“No!” Torbjorn cried. It did not make sense. They needed him. He was old enough to trade – he should be old enough to fight.
“Aren’t I strong enough?” said Torbjorn. He knew how Father would have to answer. Torbjorn had already shown his great strength to the men while packing the boats and felling trees for lumber. Now his heart was begging him to take action. If that action was battle, then fight he must.
“Battle demands wisdom as your ally,” said Father. “Without it your strength is as thunder without lightning.”
Torbjorn opened his mouth to protest. “You must keep your sisters and mother safe,” Father said, cutting him off. “They have come for our herds. Without them, we will starve. Protect them. That is your duty now.”
Torbjorn gritted his teeth. He knew that the Blodkriger had come for something else. He was sure of that. But now was not the time to explain.
Storfjell hefted his spear. He never looked more like a man than he did right then – he was not the same brother he had always been; there was majesty that went with his grave expression as he looked to the shore. “Battle,” said Father. Then he hefted his spear too and led Storfjell charging toward the beach.
The Blodkrig ship was nearing the shore. They only had moments before it reached land. Torbjorn turned and took his sisters by the hands, and led them up behind the stables, where he took a wooden spade under his arm – better to have some weapon than none at all when the enemy came. He threw off the timber that held the main herd in their paddock, and with a swat of his hand, sent the first trotting out into the clover. The rest followed, joining the bovines from the ship and stampeding alongside Torbjorn, his mother and his two sisters into the fields.
He turned back to see the raiders leaping from their boat onto the shore with drawn swords; there was a shrill cry, then a volley of arrows from their ship battered the village, smashing into the sides of the longhouse, their shafts driving deep into the wood.
Chapter 6 — Raid
The women and children fled, running alongside the bovines as Torbjorn led them up toward the foot of the cliffs at the farthest edge of the clover field. The mothers carried the youngest children on their backs.
He turned for a moment. He could see movement in the village below, flashes of swords and the blur of shields, like a collision of insects, but he was too far to tell who’d gained the upper hand. It was strange, because out of earshot and so far away the battle below seemed slow, almost gentle, like walking men who were half asleep, or falling leaves drifting on the wind. It was like watching a bad dream.
I should be there, thought Torbjorn. I could save them. But Father and Storfjell were fighting just beyond his reach. It wasn’t fair. He knew his strength. He could help them if they’d let him. He was certain of it.
Then the main longhouse’s roof caught on fire. The blaze glowed in the fall’s waning sun.
That could only mean that the battle had turned for the worse. There were shouts.
“Take the herd and gather them at the back of the valley,” he told a little boy. The boy nodded and ran off.
The field of clover tapered to a point as it rose to meet the base of the granite mountains. There the valley funneled into a narrow pass that led between the cliffs. The pass split into several paths that twisted up the steep cliff face like jagged vines. For as long as Torbjorn could remember the clan had called those paths Farstigen, the Dangerous Climb.
Most of the women and children would gather at the narrow pass. Of all the men in the clover field, Torbjorn was the oldest. If their warriors failed, Torbjorn must lead what was left of the village up Farstigen to safety. He tried not to think about it. They must conquer, he thought.
And then, just as quickly as it had begun, the battle was over.
The Blodkrig ship began to drift slowly away from the shore. There were men scrambling to board it and more men pursuing them into the water. The oars came out, it changed course in a wide, clumsy arc, and gathered speed toward the mouth of the fjord and away from Smordal.
“Wait here,” said Torbjorn to Mother and his two sisters. They did not protest. He ran down the valley past the stables to shore. He could not let himself take joy in victory just yet. The closer he came to the sand, the more he saw and the more he feared. It was a different fear than he’d had as the battle waged. Now that it was over, he was afraid to discover the depth of their loss. He wished he could be locked in the moment, never knowing what horrible things had already been finished.
There were men pouring seawater onto the roof of the longhouse to quench the flames. There were men lying on the sand, unmoving, next to broken spears that stuck out of the ground like splintered trees. There were men running back and forth to tend to their fallen clansmen. Torbjorn stood there, still as stone. It was all too much – smoke and blood and ruin – when Mannkraft seized Torbjorn by the shoulders. “Quench the flames!” he cried, thrusting a wooden bucket at Torbjorn.
He did not need to ask what Mannkraft meant. The longhouse. He shook himself, then ran to the water’s edge, stepping over a fallen enemy who lay face-down in the sand. He filled his bucket with seawater and ran it back to the longhouse, where he sloshed it on the flames.
The flames swallowed the water easily. So he did it again. The second bucketful seemed to temper the fire just a little, steam rising up where the flames had been. He ran again, back and forth with the other men, all working as quickly as they could to fight the fire. The harder he worked, the less he had to face his thoughts: where was Father? Where was Storfjell?
There was no time to answer that now. He had to put the fire out. Then he’d find them. He threw another bucket. A few more, then the flames shrank, struggled, and went out.
They poured extra bucketfuls onto the roof until the wood was soaked through. The mist had been strong that month, so it had kept the wood and straw moist. Otherwise, there might not be a longhouse left at all.
Torbjorn dropped his bucket and slumped over against the outside of the walls to rest, the vapor from the sagging roof now floating away above the longhouse, like a memory of what the clan’s gathering place used to be. The others stopped with him, all taking long hard breaths, when he heard a cry that pierced the moment.
On the beach was the body of Chief Gradfir, stretched out, lying face-up in the sand. One of the clan was kneeling over him, wailing. Gradfir’s armor had been knocked loose, so that it lay like an empty shell on the beach. His spear lay broken in two over his chest.
Gradfir, the mighty chief of their clan, the one without fear, the one who led them, had fallen.
Torbjorn took two careful steps toward him. The men rushed past Torbjorn to their chief. One of them knelt to inspect his wounds.
Torbjorn did not go any closer. This was work for older men; for once, he was glad he was not yet fully grown.
Now no one was safe. Storfjell! Father! he thought in alarm. If Gradfir could fall, so could they. The battle had been bitter, and it had been real. He scanned the beach frantically. There were fallen men from both clans, but no sign of Father or Storfjell.
He raced around the longhouse, and came to a span of open ground between two huts. “Father!” he called. He tried not to think of what might have happened. He tried to block the fear and loss from creeping into his chest. Instead, he replaced them with speed.
“Father!” he cried, racing to the sea side of the village again.
“I am here,” said Father. He trudged out from behind a pile of hay, Storfjell hanging limply from his shoulder. An arrow stuck out of Storfjell’s left forearm.
“Brother!” cried Torbjorn. Storfjell moaned, and a burst of hope lit in Torbjorn’s chest.
“It is an arm wound,” said Father. “I wish I had armor for my son, for he stood strong like a great mountain today.”
Storfjell managed to grit a tight smile, showing a wide row of teeth like polished rocks.
“Mother can heal him,” said Father, “But first we must pull the arrow fr
om his arm.”
There was confidence in Father’s voice. Father set Storfjell against the longhouse, and braced Storfjell’s arm underneath his knees. He pressed the arm flesh on either side of the shaft, then twisted the arrow slightly.
Mother brought a bucket of fresh water. She felt the wound. “It did not pierce his vitals,” she said.
“The head is smooth. I will pull,” said Father. He grasped the shaft firmly, the top of his closed fist facing down toward Storfjell’s arm. Then he pulled steady and smooth. Storfjell kept his eyes clamped shut. Torbjorn could not tell if he was awake. Then Storfjell groaned so hard it shook the rafters of the longhouse.
The arrow came out of Storfjell’s arm, and Father threw it to the ground.
Mother poured the water on the wound and bandaged it with a clean white cloth. She was crying. “My son!” she sobbed. Storfjell moaned again, then his head fell back, faint.
“He is strong, like the mountain,” said Father. “He will rest, then he will eat, and he will live.”
Torbjorn pressed the palm of his hand against his brother’s chest and hoped that it would be true.
That night they gave Gradfir a hero’s departure, smearing a skiff with golden butter and setting the brave Gradfir on board with his weapons and a small carved wooden bovine. Then they lit the butter; it blazed and burned as they sent the skiff drifting out into the fjord. No one wept, for they were Vikings; their hearts sang a sad song of praise. The burning butter lingered in Torbjorn’s nostrils as he watched the skiff sink into the water. Torbjorn had always heard stories of war, but never had he seen it – nor had Father – and he wondered if he would forever be broken inside because of it.
Chapter 7 — Nectar of Moo
Storfjell did live. He woke that night after Gradfir’s ceremony and sipped some onion soup. “Next time I shall block more of the arrows with my other arm so they don’t break the longhouse,” Storfjell grinned. Torbjorn did not think it was so funny.
“Then we can save what you have caught to shoot back at them,” Torbjorn replied.
“I would rather that they shot sausages with their bows,” said Storfjell.
Torbjorn almost laughed, because he too loved to eat sausages very much. It made him hungry.
And suddenly, Torbjorn smiled again. If Storfjell was no longer afraid, then maybe Torbjorn did not have to be either. Terrible things had happened when he’d given up Smordal’s secret. But that was over now. There would be no need to speak of it again.
Besides, they had won. Smordal had proven itself in battle! They were warriors now. Without even a single sword, they had defeated the fierce Blodkrig Clan. Who else could Smordal defeat? Perhaps they were as strong as any clan north of Viksfjord.
That night, the men gathered in what was left of the longhouse and declared Father, Trofast Smakkersonn, the wisest of their clan, to be their chief. They pledged their loyalty and strength to Smordal and set a wreath of leaves on his head.
Mother opened a wooden box at the back of the longhouse. Inside were dozens of freshly sharpened horns. They all unscrewed the horns from their helmets and replaced them with the new ones in honor of their victory.
“Feast!” cried Mannkraft the Strong. He banged a mug against the long table next to the fire pit in the middle of the longhouse. “Yah!” cried the clan, and the feasting began.
This was not a feast like the puny feasts the clans of Viksfjord had – half a trout head each – nor even like the pitiful, meager feasts – three wilted leaves on a plate – of the clans of the East. This was a feast of Smordal, and there was never a feast that was more likely to put fat on your teeth than this one.
They piled the table chin-high with meats and cheeses from the storehouse and pears they’d brought from Viksfjord, and fish they’d caught from the sea. On top of that was a mound of blueberry muffins as high as a grizzly bear’s back, all slathered in buttery gold.
Mother had even carved an exquisite, life-sized sculpture of Father out of a block of solid butter. She set it shimmering like gold atop the table, standing victorious with spear in hand. She’d even taken the time to carve hairs in his beard and pupils into his eyes. No one was more proud of Father tonight than she was. The butter chief was so real, Torbjorn thought that Father himself might be hiding inside.
“Hail to our Chief!” bellowed Mannkraft, opening the doors to the longhouse. “Mooverk, bring in the bovines!”
Mooverk was a small, nervous man with only a wisp of hair left on his balding crown. He spent most of his time tending the herd. He’d stayed in the stable when the attack came. Now, he ushered the herd into the longhouse through the doors. There were brown ones and reddish ones and white ones with spots, all streaming into the house and lining up at the table’s edge, shoulder to shoulder, flicking their tails and smiling with their eyes, just like well-behaved bovines do. Mooverk pulled the first in line up onto the table until she was standing with her hooves next to the meats, her udder at eye level. He squeezed her teats, squirting warm, frothy milk into a mug. “Let us drink the Nectar of Moo!” Mannkraft said, sliding the mug down the table between the meats and cheeses until it landed in Storfjell’s hands.
“Yah!” they shouted, banging the table in unison. Mooverk led the next bovine in line up onto the table and milked her too until she was all empty. Then he moved on to the next, Mannkraft sliding milk-mugs to everyone in turn. They drank sweet Nectar of Moo until a foamy white milk mustache covered each one of their upper lips – even Mother’s. Nothing tasted so good to Torbjorn in all of the North. This was what it meant to be from Smordal.
And then the singing began. The men began swaying their milk mugs in time, their voices bouncing up and down, belting out such ancient traditional songs as “Loki’s Got My Pajamas” and “Battle Axe in B Minor.”
Torbjorn hadn’t felt so happy in days. He was so busy catching the sausages that Mannkraft threw across the room into his mouth that he almost didn’t notice Father quietly slip out the back and into the night.
***
Three days later, the men lay languidly on the benches and floor of the longhouse, picking at bits of muffins and dozing between sausages. Torbjorn did not know if he could bear to hear “Thor’s Hammer Lost its Nails” one more time.
Mannkraft did not join them. Instead, he sat in the corner sharpening his spear. Storfjell also sat aloof away from the fire, stroking his mustache.
“Did you see us in battle?” cried Mooverk, his skinny arms waving back and forth.
“Yah!” cried Grimbarn, Mannkraft’s son. “With warriors like ours, we could storm Viksfjord and take it for ourselves!”
The men laughed so loud, they sounded like a flock of geese eaten by a grizzly bear, when suddenly Father rose from his bench in the corner.
“Enough!” Father struck the table loudly with the butt of his spear. It shook the wooden bowls and in an instant, the songs ceased, and the men were still.
Torbjorn had not seen Father come in. Now that he was there, the fire light danced and shimmered on his hay-colored beard as he stood before them, his gaze piercing. Torbjorn did not dare to look him in the face.
“It’s been three days,” said Father. “Two days for the scouting party to travel to Viksfjord. Two more days to gather more soldiers and return. The Blodkriger will return, and this time in greater numbers.”
“Tomorrow is the fourth day,” whispered Mannkraft. He thumbed the edge of his spearhead.
Father nodded. “Our men are few, and our injuries are many,” he said. “We cannot fight them again.”
Torbjorn sat up. Why would the Blodkriger come back? Smordal had already won. He felt the joy in his chest darken.
“But we have little treasure! What could they want?” said Grimbarn.
“The fame of Smordal, the succulent blueberry jewels set in the crowns of our golden brown muffins!” cried Mother. She too had moved away from the feast to the edge of the longhouse.
One of the men laughed. “But th
ey are just muffins!”
“That fetch a mighty price with kings!” replied Mother. Mother was not afraid of the men – as fierce as they were, they knew she was wise.
“They’re after our herds!” cried Mooverk.
“Perhaps so,” said Father. “We cannot know for certain what they seek, except for our destruction.”
A thought formed in Torbjorn’s mind and pounded against his throat, demanding to be spoken. He knew what they wanted. If he told them, he’d have to reveal his mistake. But if he didn’t – the danger was real. “They seek the Golden Fortune of our Herds. They know our secret,” he said.
Father nodded. “Of course. One cannot taste the blueberry muffins of Smordal season after season and not discover their savory secret. Time has been generous to us that this has not happened before.”
Torbjorn felt a small sense of relief. Father had always tried to defend his son, but there was more for Torbjorn to say. He had to tell the whole truth. “In Viksfjord, the man who offered me Weyland’s sword, I spoke to him of the Nine Churns.” Torbjorn said, spitting out the words as fast as he could.
It was Mannkraft who roared first. “The Nine Churns that turn our bovines’ nectar into gold? The churns fashioned from the tree grown from the shining apple of Asgard?”
“The very same,” whispered Torbjorn.
Mannkraft pounded the table with his fist. “And now we have paid in blood!” There was a roar and shout from the men.
Torbjorn chanced a look up into Father’s eyes. Father stared at him over the firelight, but his face betrayed neither pride nor shame.
Mother cried out. “You couldn’t have known what it would bring upon us,” she said.
The words stung, though Mother did not mean them to. She was right – Torbjorn could not have known it would come to this. But he had been foolish to lead Rotte and the Blodkriger here. He could not deny that.
“You fool,” said Mannkraft, turning his back on him. There was a murmur of agreement.
The Buttersmiths' Gold Page 4
