V for Viking Trilogy, page 2
“They make a cute couple,” added Munin.
“Randulf? That son of a bitch!” Torleif slammed both fists down on the table.
Hugin tried to calm down the enraged Norseman, while Munin looked amused. “Well, the important thing is that you're back here with us.”
Torleif would not be consoled so easily.
“Tolluk died a few months ago,” said Munin.
“Tolluk's dead? How?”
“He volunteered to be a sacrifice to the gods,” replied Hugin.
“Perhaps it was his sacrifice that brought you back to us,” added Munin.
Torleif sat there, brooding. Coming back home to a cheating woman was bad enough. But his good friend Tolluk was dead, too? He let out a long sigh. “Perhaps I should have just remained a slave,” he lamented.
“Ah, to hell with all that,” replied Hugin. “You're back, that's what matters. And you have brought a bear cub. It is a good omen.”
The three watched the little cub as it rose up on its hind legs and stole a knitted shirt from the counter. It then proceeded to tear the shirt to pieces with its sharp little claws.
“Well, a good omen for you, at least,” lamented Munin with a chagrined expression.
That reminded Torleif that he needed to see Brynjar about feeding the cub. Torleif's legs were already starting to stiffen up. He stood up and stretched his back. “Well, I suppose I should go home. I might as well get this over with.”
“Going to see the old lady, then?” asked Hugin.
Torleif nodded solemnly. “Thanks for the wine. First drink I've had in ages.” He then turned to the small cub and said, “Come here, Chubbers.”
Hearing the familiar sound of Torleif's voice, the little cub ran towards him, leaving the tattered shirt behind. With a final wave goodbye, Torleif walked out the front door, with his mischievous cub following close behind.
He walked down a familiar dirt trail that led to the village. The first structure he saw was the horse stables. Curious, Torleif walked inside the stables and was relieved to find that his horse was still there.
The old mare looked at Torleif with lazy, indifferent eyes as it chewed on some hay.
“Good to see you too, old girl,” said Torleif. He remember the last time he saw her, tied to a tree while he went bow hunting over six months ago. A search party must have found his horse and brought her back.
At least something went right while I was gone, he mused. He walked out of the stables. Trying his best to avoid running into anyone else before he got home, he scooped up the cub in his arms and walked behind a row of log cabins until he arrived at his back yard. He walked through the empty garden and paused once he reached the back door. Should he knock? Bah, it was his house!
He swung open the back door and walked inside. The first thing he saw was Randulf, taking a nap in Torleif's favorite chair. Standing beside the sleeping oaf was Ingebjorg, who was looking out the front window.
“Well, this is a fine homecoming!” yelled Torleif.
Ingebjorg turned around and stared in disbelief. It was as if she were peering into a dream. There stood her long lost love – gaunt, covered in dried blood, and holding a bear cub!
Randulf woke up and hopped to his feet. “Torleif, is that you?”
With grim seriousness, Torleif set the cub down on the floor, pointed at Randulf and said, “Chubbers, kill that stupid goat!”
The little bear looked up at him with a puzzled expression.
“It is you!” Randulf walked towards Torleif with a big smile on his face. His arms were extended, as if preparing to give him a big hug.
Torleif was having none of it. He cocked back his right fist and smashed the grin right off Randulf's stupid mug. Randulf staggered back, tripped over his own feet, and fell to the floor.
“What the hell was that for?” said Randulf, as blood gushed out of his now crooked nose. “You broke my nose, you bastard!”
“You had your pick of any woman in the village, and yet you chose my woman?” Torleif walked towards Randulf with his fists clenched, ready to strike another blow.
“No, wait!” Ingebjorg finally snapped out of her reverie. She ran towards Torleif and threw her arms around him. “We thought you were dead. Haldor sent out search parties for a week, and you were nowhere to be found.”
“A week?” replied Torleif. “And yet you shacked up with Randulf after only two days, I hear.” He pushed her away. “Get out.”
She stood there with an incredulous look on her face. “Get out? But where am I to go?”
“Your mother's house, I suppose. You too, Randulf. Back to your mother's house. All of you, back to your mothers! Nobody else wants you.” Torleif acted like he was going to kick Randulf. “Stop bleeding on my floor and get out!”
“Okay, fine!” Still holding his nose, Randulf got to his feet and stomped to the front door.
“Torleif...” With a pleading look in her eyes, Ingebjorg begged him to let her stay.
He stood there with his arms folded across his chest. “Chubbers doesn't take kindly to cheating wenches. Go.”
In an instant, Ingebjorg's demeanor changed from helpless victim to scorned defiance. “Randulf is twice the man you will ever be.” She then trudged out the door, turned around and said, “Chubbers is a stupid name for a bear.” With that, she slammed the door shut.
“Odin's beard,” muttered Torleif.
The first thing he did was take all of Ingebjorg's and Randulf's clothes and possessions, wrapped them up into a big pile, then unceremoniously threw them out the front door.
He then saw a dirty bowl of water in the kitchen. He washed his hands and face, then dried them as best he could by wiping them on his bloody shirt and pant legs. “Ah, that feels good,” said Torleif.
His clothes were still in the bedroom. No doubt worn by Randulf on many occasions, he thought bitterly. In fact, he was quite certain that Randulf was wearing one of his old shirts when he kicked him out. “Bah!” he cursed as he changed his clothes.
Word would spread quickly of his return. Torleif thought that it would be best if he went to Haldor's house and spoke with him, but he was too tired. He crashed down on his bed and quickly fell into a deep sleep. The last thing he heard was Chubbers gnawing on the bedpost.
Not an hour past when Torleif was awakened by a loud knock on the door.
“Torleif! Open up, it's Haldor.”
Groggy from lack of sleep, Torleif sat up, swung his feet over, and got out of bed. He rubbed his eyes. His eyesight had mostly recovered from the snow blindness, but it still hurt every time he blinked.
He sniffed the air and made an ugly face. What was that smell? Looking in the direction of the foul odor, he set his eyes on a huge mound of bear shit. Torleif shook his head. How could so much crap come out of such a small animal?
More knocking at the door. “Torleif, are you in there?”
“Coming, hold on.” He trudged his way to the front door and opened it. A large barrel-chested man greeted him with a broad smile across his scarred face.
Haldor's big smile turned to disgust. “This place smells like bear shit.”
“Well, there's a reason for that.” Torleif pointed in the direction of Chubbers, who was hiding behind a kitchen chair.
Haldor nodded mirthfully. “Yes, the priests said something about a bear.” He then invited himself in. “So, tell me of your adventure. We thought you were dead.”
Torleif let out a long yawn, and scratched the back of his neck. “Not much to tell. Those short-wits from the north, Olav's men, captured me and made me a slave. Six months later, when the weather got warm enough, I made my escape and walked back here.”
Haldor nodded gravely. He tugged at his beard and said, “And did you tell Olav that you were from this village?”
“Of course. But he insisted that I was hunting on his land. He said that he would make an example of me.”
“You were pretty far north. In fact, we found your horse hitched up to the north of our boundary.”
With a brief snort, Torleif said, “So what? We've seen Olav's men hunting in that area. We never captured them as slaves.”
“Bah! No matter. The important thing is that you're home.” Haldor rubbed his hand over his bald head. “Tonight, we will have a celebration!”
Torleif sighed inwardly. He would rather get some rest. In fact, he felt like he could sleep for days. “That sounds good, Haldor.”
“And what are you going to do with that bear?”
The bear! Torleif was so tired when he got home, that he forgot to talk to Brynjar about feeding it. “Oh, I was thinking of keeping him. The little bugger lost his mother up in the mountains a few days ago.”
Haldor nodded. “He must be starving. I'll talk to Brynjar. He has goats that might be able to nurse the cub until it can eat proper food.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” replied Torleif, as he watched Chubbers scamper about the kitchen. “After I get settled back in, we need to talk about planning a raid on Olav's village.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I'm talking about retribution. I'm talking about vengeance!” Torleif held up his fist defiantly.
Haldor shook his head. “We don't have time for that now. We received word a couple of weeks ago that King Viggo is planning a raid against this village.”
“What? Since when did Viggo have anything against us?”
“Since we weren't able to pay his tribute, I'd imagine. Things have been difficult over the last six months. We barely had enough food to get by. We couldn't afford to give Viggo our annual tithe, so he sent a messenger. The messenger said that if we didn't provide him with seven cows and fifteen goats, that he would come and take them from us, and anything else that met his fancy.” Haldor then let out a long, defeated sigh. “At least we have Chubbers to protect us now,” he joked, as he watched the little bear take another dump on the kitchen floor.
“Unbelievable. I just don't know where all that's coming from,” lamented Torleif. “He hasn't eaten in two days.”
“I'll see if I can take care of that.” Haldor picked up the little bear and tossed it over his shoulder. “I'm going by Brynjar's house. I'll drop off little Chubbers and see if his goats can provide some milk for the cub.” With that, Haldor walked out the door, carrying the struggling bear. “Ah, fresh air, at last!” was the last thing he said before closing the door.
Torleif looked at the damage the bear had done to his house and smiled bitterly. Two piles of bear shit stunk up the place, and one of the legs on his bed was gnawed off.
He got his woodworking tools and started to repair the bedpost. It did not take long. Torleif had been a woodworker for most of his life. It was his second passion, after hunting.
After the bedpost was repaired, he tried to take a nap. But every time he fell asleep, there came another knock at the door, as curious villagers welcomed him home. Finally, after the third time his sleep was interrupted, he decided to stay awake. There was no help for it. Today, Torleif was the talk of the town.
The villagers threw a rowdy party for him that night. Everyone from the village of Rykinsvik, and even a few stragglers from the hills, crammed into the community longhouse. Music and laughter could be heard for miles around as drunken revelers congratulated Torleif on his safe return.
But Torleif was in a dour mood. He would often cast furtive glances at Ingebjorg and her new boyfriend, Randulf. From the periphery of his vision, he could see her stealing glances at him, as well. Not only that, but she was acting flirtatious towards not only Randulf, but other men.
“Bah!” he cursed as he took another drink of mead.
“Torleif! I heard your diplomatic mission to Olav's village was a resounding success!” joked Brynjar, as he sat down at the table opposite of the sulking Norseman. “But seriously, how did you escape?”
Curious bystanders stopped their drinking to listen. “Yes,” yelled one of the drunken villagers. “Tell us how you disguised yourself as a fair princess, and escaped the clutches of the evil Olav!”
The crowd laughed, as did Torleif.
“Well, it didn't happen exactly like that,” admitted Torleif. “Besides, Olav's men prefer little boys!”
The crowd roared their approval.
Torleif held out his hands, motioning the crowd to quiet down. When the villagers finally settled down, save for a few grunts and burps, he continued. “When Olav's men first captured me, they never let me out of their sight. During my first month of captivity, I was chained around my neck and feet. As winter set in, they took off the chains. Where would I go? As you know, the mountains received a huge amount of snowfall last winter.” Torleif paused and shook his head. “Anyway, they worked me like a dog. They fed me like a dog, too. They gave me meager table scraps and the occasional bone to gnaw on.”
“Better food than Ingebjorg used to cook for you!” said an old woman.
Once again, the crowd roared with delight.
After they quieted down, Torleif continued. “I didn't mind the hard work, or the offal they called food. The thing that bothered me the most during my captivity was a son of a bitch by the name of Dagr.” He paused and looked at the crowd. He had their undivided attention. “During my captivity, Dagr would constantly beat me – always in front of other men and women. It was his mission to make my life as miserable as possible.”
“And when did you kill him?” asked Brynjar.
“Two days ago!” replied Torleif.
A jubilant roar rose from the crowd of inebriated Norsemen. They raised their cups and drinking horns in salutation.
Torleif continued his tale on how he escaped the village – how he outran the three Norsemen that pursued him, how a huge brown bear saved his life, and finally, how he killed Dagr – by dragging him away from the fire to freeze to death.
“Good,” remarked Brynjar. “A cowards death for a coward. He didn't deserve a warrior's death. And how was the trek home?”
“Not much to tell, other than meeting little Chubbers. We kept each other company for the rest of the journey home. It took me a total of five days to finally make it back here, and what did I get for my efforts? I walked home only to find my cheating bitch of an ex-girlfriend and Randulf in my house!”
The crowd exploded in cheers and laughter.
“Of course I cheated!” yelled Ingebjorg. “Your small dick could never satisfy me!”
Boos and jeers erupted from the villagers.
Drunk and surly, Torleif stood up and unbuckled his pants. He dropped his britches to his ankles, revealing a perfectly normal sized penis. “See? Not too big, and not too small. Just the way your mother likes it.”
The crowd roared again as a red faced Ingebjorg ran out of the longhouse, followed by good natured cat-calls and offers for sexual favors.
Torleif hitched up his pants and sat down, as the crowd went about their business of getting drunk. “So, how is little Chubbers doing?” he asked.
Brynjar nodded his head, “Good, good. The little bugger took to the eldest mother goat and has been suckling her non-stop since Haldor dropped him off.”
“Ah, that is good to hear.” Torleif was genuinely relieved. “Hopefully they won't get too close, or we'll have baby bear-goats running around by the end of the year.”
“Ha! Now that would be a sight.” Brynjar then grew serious. He leaned in closer to Torleif and said in a conspiratorial tone, “Did Haldor tell you about King Viggo?”
Torleif nodded his head. “Yes, he mentioned it this morning. Something about missing our yearly tribute?”
“Is that all he said?” Brynjar looked surprised. “It's a lot worse than that, I'm afraid. We didn't have enough for the full yearly tithe, this is true. It was a lean year, and the animals didn't produce as much as usual. But Haldor could have given Viggo something. Instead, out of stubbornness and pride, he gave King Viggo nothing. Now Viggo is in a bind. He doesn't want to raid our village, as that would break the peace that has lasted nearly a generation. But what is he to do? He needs a show of force, so the other villages in the area don't get similar ideas.”
“I had no idea,” lamented Torleif.
“Haldor messed up, and now we're all going to pay for it. You picked a bad time to come home, friend.”
Torleif nodded in solemn resignation. Haldor had always been a good leader, fair and just. But sometimes he would drink too much and overstep his bounds, like the time he-
“I have something to say!” A loud voice interrupted Torleif's train of thought. He looked over and saw Hugin and Munin standing on the far end of the table. The priests had an ax in each hand and clanked them against each other several times. “Quiet, I have something to say,” Hugin repeated.
The dull roar of the longhouse quieted down to a smattering of burps and drunken laughter. The two priests held out the axes to their sides for dramatic effect, then Hugin addressed the crowd, “Odin, father of the gods, be praised! He is the seeker and the giver of wisdom. He is the force that permeates all life. He is the master of necromancy and war!” The priests slowly turned in a circle, clanking the axes held before them.
“Looks like Hugin and Munin have been hitting the mushrooms tonight,” whispered Brynjar.
Torleif gave a faint smile, and nodded in agreement.
Munin lowered his ax and said, “Odin cares not why men go to war. He doesn't care who wins. Odin only cares about the glory of combat – the raw, visceral chaos of bloody destruction!”
Hugin pointed his ax at the crowd. “Odin always wins in the end. Whether he wins by glorious combat, deceit, or cunning – it does not matter. It is our right to fight like berserkers for the glory of the Allfather!”
The crowd roared their approval. Cups full of mead were raised high, as the bitter alcohol sloshed and splattered to the ground.
Once again, the priests clanked their axes together.
“Silence!” yelled Hugin. “We all know that the wretched King Viggo plans to raid our village.”
“We all know that Viggo has taken far more than his share over the last few years,” added Munin.
