Forged by Iron

by Eric Schumacher

  “We heard that Haakon had visitors. From whence have you come? We have not seen you before.”

  The question came from the man sitting on the bench across from my father. I wondered, as I watched him take a long sip of his ale, what he might answer.

  “And you may not see us again. We are just passing through,” my father replied.

  “How do you know Haakon?” asked the man. I tensed. It was just small talk, I knew, but his questions were coming perilously close to subjects we would be fools to discuss.

  “He is a friend of a friend,” my father answered casually, which was true.

  Astrid sat to my father's right and placed a hand on his wrist. “We are headed to the East. To Holmgard. My brother is there. He is a trader and we wish to join him.”

  The curious neighbor's eyes widened. “To Holmgard? That is a long voyage for the likes of you.” My father must have frowned, for the man held up his hands. “I mean, for three children. The East Way can be perilous.”

  “We will manage.” My father drained his cup, then rose.

  “You must forgive my husband,” said the redheaded woman seated next to my father's interrogator. “He likes to talk and often oversteps. It is a blessing and a curse.” She shrugged. “He means no offense.”

  “I meant no offense,” the man repeated as his eyes followed by father's retreating back.

  “None taken,” Astrid responded pleasantly, though I could see the color rising in her cheeks.

  To my right, Olaf was feeding some bread to one of the neighbor's hounds. I smacked his shoulder. It was common enough to give hounds scraps after a feast but wasteful to feed them before the feast had yet begun. “People eat before the hounds,” I chastised him.

  He looked at the half-eaten bread in his hand, then smiled his mischievous smile. “Here,” he said, and tossed the dog-slimed bread into my trencher. “Then you eat it.”

  I recoiled, bumping into Turid, who had just taken a sip of her water and had not yet returned the cup to the table. The water splashed onto the table and washed onto her lap. She jumped to her feet. “Torgil! Look what you have done!”

  I gasped. “I am sorry, Turid. I did not mean—”

  She didn't wait for my apology, but stormed off into the hall. I made to rise and follow her, but Astrid stilled me with a hand. “Let her be. It was an accident, Torgil. Besides, it was only water.”

  I sat back down and glared at Olaf. He smiled haughtily at me, as if he had won a victory of some sort. But I had had enough. I backhanded him so hard that he fell off the bench and hit his head. Before he could rise, I was on him, my fist connecting with his face. Once. Then twice. Then three times. There was no thought of my duty to him. There was only a vicious need to make him feel pain for his indifference to wasting food, to embarrassing Turid, and to teasing me.

  As I was bringing my fist down for the fourth blow, strong arms yanked me up and whirled me away from my prey. Delirious with rage, I kept throwing punches and kicking, but the arms that held me were like vises. They carried me into the barn and threw me to the ground. I wheeled around to face my assailant but never did see his face. I later knew that it was my father's fist, but it may as well have been a hammer that connected with my jaw. With a sudden flash of pain, my head jerked backward, then everything went black.

  We never spoke of the incident. Nor did I ever apologize for the bruises on Olaf's face. I did tell Turid I was sorry for spilling water on her dress, though. She accepted the apology with a nod but kept her distance from me after that. I suppose my attack on Olaf, however warranted, was the cause of her distance, but I was too young to broach that subject with her. I sensed that Astrid, too, was a bit more wary of me, but what could I do? Olaf deserved the beating, and I did not regret giving it to him.

  The snows came early that winter and fell in thick mounds upon the ground until the world was covered in a beautiful, silent mantle of white. Taken by surprise by the sudden snow, we chopped and collected wood, and slaughtered those animals deemed weakest. And then we settled in to wait out the long, cold days and nights.

  I hated that winter. It was not like the winters on Jel, which were milder. This one was severe and lung-searingly cold. It was our captor and the hall, our fetters. We were stuck indoors, with our eyes stinging from the smoke of the hearth fire and our noses filled with the odor of wood and bodies and animals and shit. Our stomachs grumbled constantly from lack of food, not because we had none, but because we knew not how long winter would last and so we had to conserve what we had.

  There was still plenty to do, of course, but none of it was fun or interesting. I did not have the patience for the long board games my father and Haakon played, and there were only so many baskets I could weave or clothes I could mend or blades I could sharpen or sticks I could whittle. Understandably, I suppose, Olaf would not play with me, nor would Turid, though they did play together, much to my chagrin. Astrid spent much of her time at the loom, or helping Tala in the kitchen, or in talks with my father and Haakon, so I rarely interacted with her. And so I spent that winter surrounded by people, yet deeply alone.

  My solace came in sleep and training. But even sleep was interrupted by Olaf's incessant shifting and rolling at night. We slept in the same bed, you see, and his body moved constantly, even in slumber. Many was the night I would wake with nary a cover to warm me and have to pry the furs from his grasp.

  Training was different. Olaf and I took turns at the far end of the hall, where there was space to move, just one of us boys against my father. Because of danger to others in the cramped hall, we moved through our attacks and parries slowly, methodically. My father would stop mid-slice or -thrust to adjust our arms to the right position, or shift our feet, or move our shield. He would say nary a word. If we made a mistake twice, he would smack our arm with the flat of his wooden blade. On occasion, my father would invite Astrid or Turid to train. Turid liked it. Astrid tolerated it. But neither ever refused. There was an unspoken understanding among us all that we might need the skills my father taught, and so we did as he instructed without complaint.

  For nearly ninety days we remained indoors, sitting, pacing, training, sleeping, biding our time. I know this because I counted those days with notches on my bed frame. And then, one day, winter's freeze released its grip on the world and the sun returned. The days warmed and the snow turned to rain, and the white mantle of my prison melted away.

  That first spring-like day, I ran from the hall into the mud and the lingering chill. It was drizzling, but I did not care. Like a caged hound suddenly released, I sprinted for the river, frightening geese into flight, then circled into the foothills and finally back to the farm. I did not invite Olaf, but he ran with me, echoing my whoops and hollers as we sank into ankle-deep snow and splashed across puddles. I knew then that our camaraderie had reached an understanding. But more importantly, I knew that Olaf would be more wary of our relationship. He would not always listen, but he understood that I would not hold back, and that gave me confidence.

  Which was good, for I would need it in the days to come.

  Chapter 12

  Trouble came that spring.

  We had just begun plowing, for the ground was now soft enough to turn. My father, Bursti, Gamal, Olaf, and I were in the fields, either turning the wet earth with shovels, clearing rocks from the turned soil, or running a plow behind. We had hit a tough patch and were struggling to get the plow moving when men appeared from the woods on the south side of Haakon's farm. Bursti straightened and, after observing them for a time, went to meet them. Haakon, who sat wrapped in furs near the hall doors, rose to join Bursti. The rest of us stopped our work and watched.

  I recognized one of the men as my father's interrogator from the harvest feast. My stomach tightened, and I glanced worriedly at my father. If he felt the same apprehension, he did not show it, though he sensed it in Olaf and me. “Easy, lads,” he cautioned. “We have nothing to fear.”

  It was a good remin
der, for we did look different now. More spartan in our clothing; less groomed. We boys had grown and thinned from toil. My father had clipped the beard he loved so much and now wore it close to his jaw. I never thought I would see him do that, for he had been proud of that beard. It had been part of his identity — his name, even — but he answered our questioning gazes as we watched Astrid trim it with a shrug and one of his sayings that even now I can hear in my head: “Hair grows back. Life does not.”

  I was under no illusion that the interrogator did not recognize us. His business at the farm may have been purely innocuous — a simple visit to check in on Haakon. We were too distant to hear their words, but we could see Haakon and the men gesturing as they spoke. Eventually, Haakon turned to his hall and beckoned the men to follow. The interrogator glanced in our direction briefly, then turned to follow Haakon. Bursti rejoined us in the field.

  “Neighbors?” my father asked.

  “Aye. One is Haakon's neighbor. You must recognize him from the feast? The other two are his friends from the nearby village,” he responded as he picked up his shovel.

  “What do they want?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “They would not discuss it in front of me. They wished to speak with Haakon alone.”

  My father glanced at me. “We will know soon enough what their business is. Come, let us finish this work.”

  The men left after a short time and vanished into the woods. As soon as they were gone, Astrid came to us with a pitcher of water and some wooden cups. She did not usually run water to us, and so we gathered around her, sensing some import to her mission.

  “So?” my father said as he took a cup from Astrid's hand and gestured with it toward the trees. “Should we be concerned?”

  She nodded as she filled his cup. “They have come to tell us about men in Westra Aros who are asking questions. The king's men.”

  Westra Aros was the closest village to Haakon's farm. It lay at the point where a river east of the farm flowed into what the locals simply called the Lake. Due to its access to the East Sea and its proximity to the interior of the Swedish realm, the village had long been a trading site for Swedes and eastern traders.

  My father scratched his beard. “There are many men who think themselves king nowadays. Which king is this?”

  Astrid stopped pouring the water and looked up into my father's face. I could see the concern playing in her eyes. “The king of the Swedes. Erik. He who rules in Uppsala with his brother, Olof.”

  I had not heard of these men, but if they ruled in Uppsala, the ancient seat of the Swedish kings, I knew they must be important. “Are these men asking questions about us?”

  “Aye,” Astrid confirmed.

  “Why would they do that?” I wondered aloud.

  “Because other powerful men are asking,” my father grumbled as he half turned to me. He finished his water and handed his cup back to Astrid. “Did they say how many men are in the village asking questions, Astrid?”

  “No exact number. He just said 'many,' ” she answered quietly, and that one word set my heart to racing.

  My father sighed, then cast his eyes on each of us in turn. “We will soon need to leave. Let us speak with Haakon tonight and start to plan.”

  “I asked those men who came here today to return here on the morrow when the sun is high,” Haakon told us that night after our meal. “They will bring a boat to take you downriver to the Lake. They will also send a messenger to a trader named Sigvard in Westra Aros and alert him of your coming. If he is there, he will help you.”

  “Do you trust this Sigvard?” asked my father.

  Haakon grinned. “More than I trust most traders. He was a friend of my son's and is like kin to me. It is he who brought me word of my son's death in the east. He still trades in the East Sea and knows it well. For a price, he can bring you to the trading outpost Aldeigjuborg in the land of the Rus. From there, you may need to find another vessel to take you to your brother, wherever he may be.”

  “And what if Sigvard's ship is not there?”

  Haakon pursed his thin lips. “Then we shall have a choice to make, eh?”

  “What about you and the spring planting?” asked Astrid.

  He smiled fondly at her, giving us a glimpse of the two yellowed teeth remaining in his head. “You are good to ask, but we have fared well before, and so we shall again. Do not worry.” He sat hunched at the head of the eating board and passed his gaze over us and our gloomy faces. “Oh, come. Why the melancholy? Should we not be thanking the gods for our time together?” He hefted his cup and waited for us to do the same. When we did, he cleared his throat and said, “I will not soon forget the pleasure of having you in my hall. The sound of family was music to my old ears. I have missed it, these last winters.”

  Haakon's mind had grown noticeably softer since our arrival, and I had lost count of the times he had told us that. Across from me, Olaf rolled his eyes, and I kicked him. Our host did not notice, but my father did and stayed us with a fiery glance.

  “So I thank you,” Haakon was saying, “and I thank the gods for the gift of you. To the gods!”

  “To the gods!” we responded dutifully. Each of us tipped our cups and let a small measure fall to the rushes in sacrifice before taking a sip.

  “Could the king's men come tonight?” Turid asked when the toast was done. It was an innocent enough question, but it set me on edge. Astrid's smile vanished, as did my father's.

  “If they learn of your presence here, then I suppose it is possible,” Haakon replied. He looked at Bursti, who sat on the nearby platform, eating from his trencher. As close as he was to Haakon, he was still a thrall and did not eat at the main table —- at least when we were present.

  Bursti shrugged. “They could sleep in the barn,” he suggested, meaning us. “Might be safer there.”

  Haakon pursed his lips. “It is a good idea, though if we are planning for trouble, we should then plan thoroughly. Gather your things and bring them with you to the barn. My thralls can assist you. If trouble comes, it is best you have your things.”

  “And what of you?” Astrid asked. “If trouble comes, you will be in here. Alone.”

  Haakon patted her hand, which lay on the table near his. “I fear more for your safety than my own, Astrid.”

  “I am sorry we have brought trouble to your threshold,” she responded.

  Haakon smirked, though his eyes remained steady and earnest. He patted her hand again but held his tongue.

  “We travel as we did before,” my father announced. “We will draw fewer eyes to us if we appear as traders with thralls to sell.”

  Olaf's face pinched. “Can we not have Torgil play the thrall this time?” He nodded in my direction.

  I wanted to kick him again, but I knew he had a valid point. He was a king's son, and if it came to a fight, he would be just as handy as me, if not more so. My father looked at me and raised his brow in question. I nodded at him. “I will play the thrall, Father, if that is what you require of me.”

  My father nodded and turned back to our host. “One day, Haakon, I hope we can return the kindness you have shown us.”

  He grunted and waved my father's comment away, then rose with a grunt. “Come. The night is growing late. You should prepare. Bursti and Gamal, make the barn ready. Tala, help them gather their things.”

  I do not remember much of that night except that, after spending time in a warm bed near a hearth fire, I was uncomfortable and cold, the more so because my hair had been cropped in the manner of a thrall and I was not used to the chill on my neck. To heighten my discomfort, the hay poked me and my rough blanket made me itch.

  I struggled that entire night, until finally, in the gray light before dawn, I rose bleary-eyed and walked to the barn door to relieve myself. But as I opened the door, my eyes caught sight of shadows moving toward the hall. Many shadows. Then a man appeared in the midst of those shadows with a lit torch. The flame cast its wavering glow on him and those ar
ound him, and on the metal that protected their heads and bodies.

  I froze. And so, too, did my heart.

  Chapter 13

  I closed the door as quickly and quietly as I could and retreated into the shadows of the barn to seek the sleeping form of my father.

  He sat up abruptly when I shook him. “What?” he growled.

  I held a finger to my lips. “Warriors. Outside.” I pointed to the barn door.

  My words stirred him into motion. “Wake the others. Quietly,” he hissed as he rose and moved to his possessions stacked against the nearby wall.

  One by one, I nudged the others awake.

  “How many?” Astrid asked me quietly as she stood.

  “Mayhap twenty or more.”

  She passed my father a concerned glance. He looked at her, then pulled from his belongings the four seaxes, the two old swords, and his own sword. “Each of you take a seax,” he whispered. “Boys. Grab the swords.”

  Outside, we heard the warriors pounding on Haakon's door.

  “Cover our things with hay,” he commanded quietly. “Then hide.”

  We did our best to quietly place hay on our bags. As we did so, my father moved to the barn door and peered out into the darkness, his sword firmly in his grip. I moved to a spot to the right of the door — behind a pile of hay that lay in the shadows — where I knew a peephole to be. I crouched and peeked through the aperture.

  Outside, the men had gathered in a group before the hall's door. Before them stood Haakon with his sword in one hand and his walking stick in the other. Behind Haakon, near the hall door, stood his thralls. Haakon stepped down onto the turf and limped up to the apparent leader, who removed his helmet to reveal his black hair and gaunt profile. The breath caught in my throat as I recognized Holger. I glanced over at my father but he had not moved from the doorway.