Viking Stein
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“What is this? What did you do with him?” Thorgrim asked. But he already knew what the answer would be, even as it was coming.
Ivar looked at the Norsemen and then shrugged. “It’s not my place to tell you.” He turned away from them all, walking out of the tent toward the others who had gathered around their horses and gear. They were getting ready to ride home now that the fight was over. The sun hung low in the western sky and they would reach their camp well after dark.
He stopped beside his nephew and spoke quietly, but loud enough for all to hear: “We will have a reckoning with him, I promise you that. It will be your fault if we do not, so don’t think otherwise.” With those words, he turned on his heel and walked back toward his own small group.
There was silence for a moment while he went about securing his things, which included his sword, a short curved blade.
Thorgrim watched him go before turning to look at the rest. Most were busy checking weapons or saddling mounts; some, like Harald, were helping their companions get into their mail shirts, which would serve as armor against spear thrusts and swords.
One man had pulled the leather straps off his shield and tossed them aside, as they would no longer need them, and he was now rolling up his wool tunic to stow away with his other clothes.
Thorgrim waited until he could see that most of the men had finished gathering their gear, though there was still plenty left lying where it fell when they first arrived. Then he pointed to where Kjartan’s belongings lay scattered and said: “Take that stuff back to the boat.
If we leave any sign of our presence here I’ll kill one of you.” That got nods from everyone except for Harald and Sigurd and one or two others.
They rode down along the eastern shore road. After a mile, it ended at the mouth of a river that ran north and west to feed a broad, shallow lake. Beyond that, they followed the course of the river until it disappeared among the trees.
A few miles beyond the tree line they began to pass farmsteads, scattered widely across the grassy slopes. They passed many of these farms as they continued northward, each surrounded by stone walls, some topped with sharp points to deter raiders from climbing over, some only topped with a wooden fence made from logs tied together in long strips.
Some of those fences were burned and blackened and splintered wood was strewn across the ground, evidence of past raids.
The air grew cooler under the thin clouds that had gathered in the late afternoon sun. They rode on and soon left the farmers behind, passing through a narrow pass that led to open fields and forest again. Now that they were out of sight of the road they slowed their pace.
The horses seemed tired now, worn out from days on the road and nights on the hard bunks in the hold of the ship. They were happy to turn away from the windblown roads and head into the woods once more.
“That’s it,” Thorgrim said. They had ridden for three hours. It was time to stop. He turned his horse away from the trail and headed inland a bit and they found themselves standing in an old clearing, a place where a fire had been built years before.
The trees had grown up thickly through the remains of that fire and the land was covered in tall green grasses. Birds flitted about in the trees above them, hunting insects attracted to the dying embers of their last meal.
There were four small tents set up, though none was large enough for a single man to lie down inside. Thorgrim took the lead, pulling his pack off his shoulder and unrolling it. His sword was gone from its sheath and he laid it out on top of his blanket, looking at it as if making sure that it was real and he was really holding it. It seemed a very odd thing to say, “it was here all along.”
His other companions did the same, spreading out their bedrolls and settling down atop whatever soft spots they found on their packs. It was not quite dark, but far enough that a man could easily mistake night for day and so they were careful to check every shadow.
When they had finished setting up camp Thorgrim sat on the edge of his blankets and looked around at the others, who were doing the same. In his mind, he could already picture this scene repeated countless times in the coming months as they traveled to Ireland. The thought pleased him.
We’ve come too far to give it up now. But the thought of what they were leaving behind bothered him. They were leaving home. What else were they supposed to call their homeland?
It was not a question of where they were bound as much as how they would get there. How long it might take and whether they would ever reach their destination. And if they did reach Ireland, then what? What was their plan after that?
The Norsemen had come here seeking riches and glory, but now they knew neither would be theirs. Their ships were in ruins. Men were dead or enslaved. The gods must know how many times Thorgrim had wished he could just turn aside and go home, but he couldn’t do that now.
So instead he would have to try and figure things out like he always did—like any man trying to make sense of his life.
Sigurd had taken his place beside Thorgrim on the edge of the clearing. “I’m going to miss the ale here,” he said. He held up his empty mug and Thorgrim handed him another from his supply. “And you’re going to miss the women.” Sigurd took a long drink from the stein and wiped his beard with his forearm before returning it to Thorgrim.
“What is it with us and our drinks?” Thorgrim asked. “Is there something about drinking beer that brings out all your stupid comments?”
“It’s not the beer,” Sigurd said. “It’s because we talk about anything and everything and sometimes I can’t think of one damn thing to say.”
Thorgrim laughed. “Well, it does tend to loosen tongues.”
“So what will happen now?” Olaf stood beside Thorgrim, looking around at the surrounding trees. “How are we going to find these Irish bastards when we don’t even know where to look?”
Thorgrim scratched his head. He didn’t like the idea of being dependent upon men who had proven untrustworthy and unreliable. Even if he believed he had convinced them to follow him on this foolhardy mission, it was no surety that they would remain true. They were free to leave anytime. But it was clear now that they would not. At least not until they reached Ireland.
He shook his head. “We’ll have to wait till morning and start from here.” He paused, letting his gaze roam across the clearing. They had not gone far since they came in from the forest and yet there was hardly an impression of passing footfalls to show they had been here at all. There was a feeling of peace and quiet, a sense of serenity that was difficult to describe.
“This has been a good spot,” Olaf said. “A fine campsite. It feels almost magical.”
The others nodded in agreement. No one spoke, but their agreement was obvious.
“All right,” Thorgrim said, “we’d best get some sleep. It’s going to be a long day tomorrow.”
***
They left the next morning, each man carrying one of the packs they had set up during the night. The sun was high in the sky when they broke camp, a blue-white ball that burned white and hot against the green landscape of Ireland.
A breeze carried the scent of flowers through the air, wild thyme and roses, and for once there was no trace of the stench that came from the rotting bodies they had passed the day before.
It was a good morning. It did not seem so bad that they were heading into unknown lands in search of a land they didn’t even know existed.
In truth, Thorgrim had not given much thought to what lay ahead. It wasn’t a lack of planning that worried him; it was more a matter of what they should be doing in the first place. If the Irish were living somewhere else, what were they hoping to accomplish in seeking them out? What did they want with the Irish? What could the Irish offer the Norsemen other than death or slavery?
If I knew that, maybe I’d know what to do, Thorgrim thought as he followed behind Sigurd. But we don’t know. We’ve been tricked into this and we don’t know why. All we know is that we were sent to kill someone named Cormac. That’s it.
Maybe that’s the reason I’ve spent my entire life trying to become a better warrior. To win the respect of this Cormac. Or maybe it’s not the right name and we’re supposed to kill some other guy. Who knows?
“There it is!” Sigurd called over his shoulder, pointing at a rocky outcropping jutting out from the ground. It seemed out of place, out of the ordinary and Thorgrim knew exactly what Sigurd meant. “That’s where the ship went down.”
As they drew closer they saw the outline of the ship still clearly visible. Not much remained, just the keel which was barely above water level. They had sunk it deep enough in the soft muck to keep it submerged and thus preserve it, but they had made no attempt to haul it away.
In places along the hull, there were signs of the work to cut off the sail and secure it undercover. Some of the planks had been removed, too, revealing the wooden ribs. And everywhere there was evidence of the scavengers who had come for the wood: the gnawed bones of birds and small animals that lived in such a place, and the ragged edges of what looked like a leather sack or a blanket.
Thorgrim walked slowly toward the wreck, studying its shape with care, taking mental notes. He was thinking of how best to salvage it when Sigurd grabbed his arm and pulled him back. “Come on,” Sigurd said. “Let’s go.”
“No.” Thorgrim stopped short. He did not want to leave this place and he was reluctant to let his men see it, too. “I’ve got to get some measurements.” He turned to look at Sigurd, standing beside him, then at his son and Ragnar.
None of them appeared interested in leaving the site and yet Thorgrim felt certain he would never return. He shrugged his shoulders. “What difference does it make?”
“It’s going to rain, you know,” Sigurd said.
Thorgrim stared at him for a moment as if unsure of which one he was addressing. His mind was still on the ship, and how to salvage it when the time came. But Sigurd’s words finally penetrated. Rain? Why would it rain?
This was Ireland, a land where the weather was as unpredictable as it was foul. He glanced back over his shoulder at the clear blue sky that stretched from horizon to horizon and wondered why anyone would choose to live in such a place. It must be something to do with the religion and the gods and he supposed that might have something to do with it.
The sky darkened as they moved away from the shipwreck. Within an hour of their departure, the clouds had gathered overhead and now the wind was gusting around them. They were walking north and soon found themselves lost.
The land seemed to be rolling hills covered by a thick growth of trees, birches, and firs, all of them tall and leafy. There were no roads leading to any towns or farmsteads so they kept on foot, following whatever track they could find, often stepping over fallen logs and through thick patches of weeds.
Thorgrim had expected trouble along the way, had feared ambushes and the sort of ambush that comes at dusk, from the darkness hiding in the grasses, but none arrived and they were able to walk unhindered for many miles until Sigurd finally decided they should stop and make camp.
They made a fire in a grove of pine trees. It was a poor spot, but there weren’t many choices. As always with fires, Thorgrim tried to keep it small, and though this was true, the smoke was already making him uncomfortable.
Even before they built it up a few feet, he could feel a thin line of grit along the inside of his nostrils and he hoped it would pass quickly. He took a long pull of ale, hoping the bitterness would help, and watched the others around him.
He wasn’t sure which of them had gone ashore, but he had a good idea. Aylah probably knew, but she wouldn’t tell him. She was a strange one, that one. He’d seen her around the shipyard sometimes, and though she was always quiet, she had seemed to be watching him.
She was certainly loyal enough to Thorgrim’s cause, but he wondered about the rest. How many of his crew would join him? Most of them were young, and even if they had followed him across the sea they would need to learn to fight well, to understand the ways of the Northmen and the Norsemen.
That might take a while; perhaps it was better to wait for more seasoned warriors. Then again, maybe it was worth trying something new, to bring in the best of the best. It was all a matter of numbers, he told himself. If we can gather a hundred good men, a hundred strong warriors…
But it was not a question of numbers alone. They needed weapons, armor, shields, food stores, and water. He was running out of time and resources and his options were running out fast. He didn’t like that, not one bit.
He thought of Aelfric who had left him on board the ship and now sat on the ground near the edge of the grove of pine trees, talking to his men. He saw them occasionally glancing at him, nodding, but it was not as if he was being invited to speak.
They just wanted to know what they were doing here. What would they be fighting for? And when they found that out, it wouldn’t be so easy to convince them to stay.
Sigurd had taken the initiative. He called his men together and began telling them about how they had come to the land of the Irish, that they were seeking to establish a colony and a new life, and that they had come in search of a great king to lead them.
He spoke with confidence and passion, drawing his listeners in as he did, though Thorgrim noticed some of the younger warriors shifting restlessly. Sigurd was right, he told himself, there is a hunger among us and we have no choice but to satisfy it.
But there were other things too, the fact that we are far away from home, that the days will be short and dark. We have been cast into the unknown and it may be hard for the weak of heart to bear. The men who listen to Sigurd now, those young men he calls “my brothers,” he says he can win over easily, he can make them believe.
I am older than them by five or six years and yet I doubt I can do it myself.
He drank deeply from his cup and put it down beside him, watching Sigurd speaking. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t considered what to say once they got into Ireland. He’d spent hours thinking about it, rehearsing it in his head. He had known there would be questions and doubts and reluctance.
He had even imagined the worst; what if everyone stayed behind? What then? But he had never given serious consideration to what he might say in response to those who came to join him willingly, who might find a kinship in what he sought.
He had assumed he would give them a speech, but he had never thought about it very much because he did not believe it would happen. Yet here he was, and it was happening, and he was having trouble coming up with an answer.
“What does Sigurd want?” someone asked suddenly, interrupting his thoughts. He looked up and saw Aylah standing next to him. Her hair had grown since he had seen her last; it hung to her shoulders now, and golden strands are woven with green, yellow and blue.
She wore a linen shirt that showed off the curves of her breasts. A sword lay at her waist and she carried a bow strung and ready for use. She smiled at him and he felt his cheeks grow warm.
“Aye, what does Sigurd want?” another voice added, and Thorgrim recognized Grimr. “To rule us as king?”
Grimr was right, of course. If I can win over Sigurd’s crew, I’ve won half the battle.
The End