Viking Warpaint
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“We’ll take the women and children first,” said Thorgrim, as if this were some kind of plan. He took a handful of grain from one sack with his left hand, then grabbed the shoulder of the nearest man’s coat with his right hand. “If you run, we will kill everyone in that wagon.”
The man did not answer him, but he nodded anyway. A second time, Thorgrim put the weight on the man’s shoulder, but this time he felt something give way beneath him. The man fell forward to the ground and rolled toward the side of the road, where his head cracked against the rocks of the cliff.
Then he was up again, reaching for his dagger at his belt. But Thorgrim had already drawn his sword and chopped it down, once, twice, three times on the back of the man’s legs as he tried to rise. Blood sprayed out across the rocks around them like red raindrops falling from heaven above.
His feet went out from under him and he landed hard on his chest, knocking the breath out of himself and making him howl in pain. Another blow to the top of his skull made sure of that.
Thorgrim turned to see what was happening behind him and saw Harald holding off another attacker while the third man ran past him, trying to get away. He didn’t even make it five steps before Thorgrim’s ax came down in an arc over the heads of all three men. He stepped on the fallen man’s neck so that blood sprayed into the air. He cut the other two down with blows to their necks.
A shout sounded from up ahead—the first voice, he was pretty sure, since they’d arrived. It was followed by more shouting and the sound of fighting, which suggested someone was still alive. They might have been able to sneak away, or they might have managed to get into one of the wagons, but whatever happened, it meant there were other men who knew about the raid.
Or maybe there were no other men; perhaps they all died in the ambush. But whatever the case, Thorgrim wasn’t going to let it go without a fight. If these men had friends nearby, they would find themselves facing the same fate as their companions soon enough.
He walked up to Harald now and looked him over. He seemed to be unharmed, though his shirt was torn open at the back from where he caught a fist full of the man’s hair.
“How many are left?” he asked.
Harald shook his head. “Not much longer until dawn,” he said. He sounded shaken, which told Thorgrim that he too was afraid the enemy would return before long.
They stood there for a moment, breathing heavily. Then Thorgrim heard voices coming closer. One of them was familiar.
“Thorgrim!” called a voice he did not recognize. Then a figure emerged into the moonlight. He could not see anything more than its silhouette. Then another figure appeared.
“Bjarni! Bjorn!” Thorgrim cried out, recognizing both faces.
The two men stopped, looking back at him, then moved forward cautiously. “You’re alive,” said Bjorn. He sounded relieved.
“And you too,” Thorgrim said, smiling. It felt good to know that he was not alone in this place. At least, he hoped Bjorn and Bjarni were with him; they were both young and strong fighters, and having them along might well make up for all the losses they had suffered during the night.
There was still no sign of any enemies or of any resistance. But there was something else Thorgrim found disturbing about what lay before them: they faced only the wagons of grain. There was no sign of the horses they had seen when they first rode in, just as there was no sign of the people they had expected to meet on this trip.
“What’s going on here?” Thorgrim shouted in surprise.
Then Bjorn spoke up, sounding angry, saying, “It looks like these bastards stole our horses after we fought them off.” He kicked at the ground. “I hope those bastards are dead somewhere out there and they never wake up again.”
As they stood around discussing what to do next, the moon disappeared behind clouds and a light mist began to fall, bringing with it a chill that settled in the bones and made the hairs stand up on the backs of Thorgrim’s arms. It was going to be a cold, miserable night.
Thorgrim was certain now that whoever had attacked them must have been a small force of men, fewer than thirty. And if so, they were long gone by now, probably on their way south to some town or city in Iceland, or back home to Norway.
They might send a messenger north ahead of them, warning them that a small raiding party had come to raid them and had gotten lucky. But otherwise, they wouldn’t be coming back, or at least not in large numbers.
“We’ve got to leave right now,” Thorgrim said. He turned toward the wagons and pointed at it, trying to draw Bjorn’s attention. The rain was falling harder now, a steady drizzle.
“But we don’t have any harnesses or packs!” Bjorn shouted back. “If we leave them here—”
“They can be retrieved later,” Thorgrim replied. It was true; there was little danger of anyone stealing their possessions, nor was it likely that they would ever be recovered, at least not in good condition. As he thought about it, the wagons and the supplies within were worth less than nothing now, unless the raiders decided to stay behind and fight a pitched battle against a larger force.
He didn’t think it likely, even though the odds would favor the raiders in such a confrontation. The wagons offered them shelter from the rain and wind. If the raiders were determined, they might decide to wait for the dawn—if there was dawn to be seen in this miserable weather.
Or perhaps the raiders would take off with their booty and leave them all to die. That seemed likely also. Even if they wanted to save the loot for a later date, it was unlikely they were going to waste time killing a few more warriors while waiting for the rest of their army to arrive.
A decision had to be made before night fell completely before the last traces of light disappeared. Thorgrim looked around and spotted an oak tree close by that would serve as shelter for the horses and maybe even the riders if there happened to be any left alive.
“Come on!” he shouted, pointing toward the tree. “Let’s get the animals under cover and then we’ll see what’s what.”
Bjorn nodded and moved closer to Thorgrim, who pulled him up and gave him a hug that was half brotherly and half warrior’s greeting, as they both knew they might soon be fighting side by side again.
The two went to the horse lines and began to untack the horses, leading them under the branches of the big tree. They had the saddles put down and laid flat. When they had finished they gathered up the tack and the packs, threw them into one of the wagons, and closed the doors.
Then they climbed up onto their horses and rode away, heading north-northeast along the road, following it until it came to a crossroads and the wagons were lost in the darkness.
It was late afternoon before they stopped again. They had been riding almost nonstop, but neither man was exhausted; they had both spent their share of nights on horseback, and neither had been born yesterday. Thorgrim took command and told Bjarni to go back to the horses and check on them. He himself sat down against the front of his saddle and let the rain wash over him.
He was soaked through already; he could feel water running down the inside of his legs and through his breeches. Soon it would soak deep enough that it would seep through. There was no point in pulling off his clothes, he knew. They’d just freeze when they hit the ground. So he did what he could, which wasn’t much, and tried to get comfortable where he was.
And yet the rain felt good, soothing somehow, a reminder that there was a world beyond these miserable days of travel.
He was thinking like a coward and he knew it. This was a battle that had been waged on the seas and the winds and in the dark halls of ships; the land should be easier. And it was, but it was hard. The ground was uneven.
The footing was treacherous in places, as there were rocks and roots sticking out of the earth, as well as mounds that would cause a horse to stumble and fall if they weren’t careful. They rode for long hours through the gray, misty day, the sky above clouded with low gray clouds, the wind blowing hard enough to push the rain sideways across the ground and fill the air with its wet breath.
At least there hadn’t been any sign of pursuit. At times during their ride, they had heard the faint clatter of hooves behind them—or had it been thunder?—but they’d always been able to put some distance between themselves and the sounds.
Now Bjorn returned with news: All the animals were fine and so were the men who had been assigned to care for them. They had managed to get the horses in among the trees and cover most of them with their blankets to keep them dry.
Some of the men were sitting on fallen logs nearby, warming their hands in front of the flames they had built atop a pile of dead limbs they collected from the forest.
Thorgrim stood up and shook the rain off his shoulders. His hair was plastered to the sides of his head, but the worst of it was gone; the dampness from his hair had seeped straight into the skin beneath, chilling him to his marrow.
“Well?” Thorgrim said. “What’s it look like back there? What do you think is happening?”
Bjorn looked around at his fellow Norsemen. He did not seem happy.
“I don’t know,” he finally said. “Nothing I’ve seen looks hopeful.”
Thorgrim nodded, though he didn’t say anything.
There were no more questions or answers. Just silence as the three of them stared ahead, looking out at the dark shapes of trees passing by. Thorgrim thought he could see a flash of yellow light in the distance, but then he realized it was only the reflection of sunlight on wet leaves.
They waited as long as they could. Then, with the last of the daylight fading away, Thorgrim turned his mount in a wide circle, trying to find the best way out of the woods. He could not tell which way was east nor which was south, but there were plenty of choices. He chose one and led them back out, making sure they kept a sharp eye out for any signs of enemies.
Once they left the trees, it was clear sailing for a time, until they saw another farmhouse standing alone on the edge of an open field. As soon as they passed it, a group of mounted warriors emerged from the trees in front of them.
Their faces were covered with cloth or leather masks and they carried spears and shields, ready for battle. The leader, who wore no mask, rode toward Thorgrim’s position; his shield bore the crest of the King of Sweden, Sigtryggr. It was the same crest the king used in Norway; Sigtryggr claimed this region too for himself.
That was all Thorgrim needed to see, and he wheeled his horse around. “Run!” he shouted.
They galloped down the road, their mounts pounding the packed-down mud in a steady rhythm. Thorgrim leaned forward on his stirrups, eyes closed against the wind, holding onto his saddle horn with one hand and keeping his sword up and ready to draw as he had been taught by his father many years ago.
Behind him, he heard the shouts of his men—their voices high, shrill as gulls’ cries. He knew he couldn’t count on luck, but perhaps luck would favor those who ran faster than their enemies. Or perhaps Sigtryggr had sent a few men after them and now they would catch up and turn back the fleeing horsemen.
There was nothing to be done about it but go as fast as possible, and hope for the best.
It did not take long before they reached the main road that ran north to the coast and the sea and the ship waiting there, but still, they heard no signs of pursuit. But they knew Sigtryggr’s men would have to pass the farm where they stopped and come after them; there was no way around the obstacles ahead without risking a deadly confrontation.
So they continued on and made good time. In less than an hour, Thorgrim felt confident enough to slow to a walk, and then to a trot. He pulled the reins over his horse’s head; its ears flattened to its neck. They came upon the first buildings along the coastal highway as night settled over them.
They were simple log structures surrounded by a fence of logs or stones to protect them from wild animals and raiders. A fire burned in the center of each structure’s yard. The air was cold and wet; it seemed to grow even chillier as they drew close to the fires.
The houses were dark when they passed by them, and Thorgrim wondered if any of these people had survived their ordeal. He imagined them they huddled inside the warmth, shivering in their homes as they listened to the howling winds and the pounding surf. Perhaps a few had been taken captive. Maybe more had been killed or wounded in the fight to defend this land.
The End