V for Viking Trilogy, page 29
One night, Randulf decided to invite Torleif and his wives over for dinner. The house was full with a bear, a fox, and a half-dozen women. As the women chattered away, Chubbers playfully chased the fox around the longhouse. Randulf cringed as he saw the claw marks on his beautiful hardwood floors.
“No running in the longhouse!” he would yell to the incorrigible animals, while the women laughed.
It was a good time.
Randulf sat back in his favorite chair and drank from his cup of mead, as did Torleif, who was sitting beside him. The women happily talked and drank, their chatter pleasantly filling the air.
The men talked of practical things – complaining about work, women, and unruly animals. They told stories of their business dealings, their lazy employees, and of politics. They discussed a rumor that war was brewing with the Germanic people to the south.
Torleif watched the flames of the hearth. The flames warmed his feet as the mead warmed his belly. “There's always rumors about such things,” he noted, unconcerned.
Then a knock on the door startled everyone in the room – everyone except Aila. Before she opened the door, she said, “I thought of inviting a couple more people to our little party.”
Opening the door revealed a slender, beautiful woman and a hulking monstrosity of a man. It was Ingebjorg and Modoc.
Randulf and Torleif stood up and welcomed their guests with open arms. When Chubbers saw his favorite wrestling partner, he playfully pounced on Modoc. The two tumbled on the floor, recklessly knocking over tables and chairs.
“Watch out for the furniture!” yelled Randulf as the women laughed. A few minutes later, the wrestling match was declared a draw.
“Chubbers – bigger!” Modoc complained.
It was true, Chubbers had gained nearly seventy pounds since they last wrestled in Iceland. Now at four-hundred pounds and still growing, the bear was truly a sight to behold.
The room full of people warmly greeted each other. Finally, they settled down and sat around the hearth. Aila turned to Randulf and asked, “Why don't you play us a song?”
Never one to refuse a performance, Randulf fetched his lute and stood in front of his crowd of friends. As he plucked the strings, tuning the lute to his satisfaction, Modoc stood up and said, “Wait!”
Everyone in the room looked on, as the big man opened the front door and picked up an object that was sitting outside.
“What's he doing?” asked Torleif.
Ingebjorg rolled her eyes. “Ugh. He never goes anywhere without those damn things,” she lamented.
With a big smile on his face, Modoc tromped back into the room, carrying his drum set. With the enthusiasm of an overactive child, he quickly set up the drums in front of the hearth. Sitting down, the barbarian raised his sticks and looked at Randulf in anticipation.
Randulf brought his lute to the ready. He glanced over at the grinning barbarian and nodded, signaling for him to begin.
And Modoc banged the drums.
-The End.
Valley
of the
Viking
Magnus Hansen
Chapter 1
March 979AD, South-West Coast of Norway
Icy mists swirled and dissipated, revealing the calm black ocean. The fish weren't biting this morning, so the old man smoked his pipe and waited. Unfortunately, his younger fishing companion wasn't as patient.
“Where's all the damn fish?” asked Buma.
The old fisherman sighed. “They must have business elsewhere.”
Cursing under his breath, Buma impatiently adjusted his seat and exhaled loudly. Waiting wasn't his best virtue.
The old man inhaled deeply from his pipe, then blew a stream of hot smoke into the freezing mists. He watched as small, circular eddies swirled in front him. Squinting his eyes, he peered into the inky black morning and saw movement a hundred feet from the rickety fishing boat. He raised his hand and pointed. “There.”
Buma sat up, alert. “What? I don't see anything.”
“Open your eyes, boy. It's right there. That's the reason the fish aren't biting.” He kept his bony finger trained on the object.
The younger man squinted, then his eyes widened. There it was – a huge dorsal fin, jutting nearly three feet out of the water, gliding silently into the distance. “That's a big one.”
“Aye. Nearly twenty feet by my estimation.”
The dorsal fin silently slipped under the water.
“Are we in any danger?”
The old man shook his head. “Unlikely. Grab the oars. We'll go further down the coast, just to be safe. Who knows, maybe the fish are that way.”
Buma grudgingly grabbed the oars and began to row. “I wish the wind would pick up. This rowing is for the birds.”
“The birds don't complain as much as you do, boy,” the old fisherman said with a growl.
With a defiant snort, Buma continued to row. The morning air was invigorating, and the hint of danger made it even more so. “There's another set of oars right there, old man.”
The old fisherman didn't bother looking down. “So there is.” He smiled, as the wrinkles on his face increased tenfold.
The two Norsemen slowly made their way to the south, hugging the jagged coastline, where fjords and high cliffs rose ominously above them. As they traveled, pockets of mists would engulf them, only to dissipate once again, revealing bright stars hanging in the silent darkness above them.
An hour passed by, with only the slosh of the oars to keep them company.
This time, it was Buma's turn to spot something unusual. He dropped the right oar into the boat and pointed at the coastline. “What do you make of that?” he asked.
With sleepy eyes, the old man glanced at the coastline. He then stiffened. Campfires – dozens of them, dotted along the coastline. “Turn around,” ordered the old fisherman.
“Why?”
The fisherman looked at Buma as if he were a petulant child. “Why would so many people camp out in the middle of nowhere?” he asked.
Shrugging his broad shoulders, Buma answered, “I don't know.”
“Exactly. What you don't know, will get you killed. We need to report this to Torleif.”
Buma looked dubious. “He's going to be pissed if we return without any fish.”
“You let me worry about that. Now turn this boat around.”
The younger man grudgingly dipped the oars back into the water and turned towards home; towards Brennabjorg.
“How many campfires, did you say?” asked Torleif.
Before answering, the young man stiffened as his employer's pet bear loped up to him and started to sniff him. Rumor was, the bear killed a small child a few years ago. He wasn't sure if the rumors were true, but he did know this – that bear had an unpredictable look in its eyes.
After several deep sniffs and a snort, the bear seemed to lose interest and walked to the corner and sat down. A pensive Buma then replied, “Several dozen...maybe forty.”
Torleif sat back in his chair and scratched his auburn beard. “Forty campfires,” he repeated. “How far to the south?”
The bear let out a bored sigh as he rolled over onto his back.
“Four or five miles,” said Buma.
“Not that far at all,” Torleif mumbled. “Whoever it is, didn't make one campfire per person. There could be hundreds...possibly thousands of people out there. That's more than the entire population of Brennabjorg.”
“What do we do?” asked Buma nervously.
After a moment's consideration, Torleif stood up and grabbed his coat. “We tell King Viggo.”
The two Norsemen walked out of the longhouse, into the bright morning sun. Walking down the old dirt road, full of crags and crevices, Buma turned to his employer and said, “I've never met the king before.”
Torleif gave a brief smile and put his hand on Buma's shoulder. “Viggo is a good man. He'll know what to do.”
Buma nodded. A year ago, he was living in Iceland, in the small town of Skalafell. At the time, there weren't many opportunities for employment, and he was grateful when Torleif offered him a job. He had been working for him for less than a year, when his employer announced that he was going back to the mainland, and taking his fishing business with him. He offered quite a bit of silver to anyone who wanted to follow him. So Buma, along with his wife and newly born infant, traveled one-thousand miles by sea, to the mainland.
Life was different here. So many trees and animals. And the food! Preserved meats and sausages were made from cows, goats, and pigs. Stews were made with mutton, potatoes, and carrots. Hunters brought back moose, reindeer, rabbit, and duck. Berries could be picked seasonally, with juniper berries being his favorite.
All Iceland had to offer was fish. Day after day of nothing but fish – mostly haddock, herring, and halibut. If you were lucky, you could get a handful of goat's meat or bread, but his hometown of Skalafell had a depressingly low supply of each.
“How old are you?” asked Torleif.
Buma snapped out of his reverie. “Nineteen.”
Nodding his head, his employer asked, “Do you like it here on the mainland?”
“Yes, very much. And my wife loves it.”
Torleif smiled. “That is good to hear. I was afraid that some of the fishermen who followed me from Iceland would be homesick.”
“Ha! I don't think you need to worry about that. Life is much easier here. The food is better, at least,” confided Buma.
By that time, the two had reached King Viggo's longhouse. A guard was standing by the front door. Normally, Viggo didn't bother with guards at his home, but an assassination attempt last year made him more cautious.
“Einar!” said Torleif. “All you do is stand around all day. Why don't you work for me as a fisherman?”
Einar gave a smug smile and shook Torleif's hand. “Because the king pays me more to stand around, than you pay for actual work!”
This caused the young man's ears to perk up. “Can I get a job as a guard?” asked Buma.
“Oh, shut up,” said Torleif, as he gave Buma a good-natured smack on the back of the head. Then, turning to Einar, he asked, “Can we talk to Viggo? Buma here has some information for the king.”
“I don't see why not.” The guard opened the door and stuck his head inside. “Viggo! You've got company.”
“This early, eh?” said a muffled voice from the back of the longhouse. A moment later, a tall, imposing figure opened the door. “All right, then. What is it?”
With a grin, Torleif nudged the young man forward. “Don't be shy. Tell the man what you know.”
Buma, intimidated by the king, didn't make a good first impression. “Ah...there's campfires, and uh...c-campfires down the coast,” he stuttered.
King Viggo folded his arms across his chest and looked at the young man as if he were touched. “Campfires, you say? Fascinating. What else did you see? Trees? Maybe an ocean?”
Torleif and Einar let out a good chuckle.
An embarrassed smile crossed Buma's face. He cast his gaze downward. In a quiet voice, he said, “About forty campfires...to the south.”
Viggo furrowed his brow and tilted his head. “How far south?”
“About four or five miles.”
Nodding gravely, Viggo turned to Einar and said, “Scout the area. I want a count of how many people are down there, and what their business is.”
Trying to save face, Buma said, “I'll go. I know exactly where it is.”
Viggo smiled and slapped the young man on the shoulder. “I appreciate the offer, but this is serious business. Besides, my guards grow bored if I don't give them something to do every once in a while.”
Buma was about to protest, but thought better of it. One simply did not argue with a king.
Torleif turned to Buma and said, “Go back to the docks, we'll talk later.”
The young man nodded. After a brief hesitation, he quickly walked away.
Once Buma was out of hearing range, Viggo said, “This might explain why we haven't received any shipments from the south for the last few days.”
“Do you think the rumors are true, then?” asked Torleif.
Viggo exhaled sharply. “The Germanic tribes?” It's possible, but they've never come this far north.” He paused, as if in deep thought. Viggo then shook his head in agitation. “We'll know more when Einar gets back. Should only take him a few hours.” The king then turned to Einar and gave him a grave look. “I want a full report when you get back.”
The two men trudged through the freshly fallen snow. They shadowed the southern road out of Brennabjorg. As they walked, both men carried a bow in their left hand, and an ax in their right.
In an agitated voice, Einar said, “Viggo told me to check out the campfires. He didn't say anything about Torleif.”
Torleif let out a little chuckle and said, “It's been months since I've been outside of Brennabjorg. Besides, your tracking skills are for shit.”
Einar was about to reply as they reached the top of a ridge, when his voice caught in his throat. When they looked down the far side of the steep embankment, they both involuntarily halted. At first, they had a hard time comprehending what they were seeing. Barbarians – over two thousand of them, climbing their way up the ridge.
Some of the barbarians were dressed in skins, some in cloth. Others were still covered in blood. They almost had the look of intelligent men, but something was wrong with their eyes. Their eyes were soulless – glinting of pain and rage, torment and cunning. Those dark eyes knew not love nor mercy. The barbarian's movements were brutish and animalistic, yet their facial expressions were much like our own, only more callous.
As Torleif observed the savages, one thought screamed at him from every nerve-ending in his body – run!
Einar was already pulling on his tunic and dragging him back. Their eyes met for one brief instant; both men shocked with a mixture of confusion and terror. With teeth clenched, the guardsman pointed to the east and urgently said, “That way – go!”
With his ax firmly in his right hand, Torleif nodded and ran after Einar. Shouts and curses chased them, low and guttural.
Terrifying.
Chancing a glance behind him, Torleif saw a half-dozen brutes chasing them. Their eyes were cold and driven, intent on catching them. They did not appear to have bows. Turning back around, Torleif huffed, “Where are we running?”
Keeping his gaze focused ahead of him, Einar said, “To the river. Just follow me!”
Torleif's legs were already beginning to tire. He cursed his complacent lifestyle. Ever since he found success with his fishing operation, he found little need to go out hunting. Now his lack of conditioning was catching up with him. He hoped that Einar had a plan, because he was at a total loss.
The two Norsemen continued to sprint towards the river. They were about two miles south of Brennabjorg. Why weren't they running in that direction?
Then Torleif saw it – as the river came into view, a narrow trail hugged along the edge of the water, only two or three feet wide. A steep cliff cast its shadow over the water. He immediately knew why Einar ran this way – the trail was only wide enough for one person. If it came to a fight, the barbarians would need to fight them one on one.
“When we get to the trail, be ready to use your bow!” yelled Einar as he grabbed an arrow from his quiver.
Still running, and nearly out of breath, Torleif shoved the handle of his ax through his belt and reached for his quiver, which was slung over his back. Now, with an arrow in one hand and his bow in the other, he waited for Einar's word.
Einar glanced back and saw that Torleif was already losing ground. The merchant was running about twenty feet behind him, with the barbarians another fifty feet behind Torleif, and gaining.
They were on the trail now. The shallow river, only a few feet deep, was to their right. Einar stopped, notched his arrow and yelled, “Kneel and fire!”
It took Torleif a second to understand what he meant. He looked at Einar blankly for a moment as they guardsman pointed his arrow right at him. Then he understood.
Kneel!
Torleif dropped to his knees as Einar fired over his shoulder. He heard the whistle of the arrow scream past his ear. Quickly turning around, he saw the arrow plant itself in the lead barbarian's chest.
The barbarian didn't even slow down. The savage reached up and wretched the arrow out of his chest with a defiant grimace.
Still kneeling, Torleif notched his own arrow and quickly pulled back and released the drawstring. Now only thirty feet from him, and no room for his opponent to maneuver, it was an easy shot. The arrow whistled through the air and thunked into the barbarian's forehead, causing his head to violently snap back and his feet to fly out from under him. An instant later, Einar fired off another arrow, which planted into the second barbarian's leg, causing him to spin to the right and fall into the river. The savage tried to get back up, but between the frozen water and the arrow embedded in his kneecap, he was out of the fight for at least a few moments.
The four remaining barbarians were almost upon them...twenty feet...ten feet...it was happening too quickly! Torleif didn't have time to fire off another arrow. He froze as he heard their guttural war-cries. Fumbling for his ax, his hands started to shake. Looking up, he saw a man in black matted hair and wild eyes charging directly at him.
Don't let it end like this, Torleif thought...not like this.
With ax now in hand, Einar easily jumped over Torleif. As he landed, he brought his ax crashing down on the charging wild-man's head. The barbarian lifted his ax to block the blow, but so powerful was Einar's downward swing, that it cut right through the haft of the weapon, and embedded itself into the savage's skull. But the victory was short lived, as the momentum from the three remaining barbarians knocked them both over into a tangle of arms, legs, axes and bows.
Einar was pinned under three bodies, two of which were still very much alive, their faces contorted in rage.
