Forged by Iron

by Eric Schumacher

  Astrid pulled her disheveled hair back into a simple bun, then straightened her dress and squared her shoulders.

  My father frowned at her. “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “I am going to greet my family's cowherd,” she said.

  “I will go with you.”

  “No,” she said firmly and stayed my father with a hand. Before he could say more, she stepped from the shade of the trees and marched upward through the tall grass toward the axe man.

  Chapter 6

  As Astrid neared, the cowherd set down his axe and dropped to a knee. Astrid closed the distance to him and helped him rise, then spoke to him. I could see her hands moving and pointing to the south. The man stroked his beard with his one hand as she spoke, listening thoughtfully. Finally, Astrid turned and beckoned us to join her.

  “This,” she said as we neared, “is Gunnar, my father's cowherd.”

  The man made a frightening sight. His clothes were grimy and his skin leathered and weather-worn. He was missing his left forearm, as I have said, but that bothered me less than the scar that traveled from his upper left cheek, near his nose, to his upper lip, removing his left nostril and leaving a channel in his mustache where hair should have grown. The scar pulled his left lip up into a perpetual grimace. His dark eyes regarded us warily until he recognized Sigrunn and Turid, at which point the left side of his mouth bent up further, giving him the appearance of a growling hound. It took me a moment to realize that he was actually grinning.

  “He is a man of few words,” Astrid told us as she patted his shoulder, “but he is one of my father's most loyal men. He will tell my father of our arrival.”

  Sigrunn and Turid did not seem bothered by Gunnar's frightful appearance. Whereas I stood back from the man, they went to him and greeted him warmly. At first, their display of affection startled me, but then I remembered that they must know each other from Astrid's many visits to her father's farm.

  The door to the cottage creaked open and my father swung toward it, his hand moving to the handle of his sword. Out peered the round face of an older woman and my father relaxed. The woman stepped outside and bowed to Astrid. “My lady,” she said in greeting.

  Astrid smiled and returned the bow. “It is good to see you again, Gunhild.”

  I guessed that she was roughly the age of Gunnar, though shorter and rounder. Strands of gray and red escaped from the knotted kerchief she wore on her head. Freckles dotted her fair-skinned cheeks. As she approached, I detected a strong scent of cheese and knew she must be the milkmaid. A soiled apron hung from her neck, and she wiped her meaty hands on it before taking Sigrunn and Turid into an embrace.

  “To what do we owe this honor?” Gunhild asked as she let the two women go. It was a kind question, even if asked with a suspicious hesitancy.

  “I will tell all shortly,” said Gunnar. His voice was low and gritty. “Get them inside, Gunhild, and make them comfortable.”

  As we moved to the cottage door, I realized I had lost track of Olaf. He had wandered off from our group to pet the sheep. I called to him to come inside. He, of course, ignored my call and moved only when his mother's urging reached his ears. I grumbled and moved with the others to the cottage.

  It was a rustic affair, that cottage. Small and warm and sparsely furnished. But what struck me most was the smell. As soon as we entered, the sour aroma of cheese encased us. I was not particularly fond of cheese, but my empty stomach growled nevertheless.

  Gunhild must have heard that faint rumble in my belly, for she suddenly looked at me. “You poor dears must be famished. Come. Sit.” She pointed to the table and some benches. We dropped our sacks and sat without a word. Gunhild vanished into a side room and returned with a bowl of soft cheese, a platter of bread, and a jug of water.

  Sigrunn made to rise as Gunhild began to serve us. “Let me help.”

  Gunhild waved her back to her seat. “You are under my roof, Sigrunn. When I come to your dwelling, then you may serve me, eh?”

  The mention of Sigrunn's dwelling had us casting looks at each other, then down at the food. I do not know what was on the others' minds, but my mind turned to the borg that was no longer ours. Which brought my thoughts to my father and what he must be thinking. Everything he had built, and everything he had planned to give to me, was now gone. We were homeless. Landless. Worthless. And with that thought, I lost my appetite.

  Gunnar sensed our discomfiture, for he knew our story and why we were here. “Mind your words, Gunhild.” He grabbed a travel bag and a cloak. “I will return before nightfall,” he announced, then he stepped from the room and left us to our meal.

  Gunnar returned just as the sun began its descent in the west. He led an ox up the hill, which in turn pulled a small cart that was loaded with goods. Beside it strode four other men. All were armed and armored, though it was clear from his brooch and the silver at his neck that the older, balder man was a lord. I realized as Astrid greeted this man with a formal bow, that this must be her father, Erik Bjodaskalli. The bald man of Bjodar. It was a fitting name, for his skull looked like the bottom of an egg sitting in a nest of wild orange hair. That hair dropped into a thick beard of the same color, complementing the ruddiness of his cheeks. He was a short, portly fellow but his eyes were a keen blue, and it was those eyes that studied his daughter's face now. He touched her cheek in greeting, then moved to my father. My father dwarfed the fellow, but the difference in size did not seem to bother Erik, who said some words to him before turning his eyes on us.

  “Come,” I heard him say to my father. “We have much to discuss. But first, let us eat. I have brought food and fresh clothing for you all.”

  Erik walked toward Olaf and me, and I prepared to receive his greeting. In my periphery, I could see Olaf plucking some hay from his tunic. I kicked his ankle to ensure he was ready for his grandfather, but it was for naught. Erik stopped several paces from us and merely studied Olaf with his icy eyes, his expression unreadable. Then he strode into the cottage. We followed. The three men who had come with Erik remained outside.

  The adults sat at the table. Olaf and I sat on stools with our backs to the wall. Now rested, Sigrunn and Turid joined Gunhild in bringing food from the cart to the table for Astrid and the men.

  “Tell me all,” Erik said when the food had been served and he had slaked his thirst with ale.

  My father obliged his friend, telling him of Holger's visit and invitation to raid, of King Trygvi's acceptance and foolishness in taking mostly the younger men, of Holger's night raid and our subsequent flight. Erik nodded or grunted as my father wove the tale for him. Nearby sat Gunnar, his face grave. Though he ran a whetstone along the edge of a pair of shears, I could tell he was listening.

  “It is a foul deed that has been done,” said Erik around a mouthful of cheese and bread when my father had finished his tale. “I am sorry for your loss, my friend, but I thank you for bringing my daughter and my grandson safely to me. And I thank you for bringing this grave news to us.” He drained his cup of ale and called for more. “I am afraid it is not altogether surprising, though. We have known for some time that the brood of Bloodaxe was not content to sit in the west; that those bastards would come for us just as they came for Jarl Sigurd. And now it is all coming to pass. You may not have heard but King Trygvi is not the only king to have fallen.”

  My father's brows bent downward. Beside him, Astrid went still as a stone. Olaf was playing with the tie-strings on his trousers, but I leaned in to hear what news Erik had to tell.

  “We have heard that King Gudrod has also fallen near Kaupang. From the sounds of it, the attacks happened at roughly the same time. We just learned those ill tidings this morning. And now this…”

  My father's head fell as Astrid gasped. King Gudrod was cousin and foster brother to King Trygvi, and the two were close friends and staunch allies to each other. And now both were gone, and with them, all remnants of the peace and political order that had existed since King H
akon began his rule in the days of my father's youth.

  “They will come for you and for all of the lords loyal to King Trygvi,” my father said when he had regained his composure.

  “Aye, they will,” said Erik. “But I have survived such upheavals before. I do not worry for myself.”

  Astrid frowned. “You would support Harald and his brothers, the killers of my husband?” Her voice had risen with her incredulity, as had the color in her fair cheeks.

  “If I must,” responded Erik calmly. “If the lords do not mobilize to fight them, then what choice have I?”

  “Have you dispatched messengers to the other lords?” This question came from my father and I wondered if his idea was to take part in the fight, should they gather to resist their new overlords.

  “I have, but it is too early to know where they stand on this.” Erik grabbed another piece of bread and bit into it. “Still,” he began again with his mouth full, “whether we choose to fight or bend our knees to our new king does not remove the threat to you, Astrid, or to your boy. He is heir to the High Seat of Vingulmark through his father's line, and Harald will want him removed to make room for his own sons. From what Torolv has said, he has already tried.”

  “What are you saying, exactly?” Astrid asked.

  “I am saying that you cannot stay here any longer than is necessary.”

  Astrid's mouth fell open. “Will you not protect us?” My father placed a calming hand on her arm but she shrugged it off and glared at her father. “You would put me and my child out?”

  “Calm yourself, my daughter. I am not putting you out.” Erik kept his voice low, but I could hear the warning in his tone. “I am saving you and your child. If you remain here, you will be found and you will be killed. And so will your child. And so might your entire family for harboring you.”

  “Who is to be killed?” Olaf asked, suddenly alert to the conversation.

  The adults turned their heads to him and Erik scowled. “This conversation is not for your ears, boy. Wait outside.” He pointed to the door.

  Olaf's cheeks flushed and I saw on his face that familiar mischievous expression. His hand was on the handle of his seax. Erik's brows folded downward at Olaf's implied threat.

  “Olaf,” I said as calmly as possible. “Come. Let the adults have their conversation.”

  He kept his eyes on his grandfather but nodded at my suggestion. I gently grabbed his arm and pulled him up. “Come, Olaf.”

  “You too, Turid,” I heard Sigrunn call to her daughter as the adults turned back to the table.

  The three of us exited the hall and left talk of killing to the adults, even though it would be all of our throats who would feel the bite of the blade, should Harald's men find us.

  I rounded on my charge when we had gone a fair distance from the cottage. “That is your grandfather, Olaf. You do not threaten him as you just did.”

  “What would you know, Torgil? My grandfather cares naught for me. He never has. He cares only for his sons and their sons. It has always been so. One day, I will change that.”

  I remembered Erik's less-than-friendly greeting to the two of us and suddenly understood that there was more to the story of Olaf and his grandfather than I previously thought. “I did not know it was so bad between you. Still, you should not threaten the man who gives us a roof to sleep under and food on our table.”

  Olaf huffed. “He does so for my mother. Not for me. He thinks me a fool.” He marched off down the hill and I turned to Turid, who was looking at him with a slightly shocked expression on her gaunt face.

  “I am frightened, Torgil,” she said softly as her eyes trailed Olaf.

  And so was I, but I was too proud to admit it to her, and so I held my tongue.

  We learned our fate soon enough. As we sat about the table that night, Astrid and my father explained to Olaf and me that we could stay at Erik's seter until trouble appeared. And when it came — which my father was certain it would — we were to head east, to the land of the Swedes and a friend of Erik's named Haakon the Old. That would get us one step closer to Holmgard in the land of the Rus, where Astrid's brother, Sigurd, served a prince named Sviatoslav. Haakon the Old, they explained, would take us in when the time came, though why they believed this was unclear to me. In the meantime, Gunnar and Gunhild would see to our welfare and in return, we would help them on the seter. It was a fair enough arrangement and one for which I was grateful.

  Still, questions persisted, and these I asked when my father and Astrid finished unveiling the plan. “What of our home?” I asked.

  My father leveled his eyes on me but took a long moment to answer. “We have no home now, Torgil. At least, not for a time.”

  “So what is to become of us?”

  My father twirled his cup of ale in his fingers. “Whoever looks not forward to learn his fate, unburdened will his heart be.”

  “What does that mean?” I snarled, needing practical responses at that moment instead of one of my father's stupid sayings.

  My father frowned at my tone. “It means that only the Norns know our fates, Torgil. And our fates are woven together with theirs now.” He motioned with his bushy chin to Astrid.

  I looked at the queen, then at Olaf, suddenly resenting them and the oath we had made to protect them. Yet I knew, too, that to break that oath was to bring shame to our family's name that would pass down through the ages, and that was a fate worse than death.

  My father interrupted my thoughts. “Torgil? Have you heard my words?”

  “Aye,” I mumbled.

  “And you, Olaf?” asked Astrid. “Do you understand what Torolv Loose-beard is saying to you?”

  He looked up from picking at a wood splinter on the table. “I understand,” he said, though I doubted he was truly paying attention.

  “Good,” she said. “No more sulking now. That includes you too, Sigrunn and Turid. We know not what the future holds, so let us not be burdened by it. Let us make the most of our misfortune and prove our worth when we rise each day. And let us pray that the opportunity will soon come for us to retake what was taken from us.”

  And so began our new life as fugitives.

  Chapter 7

  It took several days, but life on the seter soon fell into a predictable rhythm that helped mask memories of the previous days. We rose each day before dawn to the lowing of cows and the bleating of sheep. With the sun's first pink glow to our left, Olaf and I hiked to the stream that flowed through a steep gulley on the opposite side of the hill from the cottage. There, we filled the buckets we carried and struggled back to the seter, trying and failing to keep the water from splashing on us and the path. By then the adults were gathering the animals and driving them to the barn for milking.

  At midmorning, we all gathered in the cottage to break our fast on warm bread, porridge or skyr, and wild strawberries, which Gunhild, Sigrunn, and Turid had prepared for us. We moved to our individual tasks after the meal. Gunhild coached the women in all manner of dairy production. They made butter and buttermilk, the pungent brown cheese known as Gamalost, whey and skyr, sour milk, and even a fermented milk beverage that the adults enjoyed at night. The domain of the men was outside, cutting and stacking wood, gathering water and hay, sharpening tools, or keeping the animals from venturing too far afield.

  Weapons training with my father began in the afternoon. This I enjoyed immensely, for however strict his instruction — and it could be strict indeed — it afforded me time to step into the world of men and to interact with my father in ways I had not known when he was lord of his estate and too busy to instruct me personally. We trained mainly with wooden swords that Gunnar had crafted for us, though also with our one spear, our two shields, and our seaxes. Gunnar often joined my father in these sessions and showed us as much mercy as my father, which was none. Many was the time Olaf and I ended our training on our backsides, with fresh welts and bruises to add to the ones from the previous day.

  While I excelled in ma
rtial skills, I noticed with increasing jealousy that even at his young age, Olaf was god-gifted, with keen coordination in either hand — a rare gift that I could not emulate. It was my envy of Olaf that led to my roughness with him in our training, and the harsh rebukes I would receive from my father because of that roughness. That, in turn, only made me more bitter.

  Late afternoons were spent on repairs. The weather was not easy on structures in the North, and it seemed that something always needed fixing, whether the wood plank of the barn, a section of daub on the wall, a portion of thatch, a tool, or a rope. One-handed Gunnar proved a capable carpenter and craftsman and taught me much about woodwork and the maintenance of a farm. Olaf held himself aloof from those tasks, preferring to spend his time fighting imaginary enemies with his seax, at least until a sharp rebuke from my father brought him back to his senses.

  I cannot entirely blame Olaf for his lack of attention, though, for I too was guilty of such infractions, especially when Turid appeared. It did not help that she tarried a little longer when she saw us training. At first, my inattentiveness amused my father, but that soon grew to frustration and a swift smack to the head when it required him to repeat an instruction.

  At night, with the meal finished and the chores done, Olaf and I compared our wounds, taking pride in their size and color and recalling just how we had received each. Olaf would often embellish his story with some new twist or boast that usually brought a grin to the faces of our elders. That, too, was a skill I had not yet developed, nor did I wish to. Whereas Olaf seemed to enjoy the theatrics, I felt less comfortable telling tales to an audience.