Paths of the Norseman, page 22
part #2 of The Norseman Chronicles Series
We would be outnumbered by the frightfully dressed attackers, but not badly so, perhaps nearly two to one or a little less. My counting Scotsman, Fife, would have known with exact precision. From my vantage point I saw that many of their men had shaved off most of the hair on their heads except for a long patch at the top that they somehow had stiffened with animal grease or the like, making it stand up tall like feathers on the head of a duck. Those who did not shave their heads wore their consistently black hair in braids; some then hid it under warm-looking otter skin caps. Almost all of them wore some type of single or double feather clipped in their hair. As was typical, their lower limbs were covered with hide leggings and they wore breechcloths tied at the waist. Some wore deerskin tunics, with or without sleeves, while others went shirtless despite the cool weather. Many had new tattoos with ink that seemed to shine directly to the eye, fresh, crusty scarring visible.
Turning, I flashed hand signals down the hill to Folkvar, who then passed them onto the village, indicating that I wanted twenty men to make their way to the shingle to confront the skraeling warriors. Before hand, we had held races to determine the fastest runners who were then pre-selected for this first line of men. They would need swiftness to stay alive.
Leaning back out to see our opening move in what would be a killing dance that eventually evolved into the killing song of clanging blades, twangs of bowstrings, and screams for mothers, I watched our men scramble to the water’s edge. They came in twos and threes, they were confused, disorganized. They searched among storage piles for our red shields, battle shields. The men hastily strapped on their belts while forming a ramshackle line there on the beach. One struggled while wrestling his too-large bow to lace its string back on the powerful yew. In short, they were worse than the pathetic lot I had been training for several weeks. In short, they were perfect.
Then the taunting began. Every battle, small or large, in which I have ever fought, begins with taunting. I do not know if the skraelings began their battles that way before seeing us, but we mocked them that day. The twenty men stood there shaking their red shields high, shouting curses at the invaders. One man made a motion with his hands that is considered vulgar among the Norse, though I do not think it was considered much of anything by the landing party. They spat and swore; one even walked knee deep into the water and pissed at the oncoming horde. All these efforts were having the desired effect. The skraelings began shouting back, anger building, while shaking stone axes in the air. I could not hear every word because of the wind, but those I did hear and could interpret were curses indeed. One of the canoes began teetering as a single skraeling stood up to make himself heard. His movement made the man in the bow lose his balance and soon they had all fallen into the cold fjord. Excellent, I thought. My men were causing confusion, maybe even frustration. Hopefully soon we would bring death.
In Europe it was often the army which drank less ale on the morning of the battle that carried the day so I allowed only a single mug with breakfast. Today I also hoped it was the better organized, better prepared, perhaps even the more cunning army which would rule the day while spilling the other army’s blood. I hoped we were the cunning band.
Two other canoes went to help their companions right their boat and pull them from the deep cold waves, delaying the progress of three boats in total – more good news. As they did this, our man who toiled so with his bow string succeed in looping it, then calmly walked to the end of our line. I admired him as he nocked the arrow, picked his target, pulled the cord to his cheek, and released. The first death of the day.
The arrow sailed true and found a wiry tattooed man who swung the pole in the lead boat. The broad iron head cracked into his chest, puncturing his bear tattoo, picking him from his feet as if he were a bit of dust being flicked off a woman’s dress. His lifeless body splashed into the water after sailing over the two men who sat directly behind him in the canoe. More shouting. More rage.
Our archer, he was the best in the village and specifically selected for this task, took down two more skraelings in this manner before the attackers began to answer with their own onslaught of missiles. Perfect. Now it was time for the second part of our plan and I was confident it would be executed well, for it was the easiest. Our men had to begin to cower behind their shields looking frightened at the oncoming death awaiting them. The bowman stopped his killing and shared a shield with another man. They crouched and ducked behind the shields, poking their heads out occasionally to shout again, coming up with impressively imaginative ways to curse the enemy.
I turned back to Folkvar and gave him the agreed signal that all was ready. He ran off to make the final preparations with Thorfinn and the other men. My gaze returned to the action and I stood, getting prepared to take my own position. I resisted a brief urge to scan the flotilla for Ahanu when one of the twenty defenders took an arrow in his upper arm and was instantly dragged away from the battle by another man. This was not good, yet it was to be expected. It would actually play better into our trap, making it all the more irresistible to the attackers.
Eight ells, that’s how close the nearest boat was now. Our archer shot one more man then ran away himself. Then three more men fled, leaving fourteen. Six ells and the first men began pouring over the sides of the canoe, so eager they were for battle and their deaths, I hoped. Simultaneously, another eight of our men took flight. These last men standing at the fjord were brave, and I was proud to be their commander. They stood their ground as instructed. They were the fastest men we had to be sure, but being swift of foot is not much comfort when hundreds of armed warriors are bearing down on you, intent to pull your innards out.
Then one of these last six, Egil, took action I did not expect. He raced forward into the pounding waves to attack the first skraelings approaching land. In truth it was foolish, but it helped us set the trap, and I was delighted afterward when our men sang a battle song around the hearth to Egil’s bravery. With some inspiring agility, he avoided an axe blow from a howling warrior and plunged his spear into the man’s side. Yet the wind and surf were strong and a particularly powerful wave slammed into Egil’s feet, taking him down face first. All attention had turned to him from the nearest boats and within seconds no fewer than six arrows jutted from his back, as he floated lifelessly in the breakers.
Run, I thought, and they did. The last of our men at the beach turned, scattering back toward the village. One of them, Ormr, was slammed headlong into a tree by a heavy spear that pushed into his back through his thick leather mail. He crumpled to the ground on his side and I saw that his chest heaved while he fought to live. His arms scratched at the rocks strewn on the beach; he was alone and could not be helped. I needed to run too, but I hesitated a moment to watch the skraelings pour onto the pebbled shingle, then watched with some horror as the man who threw the spear bent down with a thin knife in his hand and cut the skin and long hair from Ormr’s head while he yet lived! While the other warriors flooded around him through the trees that separated the village from the quay, he raised the bloodied mess high above his head and shrieked with such power I dropped back a step from the noise and shock.
Now I had to fly. Grabbing my bow, I ran along the backside of a curving ridge to remain concealed from the attackers down below; my helmet sat atop my head. Even now they would be entering the village in pursuit of the defenders they believed they had successfully dislodged from the beach. Those brave runners were our tempting bait. But the skraelings would be frustrated for the village was empty. We sent the women into a ravine some miles away where they were guarded by ten men. The rest of the men waited to spring the trap.
I ran down the hill, concealing myself at the edge of an open meadow, once again waiting for my chance to kill. You see, all of our runners ran into the village, hiding behind the farthest longhouse. When the invaders came close enough, they would all flee into the forest screaming in terror so that the skraelings would give chase. The screams of panic came just then, so I pulled an arrow from the quiver which hung at my leg, deliberately setting it in place – only moments now.
A group of the fastest of our runners flew past me through the meadow. I was never as fast as these men, even in my youth, certainly not now. Then came another batch, while the last men came singly with larger gaps forming among the slowest of our fast. The cries of their pursuers grew closer and I saw that several of their men, with axes raised, gained on our soldiers. Just as one enemy began a downward swing to crush the head of a Norseman, my arrow tore into the skraeling’s right cheek, sending his head spinning, his body skidding across the ground. The dead man’s companions ignored the fallen man and jumped over him to continue to gain on our runners. A second man raised a spear to hurl it into the back of our last man, but my arrow found its way into the pit of his arm, burying deep into his body. I reached into the quiver, grasping a missile with which to kill a third skraeling, but like a fat-fingered child, I fumbled with the arrow. Under my breath, I cursed, because the delay gave enough time for a pursuer to successfully launch a spear into the back of the trailing settler.
I moved again, angling away from the trail to the spot we selected for our battle. Time and again, I have been witness to the benefits of choosing the site on which to shed blood. As I panted beneath my bear skin, I hoped it would be so today. At last I made it to what would be the left end of our curving line and ducked down next to Thorfinn amongst the bushes. Despite the circuitous route taken by our swift men, they were arriving in the clearing ahead simultaneously. They paused, resting their hands on their knees to take in gulps of breath while the others came into the clearing.
These vastly outnumbered men did not have to act frightened at the first sight of their would-be killers. They ran en masse to the end of the clearing and began picking their way up an incline with scattered rocks, bushes and trees. Oh, True God, I thought, but this was marvelous. The whole lot of the skraelings ran headlong into the clearing and without noticing the hundreds of eyes fixed upon them, ran to kill our exhausted men at the opposite end.
“Up!” I shouted and the slaughter began.
. . .
Every man with a bow, except for those of us on the far left and right flanks, sent arrows indiscriminately into the mass of bustling bodies. Beneath the red paint on their faces I could see shock taking over the savagery of pursuit. Then it turned to fear as blood from their companions began splattering on their clothes and faces. We had the high ground, with the center of our line among the trees and rocks at the end of low, wide ravine. We had the high ground on each side, standing behind scrub bushes that had produced hearty berries only weeks before. Arrows poured like the showers of spring, a cold front of death brought by our hands. Mayhem reigned in the panicked group of skraelings as they were surrounded on three sides, with a pincer that would quickly form behind them.
Thorfinn, Folkvar, myself, and ten others would close the left side of that pincer, while Arnkell and Snorri would lead the swinging gate on the right side to its close. Both sides were nearly closed by the time the attackers in the back of the skraeling ranks realized what was happening. However, when they did figure out they would soon be trapped like a rat in the bilge of a knarr, they became ferocious. In their eyes, fear vanished. I saw it instantly replaced with cruel fierceness.
They came to us. I did not hear any grand commands from leaders, for their men knew what they must do to survive. The first man I met came at me with a long wooden spear, tipped with jaggedly sharp stone of a light blue color. He was quick, despite his broad shoulders, and he feigned to strike me beneath my shield so that when I moved to stop the blow, he was already bringing the point toward my surprised eyeballs. Only a lucky upward stroke with my saex deflected the blow so that it glanced off my helmet.
He was a very good warrior. But I am writing my story today in my old age, and he is not. I learned from my first mistake, and then I was the better warrior. While he pulled his spear back for another strike, I made a show of dropping my saex. When I saw the flicker of a smile and glint in his eye, I knew he would die. He reached forward with one hand to pull the top of my shield downward so that he could drive the spear into my face or neck. I let him pull it so that it tore away easier than he expected, causing him to lean forward, falling directly onto the blade of my hidden long sword.
The clattering of battle rang throughout the forest. Pain and fear and piss reigned. I saw that we still held them in check while I bent to retrieve my father’s saex which had fallen blade-first into the ground. Still bending, a loud clank and pull surprised me as an arrow from my left caught amongst the loose mail at my chest and nearly spun me around. I looked to the direction from which the arrow had come and saw him – Megedagik or Mukki or as he would always be to me, Segonku.
I thought for an instant about rushing him, paying no attention to our line or the danger of his arrows, but I did not. The safety of Thorfinn on my right and Snorri the Elder on my left depended upon me staying alive and in my place. So I stayed, even when my rage and yearning for revenge on the man burned a hole in my soul. He was partly responsible for this, I think. You who now read my words may disagree, but I hated the man. Segonku took away a man whom I could be friends with, hunt with, laugh with, or, more plainly, trade with. He killed Kitchi. He caused two of his innocent friends to attack me, break my arm and nearly kill me, before I killed them. I wanted to drive a blade into his soft flesh and watch him pinch a tear from his eye as his life ebbed away.
A terrible pain awoke me from my insane musings during the battle. Someone had driven something so hard onto my left shoulder that it felt like one of the giants from Utgard had swung an entire mountain down upon it. I fell onto that left side, facing away from my attacker. Without waiting to see what was happening, I gripped my saex tightly with my right hand, rolled toward the skraeling, and stabbed the blade deep into the first makizin I saw, affixing the foot to the ground.
The man, who wore a ring in his nose, howled in pain, but had the presence of mind to bring his round stone hammer down toward me again. I reached over my head and grabbed the shield I had let go, catching the hammer safely against the iron boss. Scrambling to my feet, I drove the shield into his head so that we both toppled over backward, his foot still pegged to the earth. His ringed nose was broken, his ankle and knee looked dislocated and blood darkened his makizin. With two hands firmly gripping the sides of the shield, I raised it over my head, bringing its full force against his twisting face. His struggling halted.
I gathered my wits and weapons, scanning the battlefield. I lost Segonku again. Perhaps another man had the privilege of exacting revenge for me. Then I noticed that the skraelings had fought their way up a slight incline and through a gap they created in our pincer. Many of them were already gone, sprinting to the shore. I saw that Snorri the Elder tried to rally men to close the hole in our line, but to no avail, as the retreat was too massive to halt for so few.
And so they ran. Arnkell led a few men on pursuit, but while still sitting on the dead man’s chest, I shouted, “Stop! We’ll not pursue them, or we may give them a chance to take us apart piece by piece.” I paused to suck in precious air, then added, “We’ll stick together and follow them out like a proper army.”
Arnkell looked disappointed, but Thorfinn nodded his approval of my plan. In the end, it was just as well, for the survivors in the skraeling band fled straight to their boats and paddled away vigorously.
We had won. We defended Straumsfjord, the village was safe. Nearly fifty of their men, young men of fighting age were dead – there were no prisoners taken. Segonku was not among these dead. But neither was Ahanu, nor Nootau. Eleven brave Norsemen died that day. Another two died in the weeks following from wounds they received that day.
We had won. We had killed. For what? Was it for the safety of Norway? Was it for my king? Was it for the One God? Was it for profits? Was it for revenge? Was it an act of self-preservation or defense?
I did not know the answers to my questions. We had won.
LEIFSBUDIR
PART III – Enkoodabooaoo!
1,007 – 1,008 A.D.
CHAPTER 9
Freydis. Freydis with the lines on her forehead and the beginnings of birds’ feet at her eyes. Freydis with what was once her thick red curls streaming down her shoulders, that was now painted with swaths of grey and wrapped firmly in braids at the top of her head. Freydis, with the wonderful, large tits, that now sagged a bit more than they once did. Freydis, with hips I longed to grab a hold of beneath our covers long ago, that were now a bit wider than they once were. Freydis with her two children with a striking resemblance to Tyrkr and another child bulging from her pregnant belly due to arrive in the coming months. Freydis the former life-giver to all my dreams, all my lusts. Freydis, like me, had aged and she was here, bringing with her tension, dissension, and eventually murder.
But here wasn’t Straumsfjord. I was back in Leifsbudir in Vinland living amongst two brothers from the cold, desolate eastern fjords of Iceland and babysitting Freydis for Leif. Before the tale continues too far afield, I should back my story up a bit so that I tell it in the proper order.
The winter following our victory over the skraelings brought nothing but peace from our enemies. In fact, despite our increased vigilance, sentries standing on the cliffs and probing bands sent into the forest, we saw no sign of them. However, the falling snow brought nothing but discord among our own people.
I have told you that only five women were in our company. I still recall each of their names for each was young and pretty in her own way. There was Gudrid, of course, with her thick blonde hair wrapped under the cloth on her head. I never did see her long hair again after our time when I sent the seed of little Snorri into her. There was also Idunnr, Eir, Ynghildr, and Aslaug. Each of them was relatively young, but each was also married to someone on our journey. The other one hundred forty or so among us were men who had no woman with which to bed. They became resentful and jealous of the men who were husbands while they became lustful toward the women.
