Helle Viking
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The night passed uneventfully with the only interruption from a single, brief rain shower. It was the next morning when Thorgrim began to worry about how much water he had left in his water bag. He hadn’t even made it halfway up into the mountains where he hoped to find some streams or lakes of clear fresh water to fill up again.
He had been hoping that the clouds would lift and the sun would come out so that he could see what lay ahead. The clouds didn’t clear at all that day; they simply moved overhead, like huge white sails, and cast long shadows onto the ground. They were low enough now that Thorgrim couldn’t tell which direction they were moving. That meant no sun for light. So he kept on going.
Thorgrim’s mood was darkening as the hours went by. He did not like being lost in the hills like this without any idea where to go. And there was no sun so no way of judging how far he’d gone since sunrise or if it was getting lighter outside.
He felt trapped beneath the cloud cover, unable to get anywhere, knowing that every minute he spent lost meant that he ran the risk of being captured or worse—dying in the mountains. At least dying in battle was quick; this slow death was something else entirely.
That was the main thing on Thorgrim’s mind: dying here in these mountains. It seemed impossible but if he could just get back to the sea … well then, he’d have a chance at fighting off anyone who might try to take him captive.
Or better yet, taking someone prisoner himself. He knew there were Irish ships anchored at Dubh-linn right now; perhaps they’d be willing to sail back to Norway with him. There had to be men aboard who wanted to return home, and they would surely welcome a few dozen Norsemen aboard their ship rather than being left behind.
“I’ve got to make it,” Thorgrim said aloud to himself. “Otherwise I’ll never get away.”
It had been years since he’d been on the high seas, but he remembered it well. When he was younger, before he became a slave, Thorgrim had sailed the waters around Ireland quite often. He knew that there was always danger on the sea and that even a small boat could turn over easily, but he also understood sailing as well as any man alive.
If you paid attention to what was happening around you, he figured that you would survive just fine.
But those days were long past. Nowadays he could barely row a skiff across a lake. He’d fallen in love with the land of the North and was reluctant to leave it, but in the end, the lure of the open water proved too strong.
With that thought in mind, he pulled out a small map of Ireland that he had bought from one of the merchants in Dublin. He turned it so he was looking along the coast and then traced a line with his finger westward toward Cork and beyond.
He had made his landfall in Ireland in that area and was hoping he wouldn’t get more than twenty miles south before making camp again. But that wasn’t what worried Thorgrim; it was the distance from the mouth of the River Bann to the nearest town or port, which was probably Drogheda. That was a good fifty miles or more, depending on whether or not the river was navigable.
If this is as bad as things get, then it will be an easy fix, Thorgrim told himself as he followed the coastline. He was still in the general vicinity of where he had left Dublin Bay the previous year, and there were plenty of harbors he knew well nearby.
Perhaps he could ask the locals for directions to help him find his way. Maybe they had seen ships come and go; if they’d know a place where ships came from, they’d know a place where ships were going.
A mile further and another and another, Thorgrim was thinking that he had never felt so helpless, so trapped, as he did at that moment. He stopped walking and looked down into the valley below where he stood. It was a beautiful spot with a small stream running through it and tall grass growing on its banks.
A stand of trees stood just above it, their branches waving in the cool breeze. Thorgrim stared at the view for a few minutes while he considered how lucky he had been to stumble upon such a lovely little oasis in the middle of nowhere.
“You’re a fool, Thorgrim,” he said under his breath. “You can’t stop here. You’ll never find your way out of these mountains once you do. And even if you do, you won’t find any food and there’s no water in sight.” His stomach growled loudly to punctuate his point.
Thorgrim had never heard of anyone starving in Ireland, but maybe that was only because no one ever starved in Ireland. No doubt there were times when people had died of thirst and hunger, but he had never known it.
And now he had nothing in his belly except some bread he’d brought with him. The Irish had fed him on occasion, but not very often. They took pleasure in tormenting him, and if they saw that they’d made him sick from lack of food, they might decide to kill him instead of letting him go.
And if he died, the Irish would have to carry him back north. In fact, they would probably want to throw him in prison or bury him with their own dead men. Either way, it wouldn’t matter much. He didn’t expect to see Valhalla anytime soon.
The sun was setting by now, and the light was fading fast. If Thorgrim waited until the morning, he would be in deep trouble. He could not wait another day in this valley so he picked up his sword and began walking downhill.
There were plenty of thick patches of trees between the streams that provided shade from the hot summer sunlight. Soon enough he was in shadow again and he stopped and crouched against a tree trunk. For several hours he remained motionless, his eyes shut, his head slumped forward on his chest. He was sure he was dying, though there was no reason to believe that he would. It seemed likely, though. After all, he had been walking around with nothing but a sword in his hand.
He was so tired. He couldn’t imagine that he hadn’t already gone unconscious. His head hurt like hell and when he tried to lift his left arm it felt numb. He had to put his whole weight on his right leg to walk.
When he reached his destination, the stream, he sat down on the bank and drank until the water ran dark and foul. As the last drop fell past his lips, he realized how thirsty he had become. He had almost forgotten about thirst in the heat and pain.
He had to force himself not to drink anymore. He had only enough water remaining to survive another night or two, and then he would have to turn back. Or perhaps not, if the water was flowing where he needed it to be. He didn’t want to think about it. It was hard enough to sit and watch the sunset in a land that was not his.
Thorgrim was still sitting on the bank watching the sunset when his vision grew blurry and the world started to spin. He knew that the end was near. He could feel death’s cold kiss coming closer and he wanted to beg for mercy, but he found he wasn’t able to summon the energy. So he did the only thing he could think to do—he closed his eyes and waited.
***
Ivar had not thought that he would ever be glad of the presence of his wife, Gunhild, who was known far and wide as a beauty. But after the night before and what had happened in the morning, he was very glad she was there.
They were traveling together to Iceland, and Ivar and the rest of Ivar’s crew had decided to take advantage of the opportunity to sleep in a safe harbor and spend some time resting. Ivar had taken the precaution of sending his men ahead.
They arrived early the next morning and went to work getting the ships ready for sailing, while Ivar and his men camped nearby. By noon, they were ready to sail and they pushed off and headed south across the water.
As always, Ivar’s ship was the largest of those heading north to Iceland. The ship itself was called a longship, but it was really just an open boat with two decks, each holding ten or twelve oar positions along its sides.
On the upper deck, at the center of the boat, was the birlinn, which held the crew, the captain, and a small number of weapons. The lower deck held provisions and cargo, and a little bit of gear for fighting. The top of the birlinn was the best place to stand when the waves were rough since it kept the sea spray out.
Below the birlinn, in the bow, stood the mast and the square sail, which could be pulled taut to drive the ship along.
A ship like this could accommodate twenty men or maybe thirty. Ivar had only ten men under his command and five women. They were going as his family, including his wife, and they had brought only enough supplies for a few weeks of travel, leaving behind any items that might draw the attention of raiders. A man who traveled alone would need more.
“This is too crowded,” Gunhild said. “You’re taking up most of my space.” She was sitting on her blanket on the deck, her legs crossed at the ankles. Her hands rested on her knees, but one hand moved slightly, stroking one of her thighs. She had slept on that same blanket the night before and it must be uncomfortable as hell.
“It’s comfortable enough,” Ivar said.
She shook her head. “That may be so, but I’m sleeping in these clothes and it gets very warm down here.” She indicated the blanket. “There are many things you do that seem strange to me, Ivar.” She sighed. “But you know we cannot go back.”
The words hung in the air for a moment, suspended above them both like a cloud of smoke.
Finally, Ivar spoke. “Yes, I know.”
“What will happen when we reach land?”
“We’ll find shelter and food.” That was all that was left; nothing else was worth talking about.
“When will your father come?”
He shrugged. “Sooner than we expect him. You heard our news last night. We’ve been lucky so far. No one has caught us yet.”
“And if someone catches us?”
Ivan was quiet for a moment. Then he looked directly into the distance, toward land. “Then he will come, and when he does, I don’t care how many men he sends. Nothing can stop my father from taking me home.”
Gunhild smiled, but her expression showed a little sadness. She was not happy that their journey had ended without finding any sign of her brother and father, or even knowing whether they were still alive.
But she also knew that her husband needed to see himself as the hero, as a warrior returning with good news for his family. It was part of being a Norseman, she supposed. If he did not believe in himself as such, then who would?
The End