Valtjof’s farm was crushed as if by a giant fist.
Silence set in, and the rain stopped. Soon, the first blue spots appeared in the sky.
Ejolf Dirt had been drinking and playing dice with his cronies on a neighboring property, and he had spent the night there. He was torn from his sleep by the distant rumble. With a pounding head, he staggered outside. “What’s going on?”
A servant pointed mutely up to the Water Horn, following the path of the landslide with his finger, before finally stopping at the massive mountain of mud and debris far back in the valley. “A great misfortune, sir.”
“My brother!” screamed Ejolf. He stormed back into the house. Soon after, he reappeared with Hravn Holmgang, one of his closest friends. On the way to the stable, they strapped on their swords, then pulled out the horses and jumped into their saddles.
When Ejolf reached the end of the valley, he found nothing left. His brother, along with his family, and all of their wealth, had been buried by the avalanche. All that remained for him were the sheep, the young cattle in the summer pastures, and the charity of his relatives. The realization hit him like a blow: his carefree life had come to an end.
“Who caused this?” he lamented.
Hravn put an arm around his shoulder. “The gods have destined it this way.”
“Never! Why should the gods punish me?” Ejolf freed himself violently. “For what crime? Tell me!”
Hravn picked up a boulder that any other man could have only lifted with difficulty. He possessed the strength and speed of two men and was known as a fearsome fighter. He’d earned his fame during the Holmgang, where according to the duel’s strict rules, he’d killed every one of his opponents. “Do you see this stone? Thousands and thousands far bigger have fallen here. No man possesses such power. It was fate, believe me!”
Without answering, Ejolf climbed up the mountain of debris. He stared up for a long time. The waterfall had become broader, and the demolition site looked as if Utgard-Loki, the master of the empire of the giants, had come himself and knocked down the ledge with a mighty blow.
“There’s a border up there. The area belongs to the Habichtshof. So it was land from the Habichtshof that killed my brother.” Ejolf rammed his fists into his sides. “And who is settling on the slope to the plateau?” With one single movement, he was back by Hravn Holmgang’s side. “That red bastard!” Hate glowed in his eyes. “Who knows, my friend, if he didn’t cast a spell to bring about my misfortune.”
Ejolf rejected every one of Hravn’s attempts to console him.
“It was intentional, I feel it. If you’re not a coward, come with me. We’ll ride up there and see for ourselves.”
Tyrkir had sent the five servants ahead. He wanted to follow with the horse and cart and bring them closer to the slope below the forest so the trunks wouldn’t have to be hauled as far. “Don’t wait for me,” he’d ordered. “There’s still a lot of wood in the clearing. Move out as much as you can until I can join you.”
The morning air was fresh and clean, and the slaves quickly reached the forest. But as soon as they entered the aisle, their two draft horses snorted and shied. Neither shouting nor whips were of any use—the powerful animals refused to be commanded and would not move from where they stood.
“A troll?” suggested Ketil, the most experienced and oldest servant. “Or an undead? Maybe he was here looking for shelter from the storm.”
Fear washed over the men. If there really was an eternally damned spirit nearby, they had to drive him away. Until they did, they couldn’t begin their work. The danger of being banished was too great.
They took the axes from their shoulders, spread out, and shouted, striking the tree trunks to the right and left of the clearing, rustling in the bushes, and making as much noise as they could.
Step by step, they continued to work their way forward, paying attention to the depressions and branch forks at the edge of the aisle. They did not look ahead.
The troop reached the yawning abyss and the shouting died. The men stared into the depths, following the trail of devastation, and saw the mountain of mud and scree in the valley. “There was a farmyard there,” Ketil whispered, as if he didn’t want to make the disaster worse.
“The farm of Valtjof,” moaned the man next to him. “Oh gods, do not let our neighbors lie under the rubble!”
Tyrkir jumped from the cart box and led the horse by its halter. He searched for a convenient path between the rising hills, one they could also use on their way back to haul the wood. He thought how juicy the grass was. He looked up to the forest. From up there, we’ll bring in more hay than from all the meadows on Sharpcliff together. There will be enough food for cattle. We’ll never have to fear winter again.
Two riders appeared on the ridge to his left. Tyrkir shaded his eyes. Against the cloudy sky, he couldn’t see who was riding, only figures in blowing coats who were driving their horses up to the birch forest. Fish robbers! There was no other explanation—brazen fools. No one else dared to fish trout from a lake that did not belong to him.
The riders had reached the wood yard in front of the aisle, jumped off, and disappeared from his view. “Be glad that I’ll be the one to drive you away,” Tyrkir rumbled. “If Erik were here, you wouldn’t get away that easily.” He pulled the halter harder, but in vain, for the horse set the pace and refused to be yanked out of it.
The slaves were still standing at the point of destruction, paralyzed by the scale of the disaster, all trying to understand what had happened. They didn’t hear the two men coming.
“Criminals! Cowardly murderers!”
The servants turned in terror. Ejolf Dirt and Hravn Holmgang stood two horse lengths away. “Didn’t I say so!” Ejolf said in a menacingly soft voice to his friend. “Not the gods. These villains caused the landslide.”
The giant shrugged his shoulders. “It may be so, or it may not be.”
“Look at them! Guilt is written on their brows. Why else would they be here so early?”
Old Ketil shook his head violently. “Please, Lord, do not judge us prematurely!” He dropped his ax and walked toward Ejolf with his palms open. “We logged here, nothing more. No man can kick off a mountain.”
“Yes, yes, you worm. First, you felled all the trees and then enlarged the rock cracks with iron rods. Now my brother and his family are lying under rubble and mud.”
“Never.” The allegation took Ketil’s breath away. “No, Lord, believe me. Valtjof was a good neighbor and a friend of our lord. Why should we break the peace with him?”
“My brother was a friend of Thorbjörn, not of your master, that sneaky red intruder.”
Ketil raised his hand to vow. “All the gods are my witnesses—”
The blade flashed, and Ejolf cut off Ketil’s forearm. “A liar may not dare seek help from the gods.”
Blood splashed from the stump. Despite the pain, Ketil insisted, “Neither Erik nor anyone else is to blame for this misfortune.” He gathered strength and staggered toward the slender young farmers. “You and your friend, you are liars . . .”
With a slight step to the side, Ejolf let the old man pass, then hacked the sword blade deep into his shoulder. Without a sound, Ketil fell to the ground.
Hravn hesitated, and then his expression changed. “No one must insult Hravn Holmgang.”
“I swear it,” Ejolf said. “He and the others over there, they are cowardly murderers.”
“That’s true.”
Erik’s servants looked around, afraid. The abyss yawned behind them. Their only hope of escape was to flee past the two men.
They swung their axes, screamed, and stormed forward. Hravn did not even reach for his own weapon. He snatched the hatchet from the first man that tried to pass and split his skull with it, grabbing the next like a doll, breaking his spine, and throwing the lifeless body aside.
Ejolf had lowered his sword, letting the remaining two men come close. “Show me what you’ve got,” he taun
ted, dancing back and forth. “Come on, hit me!” They tore their weapons back at the same time but were too slow for the experienced fighter. Ejolf separated the first head from the torso, avoided the ax blow of the last of the four servants, and drove the blade deep into his belly.
Finally, Tyrkir was satisfied. The cart stood on a flat surface, and he had secured the wheels with stones and wrapped the horse’s halter around a boulder. He had not been able to guide the carriage any closer to the last meadow slope below the wood yard. We’ll easily manage the first haul to the farmyard by evening, he thought. Erik can relax. Our Thjodhild and his son won’t lack for anything when they join us.
Pounding hoofbeats made him look up. Bent over their horses’ manes, the two riders rushed away along the ridge.
“You can count on my Ketil.” Tyrkir whistled appreciatively through his teeth. “As old as he is, he has lost none of his courage. He still defends the land as if it were his own. In gratitude, I’ll drain a well-filled jug with him tonight,” Tyrkir said aloud as he climbed the slope.
It was quiet at the clearing—too quiet. The heavy draft horses stood immobile right in front in the aisle, and Tyrkir didn’t see the men at work. He called out to them, but there was no answer. He called out again, this time louder, more demanding.
The sky suddenly darkened. The nags neighed and fled back toward the wood yard. Out of nowhere, the ravens were upon him. The black army fluttered up and down above his head in a confused frenzy. Claws pulled at his collar and coat sleeves, and beaks snapped at his ears. For a moment, there was only wild screeching and the flapping of wings. Then the guards flew away and let themselves drop farther ahead into the treetops to either side of the aisle. The cawing did not stop.
Driven by a grim sense of foreboding, Tyrkir ran ahead and discovered the dead. For a moment, his heart seemed to stop. Maybe—
The word drowned out the horror that filled him. Maybe one was still alive? Maybe he could help him? Save him? But Tyrkir’s hopes were destroyed as he took in the severed head, the bleeding wounds, and the faces frozen in pain and fear.
He went from one to the next and closed their eyes. One last service—there was nothing more he could do. Farther into the woods, he discovered the old servant. His limp body trembled. With his legs, he tried to push himself forward.
“Ketil.” Tyrkir immediately fell to his knees and gently turned him to his back. “Friend. My good friend.”
Ketil opened his eyes at the sound of Tyrkir’s voice. “Where? Where are you?”
Tyrkir bent over the tortured face. “Here, friend. Be still. Everything will be fine. I will take you down into the valley.”
“No, leave me!” The words came in bursts. “I—I am going away from here in a moment. Stay until then!” The old servant’s breathing was labored, and only after some moments did he manage to speak again. “It was Ejolf . . . also Hravn. Revenge . . . because the mountain broke off.”
Tyrkir did not understand and believed that the embrace of death had already confused the spirit of the old man. “Don’t be afraid! It was Ejolf and the Holmganger? Are you sure?”
“Landslide.” Ketil lifted the stump of his arm weakly. “Up ahead . . . The mountain has buried the Valtjof farm. All are dead.”
Tyrkir looked over his shoulder, horrified, but he couldn’t see a thing. “I’ll be right back.”
“No, please stay!” The old man’s eyeballs rolled restlessly. “I forgot.”
“What, my friend?”
Ketil pushed the bloody stump onto his chest with great effort. “Which god . . . ? Who also lost his hand?”
“It was Tyr.” Tears rose to Tyrkir’s eyes. “The great, courageous Tyr.”
“Yes, tell me!” Ketil pleaded, looking into the young steward’s face. “What . . . what did he do?”
And Tyrkir quietly told of the futile fight of the gods against Fenrir. Tyr, alone, had succeeded in chaining the monster because he had pushed his right hand deep into its throat. “He sacrificed his hand to banish the evil forces forever.”
“Thank you.” Ketil nodded weakly. “Now, I know it again.” He closed his eyes and sighed. And then he was no more.
Tyrkir crouched next to him for a long time, overcome with grief and loss, before realizing that the reality was much graver. It was not just these cowardly murders—Valtjof, their neighbor and friend, was also dead!
Tyrkir gathered himself and went to the site of destruction. To his right, far away, the mirror of the great lake flashed, a peaceful view embraced by the sun, but right there, deep below him, lay a muddy grave. Tyrkir felt a sharp coldness rise within himself. “Our happiness was also crushed there,” he muttered. The wheel had been set in motion, and no one knew whom it would roll over before it completed its journey. The mountain had buried the farmer and his farm, and Ejolf blamed Erik for this misfortune, so in retaliation, he and the Holmganger had killed the servants.
And all because of this? Tyrkir picked up a birch branch. Little by little, he tore the twigs from the trunk. Jealousy is a wound that never heals. “That vicious Ejolf!” He had deliberately not waited, all to frustrate any possibility of a peaceful settlement. “Battle and blood, that’s what he wants. Nothing else.” Erik would have to act if he didn’t want to lose his reputation.
Tyrkir gathered the plucked green twigs with his foot. How quickly the leaves will wither, he thought as he passed the corpses. Later, he would return to recover the bodies and bury them.
The two horses were grazing near the wood yard; one whistle, and they followed him down to the carriage. Tyrkir did not climb onto the carriage bench. Peace should last for just a little while longer, so he led the carts and animals on foot back into the valley.
“Damn, where’s the wood?” Erik had only glanced at his friend. “What is this, Know-It-All?”
When Tyrkir didn’t answer, Erik stepped forward, furious. “By Thor, I should—” He stopped and narrowed his eyes. “What’s happened?”
“I’m alone.” Except for the freckles, all the color had drained from the steward’s face. “I returned without our servants.”
“And when—?” Confused, Erik stopped himself. “Oh, you mean the others are still up at the Water Horn waiting for reinforcements because they alone cannot load the trunks. Why didn’t you say so? Come on. I’ll go myself. How many more men do you need?”
Tyrkir shook his head. “None today.” His heart was so heavy. He would have given anything to preserve his master’s newly awakened happiness. Now he had to be a messenger, and as soon as he had spoken the news, he would, without hesitating, walk the path determined by fate at Erik’s side. “The servants are dead.”
Erik stroked his beard, drove his hand through the shaggy mane. Finally, he muttered, “And we needed the wood so badly for sleeping benches and shelves.”
“Erik! Didn’t you hear me?” Tyrkir stepped closer. “They’re lying up there in their own blood. Slain.”
“Don’t say that!” Erik’s broad shoulders rose. “Who would kill our men?”
“Not here.” Tyrkir was already walking ahead. Slowly, his friend followed him to the bubbling stream. Close to the bank, they stood together. While Tyrkir reported what he’d seen, Erik’s face changed, and when the steward had finished, it was a mask.
“Ejolf and Hravn.” Erik barely moved his lips. “Did they have any right to act so heartlessly? Tell me!”
“No.”
“Should I sue the murderers at the Thing in two weeks?”
It was just a question. Erik had already made up his mind. Tyrkir quietly confirmed to him what they both knew: Erik was still considered a stranger in Habichtstal. There was little chance of him winning at the court gathering. “Surely Ejolf is already riding from farm to farm and will leave no doubt that you are to blame for the landslide. Until the Thing, he’ll stir up all the neighbors against you. And you know, the more supporters he can win, the easier it will be for him to pull the judge to his side.”
Eri
k went to the brook, dropped down, and slapped the cold water onto his face, over and over, then dipped his head in before throwing back his dripping hair. The cold didn’t help. “Damned, damned Ejolf!” A scream broke from his chest, wounded and wild. With his fists he pushed against the sky and roared.
Only after some deep breaths did he manage to speak again. “Injustice,” he whispered. “I can never let it stand.” On his knees, he pointed to the glowing red ball in the west. “Do you see the sun? It doesn’t set—the night belongs to the day. No more darkness. I wanted to give Thjodhild and my son the long light and hold them here in my arms.”
Tyrkir waited quietly. Finally, his friend rose, and a dangerous glow appeared in the amber of his eyes. “Revenge—that right belongs to me.” The mourning was over. Almost matter-of-factly, Erik said, “I must regain my honor. Otherwise, Thor will find no peace in me.”
“So, you want war?” Tyrkir replied. “Then I’ll hand out weapons to our servants today?”
“Leave it!” The peace in Hawk Valley should be disturbed only briefly and as necessary. The red man had resolved to take his fight to the two murderers alone.
Tyrkir met his master’s eyes. “We are two. Even if I lack your strength, I can watch your back.”
With a bitter smile, Erik put his hand around the neck of the slim man and pulled him to his broad chest. “Thank you, Know-It-All.”
Side by side, they climbed upstream. First, they had to plan for the farm. A troop would salvage the dead the next day, and the wood had to be brought down. Immediately after his return, Erik wanted to continue with the extension of the house, so Thjodhild’s move would be delayed by only two weeks at most.
He didn’t waste a thought on the fact that this vendetta could mean his own death. Tyrkir looked at his friend with admiration. That’s better, he thought. It’s enough that I alone am afraid.
Erik the Red Page 7
