Viking Treasures
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It was a fine day in the spring of 849, and Ivar was on his way back to his stronghold at Viken. He had just returned from an expedition into Frankia where he had been forced to flee when his army had been attacked by Frankish raiders.
The Frankish king’s name meant nothing to him now but it was clear that the Frankish king would have his head if he were caught again in the land of the Franks. So he had taken his ships around the southern coast of France as far as Narbonne and then sailed north through the Straits of Gibraltar and across the Mediterranean Sea, heading for home.
His fleet had not yet arrived so there was time for one more trip before the next storm blew in. And besides, he thought with a smile, there was always something interesting along this stretch of the coast.
Ivar took his eyes off the road ahead long enough to glance down at what he carried. It was a small box made of oak wood and bound with iron bands. The lid bore a single word: “treasure.” There was no explanation written upon it; only the words themselves said everything needed about it.
As he walked the narrow road leading up to the hill fort of Viken, he held the box close to his chest. When he reached the gates of his fortress, he opened the box, took out two items within, and laid them carefully atop a pile of other things stacked against the wall inside. Then he closed the box once more.
The first item he removed from the box was a golden ring. It was set with three large sapphires, each cut like a perfect oval and surrounded by smaller diamonds. A band of gold circled the entire ring, and it rested on a finger-sized bone handle carved to resemble a dragon’s claw. Atop the handle, another sapphire glittered, catching the light as Ivar turned the ring over in his fingers.
“A beautiful ring,” he muttered to himself.
He placed the ring in his belt pouch and continued looking through the box until he found what he sought. With care, he lifted it out of its resting place. This was an object that had belonged to Ivar’s mother.
She had given it to him many years ago, and although she could never be sure how much time might pass between visits to the shipyard where she worked, she knew he would come. For some reason, perhaps because she wanted him to find it again after she died, she had hidden it away beneath layers of leather padding and tied it with strips of linen rope.
Now it sat in his hand—a round wooden shield decorated with a pattern of runes.
“What is the point?” he mumbled. “You know you will die here, and all your treasures go with you to Valhalla. You should give these to your sons or put them somewhere safe.” But even as he spoke those words, he knew they were empty promises. Nothing in his life was ever secure. Not since his father’s death. Not since he left her.
As the days passed without a word from the sea, he grew anxious. His heart pounded whenever he heard the sound of men working metal or hammering nails into wood. He began taking risks, sneaking off to visit the ships under construction.
One day he was caught by the guards who accused him of spying and beat him unconscious. In the following weeks, he did little else but sit in the courtyard staring at the ships. They looked different than any others he had seen. Their hulls were painted black instead of white.
Runes had been drawn onto their sides, and runes were carved into the handles of weapons mounted above their gun ports. These were ships for fighting battles, not fishing. And so he spent every waking hour learning the names and designs of every weapon aboard the ship.
Every morning he would wake early, run outside and watch as the sun rose above the sea and watched as the sky filled with birds flying southward. When he could stand the sight of the shipyards anymore, he went back inside and tried to study the runes and symbols engraved on the walls of his room. But soon his mind wandered elsewhere.
Finally, after nearly six months, the ship came into view. It was a fine vessel, the finest he’d seen yet. Its prow pointed toward the sea as it floated on the waves. Smoke drifted lazily from its stack and wisps of steam curled from the top of its mast.
Ivar’s mouth watered as he saw the crew of thirty sailors hard at work, preparing for battle. Some of them wore chain mail armor or helmets adorned with skulls while others wielded shields of polished bronze. Others carried spears or swords.
All of them were young warriors wearing tattoos on their faces. Even though he stood far back behind the guard shack, he felt a strange pull, almost as if something invisible had pulled him closer to the ship. His skin prickled and burned, and then he realized why. The smoke drifts from the stack.
It smelled familiar.
His hands trembled as he approached the railing, trying to keep the smell of burning pitch from overwhelming him. But when he leaned forward, peering past the edge, he caught his breath.
“That one,” he whispered.
Above the deckhouse, just below the crow’s nest, two ravens perched atop the stern post. As if summoned by the sight of the bird, one of them cawed loudly, flapping its wings and screeching. The other answered with a cry, and the whole crew stopped working.
“This ship is cursed!” someone shouted. “They’re both evil creatures! Kill them!”
Ivar backed away. If this was some sort of trick, he didn’t want to fall, victim. Yet the longer he stared at the raven, the more he believed he wasn’t alone. He closed his eyes. Was he still standing on the ship? Or was he dreaming? No matter which, he needed answers. So he stepped forward once again.
“Hello, Raven,” he said. “I’ve come to speak with you.”
***
Ravens are known as harbingers of doom, and it seemed appropriate that Ivar found himself in the company of such a creature. Perhaps there was no better way to describe what he felt, the sense that something terrible was about to happen.
A chill ran through him despite the summer heat. His legs shook. Goose bumps broke out across his arms. And yet he remained calm. This was what he wanted. After all, hadn’t he always yearned for this moment? To see his father’s ship. To talk with his brother.
He waited until the crew was distracted by another task before approaching the ship once more. At first, he feared they would turn him away. That his father’s ship would be forever beyond his reach. But then he noticed a man dressed like an officer walking up and down the length of the ship, inspecting the lines and rigging.
“Excuse me, sir,” Ivar called out. “My name is Ulfrik, son of Thorvald. My father commanded this ship before my birth. Can I speak with you?”
The man turned and glared at him. His face was covered in scars and burns. Most of his teeth had been knocked out, leaving only three intact. He spat into the dirt and then strode over to Ivar. “Who do you think you are talking to, boy? You look like you barely have enough strength left to crawl from your bed to the latrine. Get lost.”
As if to prove the point, a wave of dizziness struck him. Forcing his body to obey, he took several deep breaths. Then he straightened up and held his head high.
“Your name isn’t important. What matters is that I am here because of my father. He entrusted me to command this ship and carry on his legacy. Until now, I never knew where she was located. Now, thanks to you, I know exactly where to find her.”
For the first time since meeting him, the captain looked pleased. “Then perhaps we can help each other. Your father trusted me with the care of this vessel. In return, I will grant you permission to board.”
“Thank you,” Ivar said. “But may I ask how you came upon this information so quickly?”
“You’ll find out soon enough. Follow me.”
The captain led him around the side of the ship, past the crewmen who continued their preparations. They spoke in hushed tones, but he overheard bits of conversation: “…cursed ship. She killed us all…” “Can’t get rid of those damn birds…they attack every day…” One of them even asked if they could send him off on shore leave instead of guarding the ship.
As the group moved farther away, Ivar slowed his pace. He thought he heard his mother calling his name, but it was impossible. His parents were dead. Hadn’t he told everyone that? Why was she haunting him? It was too much.
When he reached the back of the ship, he saw that the sea water had nearly filled the hold. The wood was rotted through, and the water level rose higher than he could see. Some of the men had already waded over to the opposite end of the ship, trying to push against it. When he drew near, one of the sailors pointed at him. “What are you doing, boy? Don’t go anywhere near the edge!”
His heart pounding in fear, Ivar hurried after the others. When he finally got close enough to touch the hull, he realized why the ship was sinking. Its keel was gone. Instead of being solid, it was nothing more than a narrow strip of planks.
Someone must have cut it away to try and escape, or maybe the ship was caught in a storm. Whatever happened, he doubted the men aboard cared much. They were far too busy watching their own backs.
A shout sounded behind him. He whirled around, expecting to see some of his enemies coming to finish the job. But instead, he spotted his father. Standing beside the bow, his father’s hair glistened in the sunlight.
It couldn’t be true, but there was no mistaking the resemblance.
Thorkel nodded toward him and motioned toward the stern. “Come along, Ulfrik. We need to get out of this place before we die.”
***
Ulfrik did not argue. If his father truly lived, then he had a reason for hope. Though he suspected his father would take revenge on anyone who harmed him, he still wanted to believe the old man was alive. And he had seen no sign of foul play.
Even as the men tried to keep them away, they seemed mostly focused on keeping the boat afloat rather than attacking the survivors. As long as they kept their distance, they might live.
They made it to the stern of the ship and climbed up onto its deck. From there, they followed Thorkel down an open hatchway into the main cabin. A few of the crewmen stood guard outside, but otherwise, the room was deserted.
Ivar dropped his pack and pulled his sword free. He had forgotten to remove it from beneath his shirt when he boarded the ship. Now, it jingled loudly against his armor.
“We’re lucky none of the crew decided to kill us while we slept,” Ulfrik said. “That would’ve ruined our plans.”
He shouldered his shield and handed his spear to the nearest sailor. He didn’t want any of these scoundrels to be armed. Without weapons, they could hardly fight off a single enemy. He glanced at Thorkel. His father was leaning heavily on his walking stick. With each step, the wooden handle scraped the floorboards.
Thorkel glanced back at the doorway and shook his head. “Not yet. Let us stay hidden until we learn what we can. We won’t gain anything by rushing in like fools.”
Ulfrik nodded and turned back to face the front of the ship. “Where do you think your mother is?”
“She’s been here, I’m sure of it.” Thorkel lowered himself carefully into a chair. He rested his hands on either armrest, as if ready to leap out again. “She probably took shelter in the captain’s quarters, which are next door.”
“Do you know where she went?”
“No, but I doubt she’d run straight home. You remember her. She has always liked danger.”
“And you?” Ulfrik asked. “Did you really come across the news so fast because you knew someone would tell us sooner or later? Or did you just happen upon it while looking for other things?”
“Why don’t we both ask questions? I’m sure I’ll answer yours better than you will mine.”
Ulfrik shrugged. “Then let’s start with your real name. Are you really Thorkel?”
Thorkel looked surprised and then laughed. “Of course. Who else could be?”
“You mean Thorkel Jarlson? Not Thorkel the Elder or Thorkel the Younger? But those names are legends!”
The laughter died on Thorkel’s lips. His eyes widened. Then he leaned forward. “So you know about me, do you?”
Ulfrik stepped closer, holding his ground despite his father’s sudden aggression. “Don’t worry. No one knows my secret except a handful of people.”
“What secret? That you are the son of King Harald Gormsson?”
Now that his father mentioned it, Ulfrik remembered how he had felt when he heard the rumors. It wasn’t something he could ignore. Yet even now he found it hard to believe. How many years ago was that? The stories had started during his grandfather’s reign. Surely if it were true, it would have come out by now.
Yet he had never questioned it. In fact, he often used Thorkel’s name as a form of intimidation among the other warriors. There must have been dozens of sons of kings born since Harald’s death. Why hadn’t he heard of any of them?
But why should he care? Perhaps this was all part of Loki’s plan. He wanted Ulfrik to feel pride in his heritage and thus inspire him to seek revenge on Harald. This was exactly the sort of thing that would infuriate the gods and bring more misfortune upon his family.
As far as he could recall, there had only ever been three men bearing the name of Thorkel. One was Harald’s first mate who had been killed at Stiklestad; another was a blacksmith’s apprentice whose mother was the wife of a farmer near Hinderå. Both men were dead by the time he was old enough to hear tales of the great battles fought by Harald. So much for being famous.
His thoughts drifted back to the day he learned of the king’s death. They had gathered to bury Harald and the others after the battle. At the graveside, his father told him how Harald had led them into the sea and sacrificed himself so they might escape.
He had lost two brothers and most of their ships’ crew. When Ulfrik stood at the grave site, he understood why Harald had done such a thing. After the fighting ended, they had no food or water left. And without his leadership, the survivors were doomed to starve and die.
When the rain fell from the sky, Harald ordered the fleet to turn around and return to Denmark. Many had refused, thinking it was madness. Instead, they formed an alliance with the Norsemen who lived along the coast.
Some even swore allegiance to the English king Edward. Harald had taken command once again and led the survivors away. Only four ships made it safely home. Two of them carried Harald’s body, and the third returned to the North Sea.
That night Ulfrik had fallen asleep to the sounds of his father crying over the loss of his friends and brother. A year later, Ulfrik’s mother gave birth to him. She had not remarried, though she did take on the surname of Gudrod, meaning the son of Gudrún. He wondered if his father had been so distraught that he named him after the woman he loved before his wife died.
“I’ve known since you were a boy,” Thorkel said, staring up at the ceiling. “My father thought I’d be a good man to raise you. He saw something in me, I guess. I didn’t understand until I became older. My father was a good man, but a bit too serious. He never seemed happy unless he was planning something.”
“He trained you well. You’re a skilled fighter.”
“Only because I followed orders like a good soldier. If I’d had to think for myself, I wouldn’t have survived. What happened today is proof of that. Had I stayed where I belonged, none of us would be here. We would have sailed off with our prizes and lived happily ever after. As it stands, I almost got myself and everyone else killed.”
“Who are you talking about? Did you get caught doing some smuggling?”
Thorkel laughed. “No. Nothing so mundane. It seems someone wants me dead. Now, what am I going to do?”
Ulfrik raised a hand. “Let me speak with my men tonight. Tomorrow we’ll go find the culprits.”
The End