Forged by Iron

by Eric Schumacher

  We now stood at the crest of a low hill and from our position, we could see back into the forest through which we had come. There, glimpses of steel flitted in the shadows. The warriors were closer now, their yells louder too. We turned to run again, but my toe clipped a root and I stumbled. A hand grabbed my cloak and righted me. I ran on.

  The tree line ended halfway down the other side of the hill and suddenly we burst into light and a sloping field of tall grass still wet with morning dew. My father was in the lead. The rest of us trailed behind in haphazard fashion. Before us was a small cabin and beyond it, a sun-kissed river. Three roughly clad men stood beside the cabin, facing us. The oldest — a graybeard — had a sword in his hand. The others held hand axes. All looked capable of killing and probably had.

  “Run!” my father bellowed at them, startling a paddling of ducks who took flight at his shout.

  Their scowls evaporated as their eyes moved past us to the figures emerging from the tree line. I did not dare look back, though I could hear their shouts even closer now. My lungs burned, but I knew that to stop was to die. As if in answer to that thought, a spear struck the turf before me. I evaded it and ran on.

  Ahead of us, the three men had turned and scurried to a partially beached raft. It was a flat affair made of rope-bound logs, large enough for mayhap ten grown men standing shoulder to shoulder. Two men pushed the craft into the water, while the other climbed aboard and grabbed a taut rope that was tied to a pole near the shore on our side of the river and a tree on the far shore. He started to pull.

  “Wait!” my father roared, but the men did not heed my father's words. Instead, the two in the water scrambled onto the raft.

  My father splashed into the water and grabbed the raft. One of the men turned and tried to kick him off. “Piss off!” he yelled.

  In one motion, my father blocked the kick and pulled the man into the river. In the next motion, he unsheathed his seax and brought it to the man's neck. “Take us or this man dies,” my father called up to the ferrymen.

  The old man called for his helper to stop pulling, then motioned for us to come. Our group had now reached the river's edge and we splashed into the cold water. My father held the raft as Queen Astrid hauled Olaf aboard, then pulled herself up. I followed, then turned to help Turid, who was behind me. My father climbed aboard and held fast to the line to ensure the other men did not pull. I reached out to Sigrunn, who was wading into the water and reaching for my outstretched hand. Our pursuers were now some thirty paces from us and coming fast.

  “Leave her!” one of the ferrymen called.

  But I would not leave her. I had lost too much already that grim morning, and I refused to lose Sigrunn too. I kept my arms outstretched and Sigrunn leaped. Our fingers locked and I clenched her hands in mine.

  “Pull!” my father roared, and the raft lurched forward.

  Turid scrambled down beside me and grabbed her mother's other hand, and together we hauled her onto the moving raft.

  The enemy warriors sprinted to the water's edge. At their head was Holger, his greasy black hair whipping his face as he yelled at his men to kill us. Some had spears and one had a bow, and these they used as we pulled ourselves farther from the shore. Most of those missiles splashed harmlessly into the river, but some fell among us. A spear struck the raft beside Olaf's leg. Another narrowly missed Turid. An arrow struck one of the ferrymen in his thigh. As the man grabbed at it, another arrow struck his neck and he collapsed into the water.

  And then we were mid-river and the missiles could not reach us with any accuracy, and Holger called off the pursuit with a sharp slice of his hand. One of his men pulled his sword and raised it to cut the rope, but Holger stopped him. I could not hear their conversation but I assumed Holger wanted to preserve the rope, should he need to use it. I can think of no other reason, for had he sliced it, we would have floundered in the river's current like a fish on a string.

  “I will kill you, Torolv Loose-beard!” he called across the water. “You, your queen, and her whelp! Do you hear?”

  My father did not reply. I am sure he heard those words, as did we all, but he did not break from his pulling.

  I lay back on the wet raft, thinking now that we were finally safe. That we had escaped danger. I did not know how short-sighted that truly was. What I could not know then was that the Norns had only just begun to weave our wicked fate and that nothing would be the same again.

  For no man can escape his fate.

  Chapter 5

  My father struck as soon as the ferrymen dragged the raft from the shallows to the shore. The graybeard had just turned to say something to our group when my father's sword took his head. So true and powerful was his stroke that the head merely rolled to the left as his body crumpled to the ground. I am not sure he even knew that he was dead, for the corpse's leg twitched as if he was still trying to walk.

  His companion turned and, seeing the older man fall, fumbled for his seax, but my father's sword reached him first. I will never forget the look of surprise on that man's face, nor his squeal as the blade slid through his gut and exploded from his back.

  I knew my father was a hard man and that he had killed in battle, but I had never seen him kill, and the sight of it shook me to my very core. I knew not whether to cry or run or curl up into a ball, and so I did none of those things. I just stood and gaped. Beside me, the ladies gasped. Olaf flinched. Though none of us could turn our eyes from the ghastly scene.

  “Torgil!” my father growled, tearing me from my stupor. “Grab their weapons and what possessions and food you can find.”

  I did my father's bidding, picking with shaking hands through the pouches of those lifeless corpses, for though I had seen them die, I expected those dead men to grab my arm at any moment for the sheer injustice of their death and the callousness of being robbed. As I struggled at my task, Queen Astrid berated my father for killing innocent men. My father ignored her. Instead, he grabbed the items I was able to find — a few silver coins, an old sword, a semi-sharp seax — then hurried us into the woods.

  “Will you not answer me?” Queen Astrid hissed, her voice as sharp as my father's blade. Her cheeks were red beneath blue eyes that had turned fierce. “Why did you kill those men?”

  My father spun and lowered his face so that it was close to the queen's. His fist clenched on the hilt of his sword, and I knew he was on the verge of one of his black tempers. When he spoke, the words came through gritted teeth. “If you wish to live — if you wish your son to live — then no one can know where we travel. No one.”

  I held my breath for the queen's response, willing her to keep her mouth shut so that my father did not fly into one of his rages. Whether she sensed how close my father was to his edge or she accepted the necessity of my father's violence, I know not. All I know is that she acquiesced with a sharp nod before stepping away and marching up the path that led north through the trees. My father's dark gaze turned on the rest of us, and in that look, I understood that his words to the queen were meant for us all. No one could know where we traveled. Without a word, he tossed the extra sword to me, threw the seax at Turid's feet, then turned and followed the queen.

  “What about Holger?” Turid called to my father as she slid the seax from its scabbard to check its blade. “Will he stop pursuing us now?”

  “He will come,” he answered flatly. “Once they find a way across the river.”

  Emboldened by her question, I joined the chorus. “How long will that be?”

  My father did not answer, only skewered me with a look that told me just how foolish my question was. Embarrassed, I slowed my pace and chided myself for my stupidity, then turned my anger on Sigrunn, who was falling behind once again. If she did not keep up, she would be the death of us and I made sure she knew it.

  “Keep your lips tight, Torgil,” the queen barked in defense of her maidservant. “It is not for you to chastise my servant.”

  My father stopped then and took a d
eep breath. We stopped with him and waited. When he spoke, he did not look at us, but it was clear he was struggling to keep calm. “We head for the home of Astrid's father in Oppegard. It is a full day's hike from here. Since no one can know where we are or where we fare, we cannot be heard or seen. That means no talking. Do you all understand?” He did not wait for a response. “I will lead. If you see me stop and motion you into the woods, follow my command.” My father's eyes found my face. “Torgil. Take up the rear. If you hear men approaching, alert us quickly with a whistle. Is that clear?”

  I nodded, though I was not certain I could do that with my mouth as dry as it was.

  “Good. Now let us move.”

  We walked on through the woods, our footfalls muted by the wet ground and the blanket of leaves that clung to our shoes. My stomach grumbled and I wondered what time it was, for the trees in Vingulmark grew thick and the canopy of leaves and branches cast us in a dark shade that veiled us from the sun's path. I listened to the forest sounds, trying to discern man from animal, my head on a swivel as I peered behind me, to the right, and to the left. Birdsong and the scurrying of forest animals in the underbrush accompanied us as we walked, though my young mind conjured more frightful images. Of warriors and their shuffling feet. Of hushed conversations instead of babbling brooks. Of the sudden flash of an arrowhead instead of the dart and dash of a bird.

  Though I cursed my own fear, I took some consolation in seeing the others casting their eyes about too. Surely they felt the same ever-present stir of unease in their guts as I did? Only Olaf, who walked directly ahead of me, seemed oblivious to the danger. His eyes followed the butterflies and the birds that joined us, and I had a mind to cuff him for it.

  Later, we came to a clearing where a small settlement basked in the sunshine of high day. To the west, I could see the sparkling ocean, and beyond it, the green rise of Jel Island's northern tip. The trees surrounding the clearing stretched east to a rocky hill before turning north again.

  “Kambo,” my father whispered, answering the question that was on my mind. “We will work our way east through the trees and skirt it.”

  “We need a rest,” Queen Astrid responded.

  My father frowned, but a quick glance at our faces made him acquiesce. “Come.”

  He led us through the trees until we reached the rocky hill. There, in the shade of some tall gray slabs, we sat and ate in silence. In the distance, I could hear the lowing of cattle and hammering on wood. Queen Astrid looked in that direction and frowned. She wanted to warn them, I could tell, but knew she could not.

  “They will be fine,” came my father's whispered assurance. “If they have seen nothing, they have nothing to tell.”

  Queen Astrid's frown deepened. “Still, Holger and his men will try to extract information of our whereabouts…”

  She left the rest unsaid, and the sadness in her tone left a lump in my own throat that robbed me of my appetite. The others, too, cast miserable eyes on their food. Olaf, of course, had not detected the doleful tone of his mother and continued to contently chew his bread. I wondered sometimes whether it was merely his youth or if he was just a distracted child. I mostly hated that distraction, but at times like this, I yearned to possess it also.

  With fuller bellies, we climbed a path that wove through the rocks, then turned north again as the hill leveled out. Down through the trees, we could see men and women going about their chores. It was strange to think of the impending danger they might be in and that that danger was due to us. We were the harbingers of an unseen storm — a storm to which they remained blissfully unaware. I prayed to the gods that the storm might miss them, then I averted my eyes and walked on.

  Our path veered westward for a time. Here and there along the way, we encountered halls and smaller settlements and these we avoided as we had Kambo. By afternoon, my father informed us that we were in the fylke of Akershus. He knew this because we now followed a stream in a gulley that curved away from the ocean and headed northeast. The path eventually turned from the main stream, weaving through several tree-blanketed hills before leveling out on a flat, forested area crisscrossed with shallow waterways.

  It was as we were crossing one of those waterways that my father stopped and motioned us off the path. We followed his lead and scurried into the underbrush on the far shore. I lay flat behind a fern with Olaf to my right and Turid behind us. I could hear the jangling of metal, the creak of wood, and the low mumble of voices, but long, tense moments passed before the party showed itself.

  It was a trading party, led by a bear of a man who clung to a lead rope that encircled the neck of an ox pulling a cart stacked high with pelts. Two more men walked beside it. Four goats trailed the cart, each on a lead rope. A boy not much older than me prodded them along with a cane. All were armed, and though they conversed and chuckled with each other, their eyes scanned the forest. I knew we were in no danger so long as we stayed quiet, yet my heart still thumped in my chest. Should these men see us, they would wonder why we hid and we would have no explanation. It would force my father to make a hard decision, and I did not know whether we could fight three armed men at once.

  The party crossed the stream we had just crossed and disappeared from sight. Their sounds eventually faded to nothing and my father rose. “We are about halfway to your father's hall, my lady,” he said. “We should rest now and travel the remainder of the way by night.”

  We found a small depression some fifty paces from the path, and there we took our rest. All of us were dirt-streaked and travel-weary. My feet ached and my belly grumbled. My wet trousers clung annoyingly to my legs. To make matters worse, it was getting darker and colder, yet we could light no fire. All we could do was wrap ourselves in our cloaks and try to fill our stomachs.

  “What will become of us now?” asked Turid suddenly. In our flight, her red hair had fallen from its braid and now hung in tangles about her thin, freckled face. She wiped aside a loose curl and peered at the queen.

  Astrid had no response for Turid save a sad gaze. Seeing this, Sigrunn rubbed her daughter's shoulder. “We will be fine, Turid. You will see.”

  I turned my eyes to the shadowy frame of my father, standing watch near our little camp, and wondered if he knew what our fates might be, or whether he too pondered that very question.

  A gray summer evening descended, and we ventured on. As before, we stayed well clear of the halls and settlements we saw, though the warmth they promised and the smells emanating from those places were maddeningly enticing. We walked in the woods, where we knew no sane man would wander at night. Several times, we heard the howl of wolves in the distance. My father told us that they would not attack a group such as ours, but I was not so sure and walked with my new sword drawn and in my hand. Even when my arm tired from its weight, I clung to it, as much to spare me from the wolves as to protect me from the shadows lurking in those night woods. My young imagination convinced me that some foul creature might creep from them, like the undead draugar who at night wreaked havoc on the living. We would have been easy prey for them, I think, but by the luck of the gods, they spared us.

  The shadows receded with the dawn, and it was then that we reached Oppegard, the main farm owned by Queen Astrid's father, Erik Karasson. The land in that place was fertile and flat, though in the midst of it rose a small hill upon which sat Erik's hall and its outlying structures. The hall was every bit as large as my father's own borg. And like ours, a tall palisade surrounded it. A sign of the times in which we lived, I suppose. Circumventing the hill on the west side was the road we had been following — the main trade route in the Ostfold.

  I had met Erik Karasson once before and remembered him for his baldness and his fitting byname, Bjodaskalli —- the bald man of Bjodar. For Erik had originally come from a farm of that name in distant Hordaland, far to the west. He had joined King Hakon in his fight against the Danes and, for his service and loyalty, had been gifted Oppegard as a gift. My father had long been his friend,
which is how he had come to foster Erik's daughter, Astrid, and how King Trygvi had discovered the beautiful girl. But King Trygvi was now dead and Astrid was queen in name alone, and so we sat in the cold, overcast morning, eyeing Oppegard from a copse of trees.

  Queen Astrid stepped from the shadows, but my father grabbed her arm. “No. We wait,” he said, pulling her back.

  Her brows bent in confusion. “Why? Erik is my father. Surely we are safe here.”

  “Lord. We must get Olaf some proper rest,” whispered Sigrunn, motioning to Olaf, who rested in her arms. He grinned stupidly at the mention of his name even as his eyes drooped. “The lad is asleep on his feet.”

  My father scowled. “We cannot just walk out into the open and endanger everyone on your father's farm, or ourselves. It is best that only a few people know of us. We must find someone we trust. They can get word to your father and perchance find a place for us to rest, away from curious eyes.”

  Queen Astrid gazed out at the farm before her but nodded. Sigrunn stroked Olaf's head, and he closed his eyes contentedly. Turid had propped herself against a tree and now rubbed her face. I gazed longingly at the distant farm with my stinging eyes, wanting so badly just to lay my head on a pillow and sleep.

  “There is someone,” Queen Astrid said softly. “Come.”

  And so we headed east into the woods and away from the promise of warmth and food and sleep that had been so close.

  “Where are we headed?” asked my father as we snaked through the trees on a narrow track.

  “To our seter,” called Astrid over her shoulder as the track began to ascend.

  “Is it far?” I asked.

  “It is at the top of the hill we are climbing,” Astrid answered. “Not far now.”

  We walked in silence until the path broke into a large field that climbed to a hilltop. Just under the crest, on a flat stretch of ground, sat what looked to be a cottage and a barn. A rope hung between the two structures upon which several garments flapped lazily in the breeze. Cows and sheep grazed in the tall grass and lay in the shadows, out of the warming sun. Between the two structures, near the clothesline, an older man was chopping wood, the crack of his blade echoing off the hillside and down to our ears. The tranquility of the scene was marred only by the man himself, who swung the ax with his right arm, for he was missing half of his left.