The Buttersmiths' Gold

by Adam Glendon Sidwell

  Storfjell stood. “We must flee,” said Torbjorn. They would be storming up the beach in no time. The ship itself was nearing the edge of the waterline. From what Torbjorn could tell, it was a flat-bottomed raiding vessel. Raiders used boats like those in the south so they could beach themselves and the men could rush the shore to make a quick attack in one devastating wave. What was worse – it meant the troll could come ashore without crossing the water.

  The drums of Smordal beat up in the rocks, and a volley of arrows rained down into the wave of Blodkrig warriors on the sand.

  Half of the Blodkrig warriors on the sand fell, hit by the hailstorm of arrows. The wave of men slowed, scattered and fell. A new wave surged forward from the ship.

  Torbjorn felt a thrill of hope. Perhaps they did stand a chance. Perhaps they could stand against the Blodkriger once again.

  Then the volley ceased and there was no more.

  Of course, thought Torbjorn, his heart sinking once again. The archers of Smordal had no doubt used up every last arrow in that single burst. The volley had bought them precious seconds, but nothing more.

  “To Farstigen!” cried Father from a cluster of boulders near the center of the village. He was there on the front lines, as close to the enemy as any of them. A different, faster drum beat sounded. They were calling the retreat.

  “We must go,” shouted Storfjell, picking up Grimbarn and putting him on his feet. Grimbarn pushed him away. The second wave of enemies had reached the shore now; there were only seconds.

  “Coward,” Grimbarn spat, then ran, leaving his spear in the sand.

  “Sometimes, Brother, it is better to live than to fight,” said Storfjell to Torbjorn. “And others, it is better to fight than to live. Now you may choose.” He ran.

  Torbjorn did not quite understand his brother. Was he a coward, or a warrior?

  Torbjorn grabbed Grimbarn’s discarded spear and kicked off the sand, running toward the fields in his brother’s footsteps.

  The men were in full retreat around them. Running, with shields at their backs and spear points bobbing up and down.

  Torbjorn passed the men who had been hiding near the smokehouse. He could hear the enemies’ cries in his ears.

  “Brother!” said Storfjell, and suddenly Storfjell turned toward the beach and pointed his spear. By instinct, Torbjorn ducked.

  He turned and had just enough time to point his spear straight into the broad wooden shield of a charging warrior. The man’s sword was drawn, and his iron helmet pulled low so that half his face was hidden. Torbjorn’s spear slammed into the wood; the force of the warrior’s run knocked Torbjorn backward off his feet.

  Torbjorn fell onto his back in the sand. For a moment, he had the sickening feeling that a sword would come down on him, so he leapt to his feet as fast as he could, with nothing but half a shattered spear in his hand. Luckily, the warrior had been knocked over by the collision too; Torbjorn made it to his feet first. Before the man could raise his sword, Torbjorn swung the butt of his spear crossways, smashing the man in the helmet and knocking him flat on the ground.

  “Watch out!” cried Torbjorn. A second warrior came from behind and swung his sword at Storfjell. Storfjell blocked with his spear, then punched the man in the face, knocking him over.

  “Retreat!” cried Storfjell.

  There were more men coming up fast. The second wave of Blodkriger – twice as large as the first – charged up the sand toward them, their iron swords raised like hooks in the air. Behind them more warriors poured out of the ships to replace those who had fallen on the sand.

  Torbjorn turned and ran as fast as he could force himself to run. He charged into the clover field and up the rise, scrambling up a low set of rocks onto a higher hill, scraping his hands badly as he went. He had no time to find the best route – there was no time for that. He had to run, charging like a bull over a narrow berm on the hill and then onward through the field.

  Storfjell and his clansmen streamed past him on all sides, running for their lives, shields at their backs, spears in hand. He could not see where Father had gone – he hadn’t seen him since he called the retreat. Torbjorn hoped he too had made his escape.

  He ran harder, as if he were chased by dragons, but felt as if his legs were made of lead. His chest burned. His feet ached. He could almost feel the points of the enemies’ swords in his back, and feared that were he to falter even for an instant, it would be the end.

  The narrow pass between two cliffs that marked the foot of Farstigen was just ahead. He dared not look behind him again.

  He reached the end of the clover, leapt past two men, and scrambled up the rocks between the two short cliffs. The hard, sharp rocks of the narrow pass never felt so good under Torbjorn’s cloth-wrapped feet.

  There was a scraping of stone and a pounding of thunder behind him. He spun around to see more of his clan squeezing between the rocks. Behind them, boulders were raining down from above, tumbling onto the swiftest five Blodkrig warriors who’d outpaced their clan.

  Torbjorn looked up. There were two of the Smordaler – Gradfir’s nephews – shoving more boulders off the cliffs onto the attackers below. It worked: the stones fell and found their targets, knocking three enemy warriors over and smashing them into the ground just behind Torbjorn’s heels.

  Mannkraft stood below the cliffs, spinning his spear at the enemy, slashing and striking with such great fury that it blinded Torbjorn’s sight. Two more enemies fell under Mannkraft’s might.

  Father was ahead, up on the first switchback in the path, waving men onward with his spear, his hay beard tied back behind him. He escaped, thought Torbjorn. “Climb!” boomed Father, “To the paths you know! To the cliffs and woods!”

  The men of Smordal flocked to him, all as one, their horned helmets and their weapons at their belts jangling as they streamed into the narrow pass from the field, up the paths, and onward, some turning right, others left as the paths split and twisted their way up the cliffs.

  Torbjorn followed them, ignoring his tired, heaving chest, and willing himself upward, climbing into the winding maze of Farstigen and away from his home.

  Chapter 11 — The Ruin of Smordal

  Torbjorn stayed close on Storfjell’s heels as they crisscrossed the maze of narrow paths that led up the face of Farstigen. He hugged the cliff face as closely as he could – there was little room for error when the edge of the precipice was crumbling at your feet. Some of the paths led to the top, others to dead ends that broke away into nothing but ruin for those who dared go down them. Still others wound away into far valleys and were lost.

  Torbjorn wondered how Mother, Gudrunn, and Eldrid had fared, especially with a herd of bovines following so closely behind them. Luckily the women and children had such a head start, they were certainly well into the forest by now.

  They came to yet another fork in the path. This time Storfjell turned right. The paths hadn’t been familiar to Torbjorn for the last half of the day. The clan had long since scattered across them. He had not seen the village for more than an hour either, since the cliffs folded back on themselves, and only caught glimpses of men climbing up above and beneath him. The paths had led them into the crags and fissures in the cliff, making it impossible to tell who was below – Blodkrig warriors or men of Smordal.

  “Look!” said Storfjell. Torbjorn turned the corner behind his brother. Several of their clan were gathered up ahead on a sharp bend where the path switched back up the mountain. There was room enough to stand there. Father was with them, perched on the rocks above. They were gazing down into the valley, their shields and spears lowered. Mannkraft stood in the middle of the men, his neck bent and his chin on his chest. He was pointing into the valley below.

  What Torbjorn saw there nearly broke his heart.

  Far below in the valley of Smordal, cradled between the cliffs at the end of the fjord, where the moon had watched over it just the night before, beyond the crisp fields of clover, the only village T
orbjorn had ever loved burned and glowed as fires roared across it, engulfing the longhouse, the stables, and the lodges in an orange-red flame and casting a crimson hue on the Blodkrig warriors who had gathered to watch the village burn.

  A thick column of rolling black smoke climbed into the air. Smordal was gone. His village. The place where Torbjorn was meant to spend his life. The place where his people had lived for generations. This was not meant to be! Now, they truly had nothing. Torbjorn hung his head.

  “You!” said Mannkraft, looking up from the village to Storfjell. His voice bellowed into a roar, and his face grew dark: “You defied the Wanderer. You turned your back on the destiny of Smordal! All that is left for us now is our wives and children and herds! How shall we feed them? Even our village is burning in flames!” Mannkraft drew his spear. “You shall ever be known as the Ruin of Smordal!”

  Whatever safety the clan should have offered vanished, and suddenly, Mannkraft was as fierce as an enemy warrior.

  “The Blodkriger will not follow,” said Storfjell quietly. He looked directly into Mannkraft’s eyes. Torbjorn did not know how he stayed so calm in the face of such anger. “They wanted the Nine Churns. Now they are gone. Farstigen has given us an escape. There is nothing for them here. You can see that as well as I do.”

  From the bend in the path, the entire cliff below came into view. Storfjell was right. There were no men climbing it. The enemy warriors were all in the village below. They had not followed.

  “All for what? So we can die in the wilderness? Without food or livelihood?” cried Mannkraft. He pointed his spear at Storfjell’s heart. “Be gone from us, Ruin of Smordal.”

  Torbjorn clenched the half spear handle he still held in his hands. He wanted to lash out at Mannkraft. How could Mannkraft speak such things to his brother? Storfjell had destroyed the churns. Yes, it had been foolish and rash and even cowardly. Yes, Torbjorn felt betrayed, but it was Torbjorn that had brought this upon them to begin with.

  Now there were so many things he wanted to shout and say; he was boiling in anger, his heart swimming in a mixture of rage and guilt. Without thinking, he hurled the broken spear handle at Mannkraft. It bounced off Mannkraft’s shield and fell on the rocks.

  And then Torbjorn understood. Storfjell had given them a way out. He had given them a choice.

  Mannkraft’s eyes slanted downward. “And you! The one who betrayed our secret to begin with! Be gone both of you! And this clan will seek safety without such thorns in its side!”

  Torbjorn looked to Father, who leaned on his spear. Father turned his eyes away. The simple glance sent a shot of pain into Torbjorn’s chest. Wasn’t he going to defend them? “Now is not the time for judgment,” said Father.

  “You let your wisdom waver because they are your sons,” said Mannkraft.

  “No. You let your wrath rule you when our clan is alone in the wilderness!” said Father. “They will face justice when we’ve found refuge. If it is the clan’s will, they will be exiled.”

  “It is our will now,” said Mannkraft. The men behind Mannkraft banged their spears on the rocks.

  Father looked over them, his eyes filling with sorrow. “Is it your will?” he asked.

  “Yah!” they said, all at once. It was hardly the entire clan, but it was enough.

  Father sighed. There was nothing he could do. A chief could not defy his clan. This was a time for action, not healing, and the clan had spoken. Torbjorn looked to his brother for some sign of hope. Storfjell’s face was quiet with stern resolve. His cheeks flexed under his silvery beard and his wrinkles fell. “If that is the will of Smordal,” said Father.

  “It is,” said Mannkraft. He turned up the path, taking a fork that climbed to the left. The men followed him, and in moments, they had turned the corner and passed out of sight.

  Father looked down to Torbjorn and Storfjell. He put his hand over his heart, left it there for several seconds, and with sad eyes, turned and took the path after the clan he had sworn to lead.

  “Father,” said Torbjorn. Father did not return. Torbjorn and Storfjell stood on the bend in the path, alone.

  “Did not Father always teach us that family blood is thickest?” muttered Torbjorn.

  “Sometimes, a man must do not what he wants to do, but what must be done,” said Storfjell.

  Torbjorn’s heart felt heavy. Was that all Storfjell could say? Another one of his wise and important sayings? Torbjorn kicked a stone and it went sailing over the cliff’s edge. He was angry at Mannkraft, and he was angry at Father. He was angry at Storfjell for burning the churns, and most of all, he was angry that he’d set in motion Smordal’s defeat by giving up their secret.

  “I fear that the names Torbjorn and Storfjell will become bad magic for so long as the generations of Smordal live,” muttered Torbjorn. “They’ll become curses on our clansmen’s tongues.” If they sang songs about them now, he would not want to hear them.

  “So long as they are alive to despise us,” said Storfjell. His mustache curved – it was almost the hint of a smile.

  There was a glimmer of truth inside what Storfjell said. The Blodkriger had not followed. Farstigen proved too much for them now that there were no churns to chase. Storfjell had been trying to give the Smordaler a way out. There was hope in his act of cowardice.

  Torbjorn wondered for half a moment if he should thank his brother. He decided against it. It was too soon, and there were many miles ahead of them before they would know if they or the clan could live.

  They chose the right fork in the path – opposite the fork their clan took. It sloped downward gradually, then rose upward steeply, climbing through a jagged gap between rocks. Torbjorn and Storfjell picked their way carefully through the gap, then for several more hours climbed up the cliffs, taking more than a few wrong turns, until eventually they touched the edge of a snowpack where the trail leveled off and passed into a forest. All at once, they were on level ground.

  They had climbed Farstigen.

  The air was colder up here. Without the sea to bring its muggy warmth, it had thinned and grown crisp. Storfjell put his hands on his knees and puffed, his breath lingering like a faint fog until it faded away.

  Torbjorn stared into the forest. The firs were dark and green and grew so that they cast shadows on each other, leaving the snow speckled with a tangled silhouette of trunks and branches.

  “I have never seen the top of Farstigen before. I am glad to know it has an end,” puffed Torbjorn.

  “Nor have I,” said Storfjell. “I cannot say what danger this forest holds.”

  Torbjorn’s cloth-wrapped feet crunched through the thin layer of snow as they entered the trees. The firs were spaced far enough apart that they could pick a path through them without tangling their cloaks, but the shadows dimmed Torbjorn’s sight.

  It wasn’t long before they found a wide, hard-packed track beaten into the snow. “The herd must have been here,” said Storfjell, “and maybe Father too. They are ahead of us.”

  There were rows of hoof prints and footprints scattered along the hard-packed snow. It was clear that several dozen people had come this way not long before. It would have been next to impossible for such a large group to hide their tracks.

  Torbjorn and Storfjell followed the path. It carved a steady route through the trees until it turned sharply to the right at the base of a steep granite cliff. They scrambled up some low boulders to a place where the path narrowed. The clan surely had gone single file here, one bovine at a time. The snow set more heavily on the boulders; in some places it had piled up high enough to form thick layers. Whoever had led the clan must have plowed through the waist-high snow one step at a time. It would have been arduous work.

  “It looks like a delicious creamy topping that I would like to put on some of Mother’s floppy pancakes,” said Torbjorn, pointing to the snow-covered boulders.

  “If only we could eat rocks, then our bellies would ever be full,” replied Storfjell.

  T
orbjorn laughed. “You make me hungry,” he said. He’d realized he hadn’t eaten since the night before, when they’d drunk the fresh Nectar of Moo around the campfire. No wonder he his belly felt too hot, and his head felt sluggish. They had travelled so far. “I have some bread,” he said. He had brought a little with him.

  “Then let us eat it and rest,” said Storfjell, “but only for a moment.” They plunked down on a boulder in the snow, their backs turned to the clan’s path and their eyes on the forest path below them. Torbjorn unwrapped the bundle he had wound in a cloth and tied under his cloak. The loaf was half-eaten, and cold, but it would cover their hunger for a little while at least. Best of all, Torbjorn had slit it down the middle lengthwise and smeared it between the two halves with the golden butter of Smordal.

  He broke off a piece and gave it to Storfjell. When Storfjell opened it, he began to cry.

  His tears were soft and faint at first. Then they grew, and Storfjell bent his head; his chest chugged up and down as he sobbed. His tears fell heavily into the snow, melting their way into the cold powder and leaving behind tiny vertical burrows, like an ant tunneling underground, before they disappeared.

  Torbjorn did not understand. “This is it,” said Storfjell. “The last time we will taste the Golden Fortune of our Herds.”

  Torbjorn felt his eyes push tears outward, though he would not let them go. A great sadness grabbed hold of his heart, and he felt as if this were somehow the end of things. His clan would have little to trade at Viksfjord anymore. Without the butter, their blueberry muffins could not have the power or taste to command the price they had before. It would take two, or three, or ten baskets of muffins to get the same price they’d gotten from just one basket before. That meant ten times the crop they’d have to glean from the field, and ten times the manpower. It would be impossible to make anywhere near that many muffins in a season. They would have nothing to trade. They would have no way to get clothes, tools or meat that they did not make or raise themselves. They would starve.