Iceland Viking Village
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“What are you doing?” Thorfinn’s voice cracked like the wind through ice and snow. The Norse king turned from where he stood at the edge of his great hall, looking out over the fields and forests that surrounded it, and stared at Gunnar.
The young man looked up with a sheepish grin. “You know this is not for you to do.” His eyes glowed in their blue-gray depths as they swept across the faces around him: Olaf, who had once been his closest friend; Sigurd, whom he had known since boyhood; Skapti, whose father had raised him; all of them men he’d trusted.
He was sure many more would have joined him if they hadn’t feared being cut down by the other Vikings when they returned to their homes.
As usual, Gunnar didn’t seem concerned about anything except for himself. It never ceased to amaze Thorfinn how much his younger brother cared for nothing but gold. But Gunther, who had taken his father’s place as heir while he’d gone off on this fool’s errand in search of wealth, also had his own agenda now.
They were both sons of Eirik Bloodaxe and each wanted to be a powerful ruler. Their father was dead; Eirik, though still alive, was no longer in control of the North Country. Now they faced King Hakon of Norway, king of kings, and his son, Prince Gorm. If they could wrest power from them…
Thorfinn shook his head. It was time to stop dreaming and start acting. “If you are so eager to leave,” he said, holding up one finger to silence Gunnar, then raising another, “then why don’t you lead us? We can follow your trail.”
Gunnar grinned. “Of course! I’d be honored!” A cheer went up among the crowd of warriors that filled the great hall behind them. Some clapped their hands and others stomped their feet or waved their swords.
“No!” Thorfinn barked, cutting short their celebrations. Then his gaze fell upon Sigurd, who was standing with his arms folded, watching the scene with narrowed eyes. “And you too. You’ll stay here.”
Sigurd’s shoulders slumped. He glanced around at his friends, but none dared speak against what Thorfinn had decreed. Not even Olaf. As the son of King Harald of the Jelling clan—the most powerful in Scandinavia after Eirik’s death—he was bound by tradition to obey his older brother.
King Thorfinn stepped forward. “Olaf,” he said in a soft voice, “go back to your home in Viken and see that your father’s family is provided for. Take Skapti with you to help you. And make sure you take enough silver coins to buy the whole island if need be.
Make sure everyone knows how to use those weapons, and teach them well. If we are going to win the day, you will all have to work together or die trying. Do you understand me?”
Olaf nodded.
“Then go,” Thorfinn said. He smiled again. “But be careful, eh? There is always danger in travel.” Olaf saluted, then walked away, heading toward the door through which his horse waited to carry him home.
Thorfinn watched as Olaf mounted, and Sigurd gave a low bow before following his brother outside. Then the hall doors closed. Thorfinn turned to look out at his kingdom, which seemed as vast and wild as it was beautiful, with its endless fields of green grass, thickets of wildflowers, streams that ran deep into the earth, and mountains and glaciers in the distance.
He’d come back to save Iceland from the threat of these invaders from beyond the sea. It was only natural that he should lead them. Even though it meant leaving his home behind, he knew he could not allow Iceland to fall victim to such barbarism. He needed to fight alongside his people; it was part of who he was, honor and duty he couldn’t ignore.
Thorfinn’s thoughts turned back to Sigurd. How long will he last if he continues along this path? Will he ever see his homeland again? Or will he become like the others? Men who’ve sold their souls for gold?
The hall doors opened. A group of men entered carrying a large chest, and one of them dropped down beside the king. “There,” he said. “That is our plunder.”
King Thorfinn stroked his beard thoughtfully. The men were right, there was more than enough wealth here to set up a new kingdom somewhere else if need be, but it would be a shame to lose everything. His gaze lingered on the chests and the jewels inside.
It would take months to count and sort this lot, and we’ve no time to waste.
“Bring the chests here.” Thorfinn pointed across the room to where a table stood. One of the men placed the first chest on it. “Open them.”
The men looked to the other men, but before any of them answered, Thorfinn raised his hand in a gesture of command and a pair of warriors stepped forward. They opened the lid of the chest and began pulling out the treasure within. Thorfinn leaned forward to peer inside, making sure it was what he had been promised, and then the warriors lifted it onto the floor.
“I want the rest of it,” Thorfinn said. “Every last bit of it. Now!”
They obeyed, lifting the second and third chests until all the silver and gold coins were piled atop the first. At that point, Sigurd came running back into the hall. When he saw his friend standing nearby, he drew his sword.
Thorfinn looked at Sigurd and held up his hand again. “Not so fast,” he said. “You will be fighting these fools. No doubt they mean us ill. Don’t do anything stupid.”
Sigurd took a step back from his king. He looked around at the gathered warriors. “We’re ready when you are,” he called out.
As if on cue, another group of men emerged from the shadows and surrounded the men holding the treasure. Thorfinn felt a flutter of excitement inside him as he recognized some of these men. They were members of the Ulfberht family, whom he trusted above all others in his kingdom.
“Now!” he shouted. “Fight for what you love!”
A wave of anger and hatred washed over the room, as men charged forward at once, wielding swords or axes, thrusting spears, striking blows, and chopping with their swords. Their voices rose in unison: “Jarlsbane! Jarlsbane! Jarlsbane!”
King Thorfinn watched in admiration. These men were a match for anyone in the world. They fought with skill, ferocity, and courage that could never be matched, but Thorfinn was not content simply to sit back and watch. He had spent too much time preparing for this moment to leave it to chance. He wanted these men to know their place, and that place was under his command.
He raised his hands to signal that everyone should stop moving and then he stepped toward them.
At once the Ulfberht warriors scattered to avoid being caught between the warring factions. Some even tried to flee. But Thorfinn did not allow it, turning his attention instead to Olaf. With a sweep of his arm, he sent the Norseman staggering backward with a blow to the back of his neck, knocking him unconscious.
Olofsson grunted in pain as his head struck the ground, but he didn’t wake up. In fact, he barely seemed to notice his head throbbing, as his eyes remained shut tight and his fists still clenched tightly in defense against whatever foe had attacked him.
As he stared off into nothingness, he became aware of how close he stood to one of the chests, which was just where his enemy was aiming now. Olofsson reached out with his right hand and grabbed hold of the handle of his sword before it fell into the open chest and the precious contents within.
He tugged it free of its sheath and threw it aside, leaving it lying useless on the stone floor. Then he kicked it away, sending it crashing into the side of a warrior’s helmet. He did it again, then punched a man hard in the throat, snapping his head back. Olofsson continued to fight with a fury that showed none of the fear or hesitation that usually overwhelmed him in combat.
He fought like a madman. And for once it made him feel alive.
In contrast, his enemy—whoever he might be—did not seem to care much about victory as long as he survived. He was just trying to keep his life, and that meant he needed to retreat.
“Leave us alone!” Olaf screamed at Thorfinn. “You’ve no idea what it’s like out there. It isn’t safe!”
“And yet here you are,” Thorfinn shouted back. “Do you have something to say?”
The warrior was silent for a moment, as he realized the truth of the statement. That was when he knew he was defeated and would die soon enough.
“I’m sorry,” he finally said. “It doesn’t make sense that you can kill me while I live. It shouldn’t work that way.”
King Thorfinn laughed. “No, it should not,” he agreed. He turned to Olaf. “But you should remember this,” he said. “Never forget it, because you will never be able to escape death as long as you live.”
Then he swung his sword with such force that Olaf’s head was severed from his shoulders without so much as a scream.
***
They found Einar and Gunnar together. The two brothers sat on either side of a small fire. Both seemed exhausted and worn down by the events they had witnessed.
Einar stared across at his brother. “Why did you come to us?” he asked. His voice sounded dull and empty compared to the roar of battle that had been ringing in their ears moments ago.
Gunnar looked away from him. “Don’t ask me questions like that, Erik,” he answered softly.
“What do you mean?”
“We’re both going to die anyway. What difference does it make why we came to this island or who we met along the way? There’s only one thing that matters now.”
“What’s that?”
“Survival, boy. Just survive and don’t worry about anything else.”
Erik frowned. This conversation was getting more confusing by the minute; he wasn’t sure which way to turn first, or what to believe anymore. Was Gunnar right and there really was no meaning to any of this? Or was Erik wrong and they could learn from every experience?
“Well?” Gunnar pressed him. “What did you think?”
Erik took a breath. “I think it means that this is all an illusion—a dream if you want to call it that.”
“A nightmare,” Gunnar muttered bitterly, shaking his head. “It’s just another bad dream, isn’t it? A nightmare.”
“So am I a part of your nightmare?”
“That depends on whether you wake up and realize the truth.”
“And what’s the truth?”
“This world isn’t real. You know that.”
“But I thought—”
“Didn’t you? That’s the problem,” he interrupted. “You’re not seeing things clearly.”
“Like what?”
“Just tell me how it looks to you.”
Erik hesitated, unsure where to begin. It was true that everything felt like a dream—but he was also certain that this place existed and the people around him were very much alive and not dreaming.
He didn’t understand how to reconcile these conflicting feelings. How could reality blend into fantasy in such a seamless way? But Gunnar had always seemed to grasp those kinds of things best of anyone he knew. Perhaps he could shed some light on the subject.
But then he heard the sound of footsteps approaching them through the darkness and he froze. Someone was coming.
As if he’d sensed it too, Gunnar rose to his feet and held himself ready in case it was a threat, but then he saw a familiar face and relaxed.
Thorolf walked over to the two boys and squatted next to them. As he drew near, Erik realized that Thorolf had a bloody cut on his chin, which must have happened during the fight earlier tonight.
“Are you all right?” Erik asked.
His voice sounded strange and muted, and he wondered if it had changed as well as the rest of the world around them.
“I’m fine,” Thorolf answered. “How are you doing, Einar?”
“Good,” he replied. Then he added: “Not so good though.”
Thorolf looked confused. “Is this the first time you’ve seen it, Erik?”
He gestured with his thumb behind him toward the forest. “Yes. Is it all like this?”
“No, that’s just part of it—the dream portion of this place. You see,” Thorolf continued, “there are two sides to the same coin. In other words, this isn’t a single place, but rather it’s a composite image of two different dreams—one good and one evil.”
The two young men glanced back to the woods and saw a group of men advancing upon them. They seemed to be armed with swords, axes, spears, and daggers and were moving quickly. Their faces were hidden by hoods, and their skin was painted white against the dark night, but they were clearly hostile to the sight of three strangers sitting alone out in the middle of nowhere.
Erik stood and faced the new arrivals. “Who are you?” he demanded, holding his spear ready, but not knowing what to expect.
“We are called the Brotherhood of Blood, and we have been sent to kill you.”
The End