature, an outlaw (one cast out of legal protection) was often termed vargr, meaning “wolf.” This metaphor equated the outlawed murderer or criminal with a wolf – a dangerous beast to be hunted down. Cleasby-Vigfusson’s dictionary notes vargr as “an outlaw who is to be hunted down as a wolf,” especially used for someone guilty of terrible or sacrilegious crimes​. For instance, a killer who violated sanctuary or a truce could be proclaimed vargr í véum (“wolf in the sanctuary”), cursed and banished from society. Such a man had no rights and could be killed with impunity – a reflection of how completely murderers and oath-breakers lost their honor and protection under heathen law.

Völuspá, stanza 38–39 (as preserved in the Poetic Edda), and Snorri Sturluson’s Prose Edda (Gylfaginning) describe Náströnd in Hel as the final abode of the worst sinners. The poem explicitly includes morðvargar (“murder-wolves,” meaning murderers) among those wading through venomous rivers: “There she saw wading the heavy streams, men who swore false oaths and murderers (morðvarga)…”​

Snorri reiterates that in Náströnd “oath-breakers and murderers wade those rivers” of poison​.

In our Norse faith therefore, murder was and is not only a social crime but a sin that damned one’s soul to a horrific fate, being gnawed by the dragon Níðhöggr in a hall of serpents – a stark contrast to the glory awaiting those slain honorably in battle.