Fargoer (14 page)

“Here we crossed with the silver, all men with sweaty coats,” Thorleik mused. He shadowed his hideous face with his fist, as he scoped for the right direction in the bright sunlight.

“Do you know the origins of thse boats?” asked Ambjorn as he looked thoughtfully at the two boats’ remains.

“A silver-bearer’s burden is often heavy. For many days we were followed by another ship, and we didn’t dare enter combat with them at sea, given our heavy cargo. So, we decided to bury the treasure some way offshore and then confront them, on solid ground and without the burden. It was quite a fight, and only me, our father and few others managed to escape. We ran south, by land, until we managed to steal a boat from some fisherman. Father died on the boat, the enemies had cut him too much. So, one of the boats is ours, of the other one I don’t know.”

“So, how do you know that the attackers have not taken the treasure?” Ambjorn asked with doubt in his voice.

“I don’t, but they didn’t see where we hid it. Besides, do you have an option?” asked Thorleik with a snort. Ambjorn did not reply.

They started the journey over the rocky plain. It was slow, because the rocks were slippery and covered with moss. Every man knew that with the treasure moving would be many times more difficult. Sun warmed the travelers and the autumn wind whistled through the forest that grew behind the stony soil. After crossing the rocks, the men stepped under the leafless birches and withered pines. The wind sang its hollow song in their ears now. Soon they heard Thorleik, who was leading the group, cry out:

“By Tor, look.”

And they all saw. Human bodies were hanging from the trees around them. They were almost completely turned to skeletons; whether it was because the harsh northern weather or some dark force, nobody could tell. There they were, amidst branches, waving grotesquely in the wind. Covering the weathered and bare-grown bones were torn clothes, the type often favored by Vikings. Here and there on the ground were bones which had fallen from the bodies. Those who could still count, given their shock, saw over a dozen dead.

“Poor dogs! I wonder if it’s our ambushers that are hanging there?” said Thorleik.

“This is Termes’ Sons doing,” said Vierra quietly, although not quietly enough to not be heard by others.

“We cannot stay here either,” said Thorleik finally with forced ease in his voice, and started to move forward.

“It is you who should be hung up here,” hissed Vierra, this time so quietly that nobody else heard her.

Now was Thorleik’s carefree attitude gone too. He organized the men to advance, so that a few scouts went ahead and a few others took care of the group’s back. The grotesque forest changed into an ordinary one as Thorleik led them, inland, towards a small hill a little more than a mile away. It was a good landmark on the otherwise level ground. The hilltop was covered with grass and rose just a bit above the trees. On the highest point was a circle made of boulders. The rocks were dark and partly covered with moss, and there was no roof, only rough and loose walls. The Vikings stepped towards it carefully. It had an aura of threat and unfamiliarity, which made anyone who approached it restless.

“We buried the silver in the center of that structure, and from there we will get it too. Follow me,” said Thorleik with determination.

They stepped into the stone-circle, only to find out a maze-like stone construction inside. The rocks were twice a man’s height, but misshaped, leaving the walls filled with holes from which the travelers could see into inner parts of the structure. The corridor from where they stepped in continued along the outer edge of the building, but started to soon slope up, toward the inner parts. It formed a tightening spiral, which closed up to the center. The route was only a few men wide, and the Vikings formed a snake-like human chain as they walked into the circle’s depths. In the middle of the building, the corridor opened up into a space, where there was a large, flat and smooth stone. The shape of a sacrificial stone was familiar to everyone, but this one was larger than they had ever seen. It was made of the same, dark stone as the walls surrounding it, but it had been shaped into a bowl, stained brownish red and the outlines of a large hammer had been carved on its surface.

“The Termes’ Hammer,” said Vierra silently. “We are in the Giant’s Guard, and it will be a miracle if we make it out alive.”

“Witch, keep your mouth shut! That is Tor’s hammer and it will bring us good luck,” said Thorleik with overconfidence in his voice. “I was here once, and made it out alive then. Let us lift the stone, the silver lies beneath it. This stone was not here the last time.” Here and there on the floor was small, grayish-brown chaff.

Ambjorn fiddled with it and grunted silently. “Bonemeal.” Nobody said anything, only the wind hummed ominously in the cracks of the spiral.

The men got to work. They moved the heavy ritual stone and started to frantically dig the soil underneath. The ground was rocky and there was enough room for a few diggers at a time. They dug in turns, letting a fresh pair of hands get back to the work when the one before had toiled for a moment. The sun had already started to set to the sea that waved gently in the west when finally the pickaxes and shovels of the sweaty men struck an object that was regular in shape. They dug up a lid of a great chest, made of plank. When they ripped it open, the chest revealed a thick cloth, which was torn off rapidly by greedy hands. From underneath the cloth were revealed dust-covered piles of silver; jewelry, silverware, rings and buckles. Nobody in the group but Thorleik had ever seen such a treasure. The chest was so heavy that the men could not lift it up with its contents, and the artifacts had to be taken one by one. Thorleik stood in the chest and used his both hands in stuffing the valuables into sacks that the men would carry away. His beard was shaking and his hideous face twisted into a sunny grin.

“Didn’t I tell you that our father’s treasure is here, waiting for a taker? We will live in splendor for the rest of our days with these, every man.”

The valuables were gathered into sacks, down to every spoon and buckle. The men were generous, and the treasure was divided into everyone’s sack, roughly by weight. According to an old custom, the boat captains got five times the share of an oarsman and lookouts twice the share. With a long face Thorleik gave Vierra a chalice weighing twenty silver coins, as the other men watched. This way, nobody could say that he wasn’t true to his word. But he wasn’t happy when doing this, and did nothing to cover his disapproval. Vierra received the prize eagerly, not because of silver but because of the malaise it caused Thorleik.

Everyone, even Jofrid, soon had a sack to carry. They were eager to get away from the building, and the group left carrying the treasure without a specific order, hurrying towards the beach and the boats that waited there. Bad premonitions were with them though, and they lengthened their steps underneath the load. The group descended the side of the hill when, from behind them and near the stone construct, they heard a sonorous sound of a horn. It carried long and challenging in the clear autumn day, until it died out leaving only a ring of threat in the traveler’s ears. The men halted to hear the blowing of the horn, but Thorleik ordered them loudly to keep going. Nobody said anything, and they struggled severely with their burden. They arrived to the forest of the hanging dead, and the men started to think that the horn might have been just an imagination of their tired minds. The forest was as silent as it was when they first arrived, and there was no sign of an enemy.

Finally they reached the field of rocks, and it was then that they heard sounds of pursuit from the forest behind them. Ambjorn and Thorleik herded their men into the rocks, behind which loomed the beach and boats as a haven of safety. The men stumbled and cursed, exerting themselves to the limit. They were already getting closer to the seaside edge of the rocky plain. There and then the forest revealed them their pursuers as they rushed out of the woods.

If the Viking men were tall, even the tallest were a head’s length shorter than these creatures. Their features were long, as if stretched by some unknown hand, and from their beardless faces beamed a primal bloodlust. Skinny upper bodies of the monsters were naked, and their chest and sides were decorated by blue saw-edged lightnings and spiral drawings, which resembled the stone structure on the hill. In their hands they had clubs and axes made of stone, which they brandished towards the Vikings, lifting a bestial battle cry. Then the creatures started to cross the rocks, leaping from one to another on their long legs with inhuman speed.

“We cannot make it to the boats before they’re at us,” Thorleik yelled loudly to the struggling men.

“Let us group to the edge of the sand! We can just make it there!” replied Ambjorn, already commanding the first of his men who had made it to the beach, to ready themselves for combat.

The men grouped exactly to the edge of the stones, so the enemy could not reach even ground. Vierra dropped her sack of silver to the sand, and, while wiping sweat from her eyes, called to Ambjorn:

“Give me a bow!”

“You think you can use it better than my men?” Ambjorn asked with doubt.

“Believe me,” Vierra said and looked Ambjorn in the eyes. Her wish was granted and the weapon, one of the few they had, was given into the woman’s hands together with a quiver full of arrows.

The bow felt like an old friend in Vierra’s hand, one she had been separated from for a long time. Green eyes turned to the beasts that were running over the stony field, and none of the arrows she set loose missed its goal.

The creatures, however, did not easily fall to the arrows. Two, three, sometimes even four deadly aimed arrows were needed to take down one attacker. The archers did not have time to fell many enemies, before they had crossed the stone clearing and were at the Vikings.

A fierce battle for life and death began on the beach. The Vikings had good weapons and better position on the even sand. The creatures of the forest, on the other hand, were bigger, and there was primal strength in their thin, sinewy limbs. Three times the attackers pushed the defenders backwards, and three times the creatures were pushed back to the rocks. Thorleik fought among the boulders, against multiple enemies, a thick froth gushing from his mouth. Ambjorn, who had lost his helmet, managed with the help of a few of his men to push the last monsters that had reached the sand back into the rocks. Finally a handful of the creatures, the few still alive, escaped over the stone field toward the darkening forest, the defenders’ hoarse cry of victory following them. But one creature had slipped to their rear and now approached the boats.

“Stop it, quickly before it destroys the boats!” shouted Thorleik. And truly, the creature was holding an enormous boulder which it had dug from the waterline. It lifted the stone high above its head with both hands. Vierra shot an arrow that pierced the beast’s heart, but as the creature went down it used its immense strength to hurl the boulder, which crashed in the middle of Ambjorn’s boat, throwing splinters and seawater all around.

Honor and death

The battle was finally over, but the Vikings had paid a dear price for their victory. Half of the men lay on the sand, torn apart or struck dead, and many of the survivors had wounds and bruises all over their body. Ambjorn’s men had taken the most of the casualties, because they knew little of the ways of the battle and were badly equipped. There was a gaping hole in Ambjorn’s boat, but so was the case with Ambjorn himself. He was lying on the sand, gasping for breath like a fish on dry land. A trickle of crimson blood flowed from the side of his mouth, tangling with his red, messy beard. Jofrid sat at her husband’s side, trying to mend his broken body in vain. The sculpted pride and harshness had vanished from her bearing, washed away by genuine fear and worry, which was something that had not lingered on her face for a long time.

As Vierra came to her former master, Jofrid lifted her eyes and hissed:

“Get away, slave. Is nothing holy to you?”

With a tremendous effort, Ambjorn lifted his head from the ground as blood gushed out of him with increasing speed.

“Be quiet, you cold woman!” he thundered. He turned his eyes to Vierra. “Maybe I should have left with you.” Vierra said nothing. She just helplessly watched her master’s struggle for life.

“Burn me and my dead men in our boat ... Promise me, woman, that you won’t leave me here to be ripped apart by the creatures of the forest. That, if anything, you owe me.”

Jofrid nodded, saying nothing.

“Ask my brother to come here. I want him to hear my last will.”

“Very well.”

Thorleik came, soaked in the blood of the enemy with a dripping sword in his hand. Vierra moved aside, as if controlled by her grim instinct.

“How is it,” he asked.

“I have fought my final battle. Lousy was my luck in arms. Father did right when he ordered me to take care of our homestead, and took you with him to the sea. But my luck wasn’t good back home either. So ends the story of the Son of Styr. Promise, brother that you bring my wife back home.”