“Helga!” my father called to our maidservant, who had come to see what the matter was. “Gather what food and clothes you can carry and make for the north gate. We will meet you at Thordruga,” which was Ulf and Ubbi's farm. Of all the neighboring farms, it was closest. “Quickly!”
She knew better than to ask questions and scurried away into the kitchen.
I had fastened my seax to my belt and grabbed my spear. My father's eyes shifted to me. “Grab your practice shield too.”
I did as commanded and joined my father at the door. The sun was rising in the east, and in that morning light, I saw the outline of four warships sliding onto the beach below our borg. The silhouettes of many men filled each ship. I could not make out whether they were friend or foe, but judging from the shouts of our own warriors, they did not seem friendly.
My father slid his helmet onto his head. “Come,” he commanded and headed out into the pale morning.
I followed, trying my best to stay close to him as we ran for the main hall. Around us, chaos ruled. Women carried babies or dragged their crying children. Warriors hastened to the east gate, where our sentries shouted and pointed toward the ships. Below them, those who had been sleeping beyond our walls streamed through the open gates into the safety of my father's borg. Everyone seemed to be running in opposite directions.
My father grabbed a passing warrior. Ulf! He carried a spear in his hand and a shield on his arm, and I wondered as I looked at him whether my own face showed as much fear as his. “Get a message to the sentries,” my father commanded as he pointed to the eastern gate. “Tell them to wait as long as they can before barring the gates. More of our people come and we must let them in.” Ulf nodded and ran off, his oversized helmet bobbing comically on his head.
Then my father turned to me and grabbed my shoulders. “I make for the gate. Head to the main hall. Tell Queen Astrid that she must prepare to leave. If the enemy breaches the palisade, take her and Olaf to Thordruga. I will meet you there. Do you understand?”
I nodded.
“Go!”
I ran for the main hall, which loomed on the hill before me. Queen Astrid stood in the doorway, her tall frame backlit by the hearth fire within as she struggled to keep Olaf by her side.
“Let me go!” Olaf screeched as I stopped before them. His face was red with exertion and anger. He held a knife in his hand, and I knew the young fool wished to leap headlong into the fray.
“Calm yourself!” Queen Astrid hissed at her son.
Olaf's struggles boiled my own blood. Did he really think he could help our men on the wall? The little bugger would be cut down before his eating knife pricked a foeman's leg. But that was Olaf. Looking before he leaped. Only this time, his tantrum was distracting everyone from focusing on what mattered most: the attack. “Shut your lips and be calm!” I growled at him. “My father has commanded us to watch your mother and so we must.”
“Who are they?” asked Queen Astrid as Olaf continued to struggle.
“I know not, my lady,” I answered truthfully, then turned again to peer at the scene below. Of the four ships that had landed, one was King Trygvi's dragon. Even in the half light, I could tell its lines from the others, though I did not understand why his men were scrambling across the beach with torches and blades in their hands and fiendish screams on their lips. None of it made sense, and yet, there could be no mistaking their intentions.
“Close the gate!” I heard a voice roar and men scrambled to bar it from within.
In the eerie light of the attackers' torch flames, I could see our warriors casting spears from the palisades or shooting their bows. In answer, torches twirled over the walls in search of something to ignite.
I will never forget that scene, for even in the chaos of that moment, there was a strange symmetry to the attack that made sense to me. Enemy warriors moved north and south with their flames while directly down the hill from us, the eastern gate splintered from the blow of a battering ram. It did not take much to see that the eastern gate was merely a distraction. The main force made for the other gates to encircle us so that we could not escape. My father had not the men to defend such an attack, and if I tarried much longer, we would all be trapped. It was to the west gate we now had to flee or we were doomed.
“We must move,” I said and looked up into the queen's alarmed face. “Now, my lady!”
“But the walls are holding,” she protested half-heartedly.
“Let me go!” Olaf shouted.
“Enough!” Astrid screeched and backhanded her son from behind. The blow knocked Olaf's head so hard, his legs wobbled. I took advantage of that blow to pull the blade from his grip.
Before he recovered, I turned back to Queen Astrid. “My father has commanded it, my lady. We must hurry.” I sought the face of her maidservant, Sigrunn, hoping for some support there, but found only a mask of terror as she attempted to shield her daughter, Turid, from the door. “Please,” I begged.
Queen Astrid gazed out at the battle. “I do not understand. That is my husband's ship. He must be here,” she whispered.
I did not know why King Trygvi's ship was in the harbor, but I did know that men were here to kill us and that we must seek safety. “We cannot wait,” I urged. “Gather clothes and what food you can carry,” I said, repeating the command my father had given to Helga. “Quickly. We must make for the west gate. Olaf.” I turned to my friend, whose tantrum had finally dissolved. “Stay by your mother's side. Do not leave her.” He nodded.
More cries filled the air; these to the south of us, where a new flame licked at the palisade. My heart skipped as I ushered Queen Astrid and Olaf back into the hall. “Get your things!” I yelled at them, no longer caring for their rank. Slowly at first, and then with increased urgency, they rushed to do my bidding as I kept my eyes on the battle.
Below me, the east gate cracked open and some of my father's warriors rushed to stop the enemy from streaming in. One of them was Ulf; I knew him from the way he moved. I watched in shock as an enemy spear ripped through his young torso and erupted from his back. I tore my eyes away, to left and right, where flames danced upon the palisade even as men fought to defend it.
“We must go!” I grabbed Turid and pushed her toward the kitchen door where there was a side entrance. Sigrunn came close behind. Queen Astrid pulled one of my father's old swords from its place on his wall as Olaf tugged at her arm.
“Run!” a voice bellowed from the hall's entrance just as I ushered the queen into the kitchen.
I turned to see my father. Blood smeared his face and the sword he carried. Relief washed over me, followed instantly by renewed terror as he sprinted across the hall and joined our group. Together, we stumbled out of the hall's kitchen and gathered in the shadow of the high gable. The group stared at my father.
He broke the spell with a sharp command. “This way!”
We wove through the structures of our estate, running as fast as our feet could carry us through air thick with smoke and ash and floating embers. As I suspected, we headed for the west gate, for it seemed the one exit not yet under siege. My father led, with the women and Olaf not far behind. I guarded the rear of our group, not because I was slow, but because my father had commanded me to do so. Behind me, the morning reverberated with the cries of the dying and the wounded, the clang of battle-steel, the roar and shriek of combatants.
At the west gate, my father waved us over into the shadow of the palisade. Just as we reached it, the gate burst open and a throng of warriors rushed through. They carried axes and spears and shields and did not stop to investigate their surroundings. Instead, they ran for the action and for their share of the plunder. When they were a stone's throw from us, my father inched to the open gate and peered out, then he waved us forward.
We sprinted for the forest, fifty paces distant from the west palisade. I heard a shout behind me, but it was impossible to tell whether the yell was for us or another. We pounded into the woods, following a trac
k that led us west, then north, wrapping around the hill toward the farm Thordruga. Toward safety.
We ran until our lungs burned, but still my father pushed us onward. Eventually, we reached a small rise that looked down into the valley where Thordruga lay. Sweat dripped from my hair and into my eyes, stinging them as I studied the quiet farm below. Thordruga was no more than a farmhouse, a scattering of smaller structures, and a pen for sheep and pigs. Rectangular fields of half-grown barley lay beyond. Within the hall, cows lowed for their morning meal, while from the hall's chimney hole whirled a thin trickle of smoke.
The farm belonged to Ulf's father, Oddi, who had been at my father's estate with his wife and sons, attending the king. I had seen one of the sons die. If Oddi and his wife were not here, it seemed likely they had suffered a similar fate. That sudden knowledge turned my mind to another. “Did Helga make it here?” I whispered to my father.
“We will soon find out,” he answered grimly. “Stay here with the others. I will go to the gate.”
As we watched, my father crept down the path to Oddi's farm to be greeted by the warning barks of the farmer's hounds. My father hopped the gate and crouched to conceal himself. A man appeared at the door of the hall and, recognizing my father, came to him. I could see them conversing, my father motioning in the direction of our borg as he did so. Oddi's man shook his head, then rushed back into the hall. I could hear him calling out commands but could not make sense of his words. Then, suddenly, he reappeared with a bag in his hand, which he proffered to my father. My father nodded to him in thanks, then, crouching, sprinted back to us.
“We go,” he said through his panting when he reached us.
“Where?” asked Queen Astrid.
“East,” was all he said.
“What about them?” the queen asked, meaning the residents of Thordruga. “Are they not also in peril?”
My father regarded Queen Astrid with his stern eyes and blood-bathed face. “My oath to your husband was to see to your safety, and so I shall. Oddi's servants will only slow us down and make my task harder. They know they are in peril and will hide. That is all we can do.”
The queen frowned. “Who were those men?”
My father took a swig from his waterskin, then poured a measure into his hands and rubbed at the blood still caking his face. The water softened the filth but did not dislodge it —- the gore now dripped from his cheeks into his beard and made him look like some creature from the underworld. “It was Holger, my queen,” he answered as he proffered his waterskin to her.
“Holger?” she asked, astonished, as she lifted the skin to her lips.
“Your husband was betrayed. I know not how, but I saw Holger in the darkness, urging his men forward. He was calling for them to find you.”
“But I saw my husband's ship. Was he not there?”
My father shook his head. “No, my queen. I believe it was a ruse to get past the sentries at Jel's southern tip.”
As the gravity of my father's words settled on us, Queen Astrid's eyes moistened. She looked away and wiped at her cheeks, refusing to let us witness her grief.
“I will kill Holger,” pledged Olaf in a vicious hiss.
My father scowled, his dark eyes squinting yet ablaze, the creases between his brows more pronounced by the grime on his face. It was a look I had seen many times, and a look that had melted the resolve of many men. But not Olaf. He met the gaze as only a confident son of a king might do. “Be careful boy, for the gods are listening. If you make a pledge like that, you must keep it.”
“I will,” he said.
My father nodded, unimpressed.
“What is east?” Sigrunn asked, interrupting the moment. She, like her daughter, was tall and slender, though I had noticed in our escape that she lacked the grace with which Turid had been blessed. She lacked the stamina, too, for she sat on her rump, huffing mightily and sucking thirstily at the waterskin.
“A place to hide until the danger passes.”
“Do you think they will search for us?” asked Sigrunn.
“Will they come for us?” my father repeated with a callous laugh. “They are here for us — for them!” He pointed at Queen Astrid and Olaf. “They will most certainly come for us, and if they catch us, they will kill us. Or worse, enslave us. But not before they are done ravaging you and your daughter and the queen. Now up on your feet — we must move.” My father turned to go.
“What of Helga?” I asked as we descended the hill.
“She did not arrive,” he responded coldly.
I raced after my father. “Mayhap she got lost? We could wait.”
My father rounded on me. “She knows the way to Thordruga as well as any. If she is not here, then she is hiding or —-” He stopped himself. “Pray that she lives,” he growled. “That is the best we can do for her now.”
I imagined Helga's portly body lying dead on the ground in our borg and my heart broke. For several winters she had been my only mother, and her presence filled most of my memories. Now she was simply gone. Ripped from my life by a faceless enemy on a dark morning. It seemed unreal to me, and yet more emotionally painful than anything I had ever experienced. My eyes misted and I wiped at a tear.
My father saw the gesture and scowled at my weakness. “Come,” he commanded.
I followed wordlessly with the others close behind, the weight of despair crushing my chest.
The morning was just beginning to warm when we reached the rocky beach that separated Jel Island from the mainland of Vingulmark. You see, Jel Island was not really an island; it only appeared to be. It was shaped like a bent elbow with the forearm stretching north. The actual elbow was connected to the mainland of Vingulmark by a thin, rocky strip of beach just north of my father's borg. A small stream bisected that strip of beach, flowing lazily through the stones and pebbles from a bay to the north of us to the bay that flowed below my father's fort.
We halted in the trees and gazed out at that beach. “Wait here,” said my father, who then ventured forward from the tree line, his head swiveling as he approached the stream. Finding no trouble, he came back to us and knelt. “Work your way north through the water. It will throw any pursuers from our trail, at least for a time. When you have gone fifty paces, head for the tree line on the far side. Torgil, you lead.”
“What about you?” I asked him.
“I will follow. Now go,” he hissed.
I pulled my seax from its sheath and hurried to the stream, where I stepped into the cold water and picked my way over slick stones, heading north, away from the smoke that now rose above the borg. I could hear the others behind me but did not dare look back, for fear of slipping. Even so, twice I stumbled. Sigrunn fell and Turid helped her up.
When I had gone fifty paces, I motioned for our group to head for the trees on our right, then I followed. My father loped up the stream then, dodging loose rocks and hidden potholes, surprisingly agile for his size. As he came, he waved for me to follow the others, but I could not. For in the distance to the south, a ship had just appeared. It hugged the western coastline, and just as my gaze fixed on it, the prowman saw us. His yells were lost to the wind, but I could see him urging his men forward.
My father grabbed my arm and yanked me toward the woods, tearing me from my trance. As he did, he ventured a glance at the ship and cursed. It was close to the shore — mayhap two long flights of an arrow distant — and coming fast.
The others were waiting for us in the tree line, sharing a waterskin. They had not seen the ship and so were shocked when my father grabbed the skin from Turid's hands and said, “Follow me. Quickly.”
“Should we not rest —” Sigrunn tried to ask, but my father was already sprinting past the group. We ran after him.
We soon came to a cart path that headed north and south through the forest. I knew this to be the trade route that took goods north to the fylke of Akershus, but I had never seen it. My entire life up to that point had been spent on Jel Island. My father
crossed the path and headed east, deeper into the woods. Here there were no tracks or roads, only trees and mud and branches that tore at our clothes and sucked at our shoes. Sigrunn stumbled on an exposed root, and I pulled her onward, wondering all the while why my father had chosen the forest with its shadows and obstacles. Later, I would understand that my father was fit, but the rest of us were women and children, and our stamina was not nearly as great as his. Had we taken the cart path, we would have been overrun in no time. Here among the trees, we had a chance.
Behind me, I could hear Sigrunn's rasping breath and Astrid's pleas to Olaf to hurry. Turid had fallen behind me now, too. She was a graceful runner, but as I said, none of us were warriors like my father, who, ten paces ahead, dodged and wove his way through the trees. I did my best to follow his path, though I too was tiring. Somewhere ahead of us was a lake, I knew, but how far it was and what would happen when we reached it was a mystery and a concern. How would we cross the lake? Would we swim? Was there a boat or a place to hide? All these thoughts tore at me like the branches of the trees and feet-grabbing roots we tried to evade.
I could hear them behind us, our pursuers. In my mind, their blades flashed as their iron-clad bodies ducked and danced and crashed through the trees. Stealth meant nothing to a man eager for a notable kill, and notable we were. A queen, a prince, and a chieftain would earn a man no end to boasting and a reputation that would last for generations. I did not want to be part of that killer's story.
Down into a gulley we sprinted, and then up the other side, my father urging us onward. We were panting and red-faced now, sweat pouring from our brows. Sigrunn was grunting and slipped more than once as she climbed, for the rise was higher and steeper than we expected. Queen Astrid and Turid grabbed her arms and pulled her forward.
“Leave me,” she huffed. “I can go no farther and will only slow you down.”
I cursed her weakness and the danger it put us in, but Queen Astrid was not so easily discouraged. “If you stay, I stay,” she said, and that seemed to get Sigrunn's feet moving again, albeit more slowly than before.
Forged by Iron Page 4
