Forged by Iron

by Eric Schumacher

  “And feed your blade on Vendish blood!” called a boisterous warrior named Tofi from one of the tables.

  King Trygvi laughed and pointed his cup at the man. “Aye, that too, Tofi!” He turned back to the room. “Fear not, ladies, it will be but a quick raid. We can ill afford to be gone too long, with Harald Eriksson and his brothers so anxious to take our lands. For that reason, I am leaving Lord Torolv and half of my men here to guard Jel, and to protect my family as well.”

  The guests exchanged glances, though it was hard for me to interpret their expressions in the hall's gloom.

  Before I could ponder on this longer, King Trygvi stepped from the dais and began walking among the guests. “If I tap your shoulder, you shall accompany me to Vendland.”

  Time has faded the names of those chosen by the king, but it was clear as the men stood that King Trygvi valued age over experience in his choosing for this adventure. Ubbi and Ingvar were chosen, as were many of the other younger warriors, while many of the older men who had followed Trygvi on countless exploits remained seated. The casual onlooker could not have sensed my father's displeasure, but I knew him well and could see his jaw working beneath his beard. I thought he might challenge the king's decision, but instead, he guzzled his ale and held his tongue.

  I turned back to my companions and joined in a toast to Ubbi and Ingvar, though I found it difficult to quell my misgivings. My father was a perceptive man and an experienced warrior, and though he was possessed of a violent temper, that temper was rarely ill-placed.

  Holger and his men left the following morning with King Trygvi's oath to join him in five days' time. They were to meet just east of Sotanes near Veggir, which was but a two-day sail south of our borg on a fair wind. My father did not go to see Holger off, or to join the king after Holger's departure. He stayed inside and smoldered like one of the logs on his hearth fire, for he did not like the arrangement that had been struck between the king and his nobleman and needed time to cool his ire before attending the king.

  “He tempts the Norns,” grumbled my father as he watched Holger's ship slip past Jel's southern tip from the doorway of our guest hall. I sat at the eating board, watching him. Between us crackled a small fire, which spewed a cloud of white smoke that twisted upward toward the hole in the roof, smelling of pine. As Northern hospitality demanded, we ate in the guest hall so that the king and queen and their retinue could enjoy more space in the main hall.

  My father turned from the doorway and strode back to the eating board, sitting heavily on the bench across from me. “Going a-viking with a ship full of boys is witless,” he mumbled, then shoveled some porridge into his mouth. Some of it caught on his thick beard and he wiped it away with his sleeve.

  “They are not all boys. Does he not take Tofi and a few other men from his hird?” I asked quietly as I picked a piece of ash from my porridge. “Surely it will help to have them along. And Holger and his men too?”

  My father regarded me silently as he chewed. “I do not trust Holger,” he admitted quietly. “He who resides so close to the Danes.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  My father scowled. “Things are changing, Torgil. We have an enemy for a king and no more support from the Tronds now that Jarl Sigurd is dead. The Vestfold and Ostfold, including Vingulmark, are by themselves now, our alliances with other districts tenuous. If Holger senses a weakened King Trygvi, he might throw in his lot with the Danes to whom he is connected through marriage. Or mayhap with King Harald, if he feels there is more to be gained from that relationship.”

  It seemed so clear to my father, but I was still confused, and so I asked my next question more delicately. “Does not this journey prove Holger is loyal? By asking the king to accompany him, I mean?”

  My father snorted derisively. He shoveled more porridge into his mouth, then mumbled around his mouthful, “Who benefits more from this adventure? Holger or the king?”

  I thought on that riddle for a moment. “They both benefit,” I replied, to which my father responded by smacking his spoon against my head. I winced.

  “Mind your temper, Torolv,” said my father's maidservant, Helga, who knelt beside the fire, adding cutlets of pork to the pot. She was a portly, elderly woman who had served Torolv since he was a child; she was the only person who could speak to my father so. After my mother died, it was she who raised me when my father left home. Truth be told, I loved her like a mother, though she could easily have been my grandmother by age. She was steadfast in her care for us, and rarely said a harsh word to me, except, of course, when I deserved it. As I have mentioned already, I have a temper like my father, but her well-placed spoon on my rear usually cured me of my tantrums.

  “Of course they both benefit, Torgil,” my father was saying. “But who more? A king who has everything and little need for this adventure, or a noble who has less and needs a king's men to help him collect more?”

  I nodded as comprehension dawned on me. “Then why does King Trygvi support Holger?”

  My father shrugged his large shoulders. “A noble name will never die, if good renown one gets,” he said, quoting some ancient proverb. He liked his proverbs. “Chasing fame is the way of kings, and our king is more ambitious than most in this regard, which is one reason why he agrees to this folly. But there is much more to it than that. I think he sees this as a way to keep his men both busy and happy, which is important. If they find booty, it is also a way to pay for his men. And it is a way to keep Holger happy, which is equally important, since Holger lives so close to the Danes. On top of that, it is a good opportunity to test his young warriors. It is an adventure that seemingly has little risk, though why he takes so many youngsters is hard for me to fathom. That is what troubles me. I think he could achieve all of these things in a different manner, but he will not change his mind. He pledged to Holger and has chosen his warriors, and a man's word is like the hardest steel. Once made, it cannot be broken. Remember that, eh? And so he will go, for better or for worse.”

  “The lads are good fighters. King Trygvi might tempt the Norns, but I think he will be fine. You will see,” I said.

  My father grunted. “Even so, I will be training the lads from morning to night, starting today.”

  I perked up. “Can Olaf and I join?”

  “When you are done with your chores, you may watch. I do not want you two getting under our feet.”

  I frowned but accepted my father's command. I had learned in my twelve summers that his mind, once made, was as immovable as a boulder.

  Chapter 3

  The days leading up to King Trygvi's departure were a maelstrom of activity. One ship would accompany the king's dragon on his southward journey, which meant that two ships total needed to be prepared and outfitted for the nearly one hundred men who would ride within them.

  As the older men saw to the ships and the women prepared the provisions, the younger men readied their gear and themselves for what lay ahead. The air rang with the grating of whetstones on blades and the pounding of hammers on metal in the smithy. The blacksmith's forge burned hot from morning until late at night, enveloping the borg in the stench of iron and wood smoke and sweat. I loved it, for I could almost smell the excitement that hung over our estate.

  “Tighten up! No gaps!” my father yelled at the two shield walls of young men advancing on each other with their practice swords. “Work together. Trust your neighbor.”

  Wanting desperately to be part of it, Olaf and I loitered near the practice fields, watching our kinsmen and friends hack and parry, block and thrust. King Trygvi and my father wove between the young men, stopping the action to offer instruction or to challenge their mistakes. The challenges were never without reason, though in my father's case, a growl of criticism was usually accompanied by the smack of a stick or whatever instrument of pain he happened to be carrying. I pitied the poor warrior who made the same mistake twice.

  On the second day of training, Olaf noticed Turid lingering nearby. A ba
sket of the queen's wet clothes rested on her thin hip. He called out to her to come and join us. She smiled, shook her head briefly, then moved away. I watched her go, wondering if she wanted to join the action or if she fancied a boy among the group. A twinge of jealousy coursed through me at that second thought.

  I suppose I stared too long at her departing form, for Olaf suddenly elbowed me. “You like her,” he said with unconcealed surprise and a smile on his face.

  “I do not,” I protested.

  “Torgil likes Turid,” he sang. I pushed the young prince so that he stumbled away with a laugh. “Torgil likes Turid,” he repeated, louder now so that the older boys could hear. Aware of their glances, I scowled and tried to cover Olaf's mouth with my palm. He laughed and scurried from my reach. I followed, angry now and intent on silencing his taunts with my fist.

  “Olaf! Torgil!” my father called to us. “Stop distracting the lads and come make yourselves useful.”

  Thankful to be rid of Olaf's teasing, I stopped pursuing the loud-mouthed wretch and pushed my way through the milling boys to my father. Olaf followed on my heels. My father eyed us cantankerously and handed each of us a hand axe. He then called the young warriors to form a semicircle around us. I knew not what he intended, but it was clear he wished to make an example of us. My heart pounded at the thought.

  “In several days,” my father called to the crowd of young warriors, “you lads will raid the land of the Vends. What do you suppose you will find? Hardened warriors? Farmers?”

  “Farmers!” the group yelled, then laughed at their shared disregard for the enemy.

  My father frowned as he played with his beard. “Why do you find that amusing?”

  An unsettled hush fell on the young warriors.

  “Why?” my father called to them, more sharply this time. “Cannot a farmer kill if he is protecting his family or his flock?” My father turned to me. “Torgil. Throw your axe at that pole.” He pointed to a pole the warriors used to practice their sword strokes. It stood some ten paces away to my left.

  Without a word, I turned, hefted the axe my father had handed me, and tossed it. The axe spun from my hand and lodged an inch into the pole at about the height of a man's forehead, just as my father had trained me.

  My father then pointed at Olaf. “Toss.”

  Understanding the lesson my father was teaching, Olaf buried his axe blade into the pole a hand's length below mine. Then he yanked his day knife from his belt and buried it into the wood next to his axe. Day knives could kill when wielded properly, but to see them tossed effectively was highly uncommon for they were unbalanced blades and not meant for fighting. To see a boy of eight winters do so was even more impressive. Even my father stared at the prince before recovering and gazing at the stunned crowd around him. “Those,” my father said, pointing to us, “are boys with simple weapons. Yet even they can kill. Never underestimate your enemy, lads.”

  The young warriors mumbled their understanding and made to start their sparring again when my father lifted his hand to stop them. “Wait! I have not dismissed you.”

  The boys turned back to him.

  “What other lesson has the tossing of those axes shown you?”

  The boys looked at each other. I, of course, knew the answer because my father had told me many times over, but these boys did not. I watched them chew on the question.

  “I will help you,” my father said. He pointed to Olaf and me. “Where are the boys standing?”

  The warriors pointed to us.

  “And where are their weapons?”

  The lads pointed to the pole.

  “Precisely. The boys have tossed their only weapons. They are now defenseless and can easily be cut down. So what is the lesson?”

  “Do not toss your weapon,” called Ubbi.

  My father lifted a finger as if to make a point. “Do not toss your only weapon. Ever. Is that clear?”

  The boys mumbled their understanding and moved in to congratulate us —- or more accurately, Olaf. I frowned, for the young warriors all but shoved me aside in their efforts to shower the prince with their bootlicking praise for his knife throw. I do admit that it was an impressive feat, especially for a boy so young, but my vexation was greater. I muttered a curse at their disregard for me and pushed myself clear of the obsequious crowd.

  On the climb back to my father's hall, I stopped to wash my face in a barrel of water. After dipping my head into the cool liquid, I flipped my hair back so that my wet mop fell on my neck and not in my eyes. A sudden screech behind me made me turn. My jaw dropped, for there stood Turid, her overdress and a basket of clothes dotted with the spray from my sopping mane.

  “I am sorry,” I sputtered as I sleeved the excess water from my forehead. “I did not see you there.”

  Her gaze moved to my head and she giggled. I reached up and felt the spikes of my hair standing on end. Grinning, I tamed the wet strands with my fingers, feeling my cheeks warm with embarrassment as I did so. She motioned with her narrow chin to the practice field. “I saw you and Olaf on the practice field. I wish my mother would let me do those things.”

  Farther up on the hill, her mother, Sigrunn, stood with her hands on her hips, calling to her daughter.

  “One moment, mother!” she called over her shoulder.

  I did not understand her mother's reasoning. It was not uncommon for women to know how to wield a weapon. Mayhap a field of warriors was not the place to learn, but there was no reason to forbid it outright. “Why will Sigrunn not permit it?”

  “Because my father —-” she started, then stopped. Her red brows furrowed. “Because he died fighting.” She shrugged. “I suppose she fears I have more of him in me than her.”

  Her father had served in the hird of Astrid's father but had died in battle when Turid was little. “Is she right in that?” I asked, somehow intrigued by the notion.

  She grinned at me as her freckled cheeks blushed. “Aye. She is. When I was young, before he died, he used to teach me how to shoot a bow and how to sharpen his blades. I liked it.”

  “Turid!” her mother called again, more sharply now. “Come at once — there is work to be done! The queen awaits.”

  Turid rolled her eyes comically and I grinned. “Coming!” she called to her mother. “I must go,” she said to me, then started to move away. After several steps, she stopped and glanced back at me. “Mayhap one day you can train me.”

  I was so surprised by the statement, I knew not how to respond, and so I just nodded lamely.

  Turid's grin stretched, then she turned and ran back to her mother. I wiped the moisture from my face, suddenly aware of how forcefully my heart thumped in my chest.

  The following morning, King Trygvi and his men departed. The men moved sluggishly, for the previous evening they had feasted on the stew of a sacrificial horse and my father's strongest ale. Their laughter and shouts and boasts had rung out long into the night, but rising early had robbed them of their cheer. Now they gathered quietly near the water with their family and friends as my father's godar slaughtered yet another animal — a bleating goat this time — and splashed its blood onto the hull of Trygvi's ship and into the lapping waves of the bay. The horse had been for Odin and Thor and Tyr, the gods of war. This new sacrifice was for Njord, the god of the sea, who would carry the army successfully across the whale road to their foe.

  When the ceremony ended, a drum called the king's warriors to his ships. As the others said their farewells, the king came to my father and clasped his wrist. “I will see you soon, Torolv Loose-beard. Do not forget the oath you made to me.”

  My father nodded. “I shall not forget. Your family is safe with me.”

  The king embraced my father roughly, then turned to me and knelt so that his face was close to mine. “My son's welfare is in your hands, Torgil, son of Torolv. Promise me that you will help your father in keeping him safe.”

  I had always been Olaf's keeper when he came to our estate, but the request
had always come from my father. To have this famous Viking not only put his faith in me, but do so to my face, was intoxicating. How could I refuse that request? “I promise, my king,” I vowed. King Trygvi nodded firmly to me, then turned and strode to Queen Astrid, who stood nearby.

  “Oaths are like iron, Torgil,” whispered my father as we watched the king embrace my former foster sister. “You cannot break them. To do so is to bring shame to you and your name. See that you keep it.”

  I did not respond, nor did I think too much about my father's lofty words. Rather, I turned my head back to the ships and the men and wondered when it would be my turn to sail the whale road to battle.

  Chapter 4

  The blast of a horn echoed in the distance. Groggily, my mind registered the sound, then sleep took hold of me yet again.

  “Rise!” my father roared.

  I shot upright, and my eyes found my father in the dimly lit hall. He was shrugging into his byrnie and scowling at me. “What is it?” I asked as I struggled from my fur bedding and wiped the sleep from my eyes.

  “Did you not hear the warning?” he thundered as he tightened his sword belt around his mail shirt, then hefted his shield from where it rested against a wall. “Dress yourself and grab your seax and spear!”

  The horn came again, louder now in my sudden wakefulness. I had no idea what time it was. I knew only that something was amiss. With rising panic, I scrambled into my trousers and shoes, then grabbed my cloak. My father was at the door of our hall, peering out into the darkness. Men's shouts came clearly to my ears. My father cursed and my panic transformed to abject fear.